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“We never do this while we’re sober, do we.” The words have tumbled from Grantaire’s lips before he gets to consider whether he actually wants to say them, but that’s kind of linked to the not-sober thing.
Montparnasse pauses his efforts to mark Grantaire’s neck and pulls back, his lips already slightly plump from the way Grantaire kissed him a moment before. “Do you regret it once you are?” he asks.
Grantaire looks at the slightly dishevelled way Montparnasse’s normally perfect hair falls in front of his face and shakes his head. “No–”
“Then what’s the fucking problem?” Montparnasse snorts and he pushes Grantaire back until he bumps into a wall, immediately pressing his body against his. His teeth find a soft spot on Grantaire’s neck again and Grantaire slides a hand into his hair, groaning slightly and grabbing at Montparnasse’s hip. He’s too good at this.
Montparnasse makes a gratified sound and as soon as he sees fit to release Grantaire’s neck he immediately presses their mouths together again. Grantaire can taste the alcohol on his tongue, like always, and a distant part of his mind wonders what Montparnasse would taste like without it.
Apparently it shows, because Montparnasse pulls away again, briefly sucking on his bottom lip and giving Grantaire an appraising look. “You think too much,” he says, following it immediately with a grin. “I can fix that.”
The sight of Montparnasse sinking to his knees in front of him makes Grantaire’s breath swell thickly in his throat. He knows Montparnasse gets off on this. He likes having proof of his beauty and talents. And Grantaire is not complaining, Montparnasse can show off all he wants as long as Grantaire gets to watch him and touch him. But maybe he isn’t drunk enough, because he doesn’t want this hurried and hasty in the upstairs bathroom… Montparnasse is right, he never regrets any of it once he has sobered up again. But he feels like he doesn’t fully get to remember it either.
“My room is right down the hall,” he says, reaching down to stop Montparnasse for a moment.
Montparnasse looks up at him, his elegant hands holding still on the buckle of Grantaire’s belt. The green of his eyes is barely visible in the dim light, but Grantaire knows it’s there, just like he knows his lips are red.
“So?” Montparnasse demands, pressing his fingers deliberately against the bulge in Grantaire’s jeans.
Grantaire bites back a hiss. Okay, Montparnasse knows exactly how to play him by now. He’s so goddamn eager. The fact that he wants him like this, it makes Grantaire’s head spin. But two can play at that game.
“Okay,” he breathes. “Let me rephrase that. My desk is right down the hall.”
“Oh?” Montparnasse says, raising an arch eyebrow, but Grantaire can hear the slight jolt of excitement in his voice.
He stares down at him and Montparnasse slants his head.
“I thought you’d be eager to get back to your party,” Montparnasse drawls, his voice dripping velvet.
Grantaire couldn’t care less at this moment. Joly will forgive him for being a bad host in exchange for not fucking in their shared bathroom. “Fuck no,” he says blankly.
Montparnasse grins and Grantaire sees the clear click of acquiescence in Montparnasse’s demeanour, so in the interest of playing the game, he grabs Montparnasse by the back of his neck and drags him to his feet.
There is a flash of want in Montparnasse’s eyes and he pulls Grantaire along by his now unbuckled belt, making their exit from the bathroom a rather stumbling one.
Montparnasse has a rather unusual definition of foreplay. It consists mostly of being shoved around and tearing at each other’s clothes. Short of roughly making out against the nearest available surface he has very little patience for preludes to the main event, which is why Grantaire makes a show of dragging him over to the desk as soon as they’re through the door.
“Clothes,” he orders. Pulling his belt out of the loops and dragging his T-shirt over his head.
Montparnasse strips down to his underwear and binder with graceful efficiency. “Giving orders tonight, are we?” he smirks. “What’s the occasio–”
Grantaire shuts his mouth with his own, kissing him hard enough to make Montparnasse let out a slightly weak sound. He struggles in Grantaire’s grip for a moment, but only to test Grantaire’s resolve. Grantaire backs him into the desk, grabbing at him to feel his now mostly exposed skin. The thing about Montparnasse is that he feels all softness and smoothness until he decides not to be. Montparnasse is deceptively strong, but Grantaire has his weight and frame in his favour. Something he doesn’t make use of as much as Montparnasse wants him to, he knows that. Right now Montparnasse is writhing against him, trying to sit up on the desk, so Grantaire doesn’t let him, instead breaking off the kiss abruptly and turning Montparnasse around with a jerk. He forces him down across the desk on his stomach with a rough hand on the back of his neck.
