Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/829441.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Les_Misérables_-_All_Media_Types, Les_Misérables_-_Victor_Hugo
  Relationship:
      Montparnasse/Éponine_Thénardier
  Character:
      Montparnasse_(Les_Misérables), Éponine_Thénardier
  Additional Tags:
      Breathplay, Mutual_Masturbation, Dom/sub_Undertones, kind_of
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-06-04 Words: 1046
****** where montparnasse cares too much about his clothing ******
by knowyourwayinthedark
Summary
     It's pretty much exactly what it says on the tin.
     short quick and dirty thing with grinding and Eponine being bossy and
     Montparnasse being a kinky little fuck
     also, they're both probably in their mid/late teens at this point,
     this is likely a little before book events (where Eponine is probably
     sixteen and Montparnasse is probably nineteen so)
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Of course Montparnasse’s only complaint, when Éponine winds his cravat around
her fist and tightens it, gripping close to the knot, until his words are
choked and his face flushed, is – “You are ruining the silk!” he says
indignantly, and bats at her hands. But she only puts her other hand on his
chest, presses him harder against the wall, and gives the cravat another twist.
“You’re a very pretty boy, ‘Parnasse,” she says, watching the color mount in
his face, “and you dress very fine, but I think there are other uses for these
nice clothes –”
“Ah, but you do not need to mar them so,” Montparnasse pleads, voice strangled.
He has hold of her wrists, now, but he does not move to pull her hands away,
and though no doubt he is humoring her, acting like his narrow frame is not
fully capable of breaking her grasp – well, he has his head tilted up, exposing
the line of his slender neck, his throat ripe for the tasting – and Éponine
feels a funny sort of hunger in her, like she is a cat with a moth pinned under
her claws, ready to toy with it.
Éponine slides in closer, then, nips a sharp kiss under Montparnasse’s jaw,
nudges a leg between his, rubs her thigh against the hardness pressing at the
fine fabric of his trousers. “I could do worse,” she says, as Montparnasse
grinds back and lets out a little choked noise, “I could have you like this –”
She slips a hand between their bodies, grasps the outline of Montparnasse’s
cock, and rubs at it through the cloth. The strange mischief taking her is
prickling in her skin, and it is with great relish and recklessness that she
says, “If you came in your clothes, what a mess that would be, ‘Parnasse, and a
devil of a time you’d have getting the stain out!”
“You wouldn’t dare.” Montparnasse moves as if to throw her off, at last – but
Éponine tightens the cravat with a sharp twist of her hand; his hands leap to
his throat, slim fingers closing over Éponine’s. His face is red, his parted
lips redder. The noise that escapes his lips is more like the outline of a
sound, cut off by the cloth about his neck.
“I’d dare.” She gives his cock another rough caress through the cloth. “I’m not
afraid of you.” Montparnasse’s eyes are wide and he does not pry her fingers
away, though his breath is coming in faint and struggling, and his prick is
thick and hard under her fingers; the sight of him, caught between pleasure and
distress, pools heat between Éponine’s legs. She leans forward and kisses
Montparnasse, then; his lips are thick and his tongue is lazy, and all the
while her fist is white-knuckled on his cravat, pushing under his chin, keeping
his head upright though no doubt the blood is throbbing heavy within it.
Éponine pulls back and palms at his cock again, and feels him shudder and try
to push her hand away; she hears the beginnings of what could be a “no,” or a
plea, or a beg – with a laugh, she gives his cravat a gentle tug. “Do not
fret!” she says, almost cheerfully, “I will not make you ruin your good cloth
like that, no –” Her fingers are nimble; she draws Montparnasse’s cock from his
trousers. “I’ll be nice. Go on, bring yourself off.”
She shifts a little to make room for his hand as he wriggles his hand between
their bodies and takes hold of his prick. In doing so, Éponine grinds a little
against his leg, and the firm line of ‘Parnasse’s thigh is a welcome pressure,
even through her skirts. She rocks again, begins to rut on his thigh in short,
stuttering jolts of her hips, the pleasure mounting with each brief thrust, and
braces her hand on Montparnasse’s shoulder, pulling the cravat still tighter –
she can hear the quick slide of his hand on his cock, and the faint, struggling
breaths he takes.
Montparnasse’s cheeks grow blotchy, his parted lips look bruised, his eyes are
wide as Éponine pulls the cravat ever tighter, using both hands now.
‘Parnasse’s face contorts, he strains, and his mouth opens ever wider in a
desperate struggle for air – he comes, the muscles in his neck cording out
tight against the constriction, and the sound that escapes him is only the
barest ghost of a cry, choked by Éponine’s last harsh twist of his cravat.
At the end of his convulsions, Éponine loosens her hold on his cravat, finally
relieving the tension on Montparnasse’s throat, and the breath he sucks in
twists his face in a different kind of ecstatic relief. She can feel his legs
quivering, his thigh trembles between her legs, and with another few thrusts
against it – she is coming too, gasping, clinging to ‘Parnasse’s shoulders in
an effort to stay upright.
When her