“Fuck,” he gasps, curling his fingers around the far edge of the desktop.
There’s no getting around the unwelcome pause of lube and condoms, but for once Montparnasse doesn’t voice his demanding impatience. He lifts up his hips when Grantaire is ready and Grantaire drags his boxers down, looking at the smooth line of Montparnasse’s back stretched out across the desk before carefully pushing inside him.
Montparnasse groans beautifully and Grantaire manages not to get lost in the feeling so much that he can’t appreciate the slight jerk up of Montparnasse’s head and the way his knuckles go white as he grips the desk harder. He moves again, but slowly and Montparnasse braces himself, pushing back.
Grantaire plants a reprimanding hand on his back and pushes deeper, making Montparnasse swear appreciatively. He picks up the pace, listening for the soft keening sounds spilling from Montparnasse's lips whenever he doesn’t manage to swallow them.
“You’re beautiful,” Grantaire breathes, holding on to Montparnasse’s hips just hard enough to keep his steady.
Montparnasse makes a muffled sound. “Faster–”
Faster means sloppier, harder. Grantaire obliges, but now he’s actually driving Montparnasse into the desk. He can feel it in the way Montparnasse’s hips move and in the give of his thighs. “If I’m–”
“Harder.”
Grantaire blows out a breath and leans down, pressing his chest to Montparnasse’s back for a moment. “Didn’t drag you here to finish in a hurry,” he grunts close by his ear, rolling his hips and groaning at his own efforts.
“Good, so fuck me,” Montparnasse pants, writhing underneath him. “Stop thinking.”
Grantaire twists a hand into Montparnasse’s hair and does just that.
The way Montparnasse is trapped against the desk leaves him very little freedom of movement and Grantaire is enjoying being in complete control for once. Montparnasse has the strange quality of wanting to be submissive without giving up his demanding greediness and normally he is definitely the one setting the pace. Now he can’t and Grantaire takes his time, building up slowly until they are both out of breath and very nearly shaking.
Montparnasse’s whimpering is making Grantaire forget himself. His fingers have slid out of his hair a while ago and are now digging into Montparnasse’s shoulder.
Montparnasse gulps and his legs tense eagerly. “Taire—”
Grantaire is trying to hold on, just to feel the tension of Montparnasse’s body underneath him a little longer.
Montparnasse throws his head back and Grantaire sees a glimpse of his flushed cheeks. “R.”
His self-control slips.
Montparnasse groans like he’s coming himself and Grantaire has to struggle to stay upright, leaning heavily forward against both the desk and Montparnasse.
“Fuck,” Montparnasse drawls, sounding far drunker than he has all night. He lets out a satisfied groan when Grantaire slowly pulls out of him, lifting up his head to gasp for more air.
Grantaire gulps down a breath as well and fights to steady himself. Montparnasse is still cooing, twisting his back and slowly pushing himself upright, kicking off his underwear from where it has slid down his legs. Grantaire takes off the condom and grabs his shirt to clean himself off.
“Well…” Montparnasse sighs smugly, but Grantaire isn’t done. He lets his hands settle on Montparnasse’s hips as he turns around and Montparnasse glances up at him questioningly. “What–?”
Grantaire lifts him off his feet and plants him on top of the desk, tilting his head up and kissing him deeply. Montparnasse makes a muffled sound of surprise into his mouth, but he does kiss back, and Grantaire pushes his knees further apart by coming to stand directly between them, his own hips pressed against the desk. He lets one hand slide down between Montparnasse’s legs and he feels him tense up. Grantaire stills and tilts his head to the side.
“What are you doing,” Montparnasse breathes heavily.
“You never want to come before–” Grantaire murmurs. “So I thought…” Montparnasse is particular and he doesn’t like being oversensitive. But in all his hazy memories Grantaire doesn’t have a single one of Montparnasse coming apart under his hands and he wants that so badly right now.
Montparnasse makes a strange sound and Grantaire waits. His face close to Montparnasse’s, watching the odd mix of conflicted expressions in his green eyes. Suddenly Montparnasse slips his arms around Grantaire’s neck, leaning against him and spreading his legs a little wider. Grantaire touches him again and Montparnasse swallows audibly. He’s hiding his face against Grantiare’s shoulder now and Grantaire desperately wants to look at him, but he doesn’t try to put distance between them. Instead he moves his hand a little lower, wetting his fingers and carefully circling around, gauging the slight shivers in Montparnasse’s body. His movements are as gentle now as they were harsh before, because Montparnasse has never allowed him to do this and Grantaire isn’t sure why. He lets his touches wander, careful not to let his fingers go dry. Montparnasse’s legs are tensed, his knees pushing in against Grantaire’s hips on either side. His mouth is pressed to his shoulder now, but he’s oddly quiet.
“Parnasse…” Grantaire murmurs softly, uncertainty tugging at his mind.
“Don’t stop,” Montparnasse gasps in a gust of hot breath against Grantaire’s neck. “Don’t–” His voice hitches and Grantaire feels him shudder against him, fingers grabbing at his back. He touches the same spot again and Montparnasse muffles a whine against his shoulder.
His other hand brushes down Montparnasse’s back and it occurs to him how tight his binder must be. “Can you breathe alright?” he murmurs, not stopping his stroking, but slowing down a little.
“It’s fine,” Montparnasse groans weakly and he swallows the next sound he makes down.
Grantaire can feel a pulsing under his fingers and traces careful circles while sliding his free hand up into Montparnasse’s hair. He doesn’t pull this time, he strokes, and suddenly Montparnasse tilts his head back into his touch and looks at him.
His lashes are heavy and his eyes swimming with helpless pleasure. Grantaire wants to kiss his wetly parted lips, but he doesn’t want to break the rhythm. So he stares back at him, silent, wordless, but his fingers never faltering. And he keeps his touches gentle, even when Parnasse’s legs start to shake, even when he bites down on his bottom lip. Even when his thighs tense completely and Grantaire sees the tension shatter in his eyes.
Montparnasse, loud, foul-mouthed Montparnasse, is suddenly doing his level best to be quiet. So Grantaire gives in to his desire to kiss him and helps him out, muffling the sounds he’s barely biting back. Grantaire keeps his hand where it is, the little involuntary movements making Montparnasse shudder through his aftershock.
When they break apart he looks slightly less dazed, but so dark-eyed and breathless that Grantaire can’t help himself. “You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he sighs and he kisses him again.
Montparnasse kisses him back, more deliberately this time and Grantaire retracts his hand, leaning a little forward to deepen the kiss before he lets Montparnasse break away again.
He looks at him for a silent moment. “I don’t understand you,” Montparnasse says finally.
Grantaire grins weakly. His head is spinning. With something heavier than usual. “The feeling’s mutual.”
Montparnasse breathes out a noisy breath.
Grantaire looks towards his unmade bed, at the other end of the room. “Do you wanna…?” Montparnasse looks drowsy and Grantaire is still holding on to him. He really doesn’t want to send him back home, not like this.
Montparnasse glances past him, his eyes not quite focussed.
Somehow they end up in the bed together without Montparnasse ever answering the question. Grantaire takes the time to get rid of his shoes and jeans, Montparnasse puts his underwear back on, but neither of them says a word during all that and they’re both quiet as they lay down side by side. Montparnasse stares up at the ceiling, looking drowsy, but oddly awake, while Grantaire finally allows the sated exhaustion to take over his body. He feels good, better than he has in ages, and he wants to share that. He gently reaches out an arm and wraps it around Montparnasse’s waist, gently pulling him into a loose embrace.
“Stop thinking,” Grantaire repeats Montparnasse’s words back at him and he smiles when he feels him relax in his arms.
The last thing he remembers thinking, before he falls asleep with his face tucked against the back of Montparnasse’s neck, is that when he wakes up like this, both of them will be sober.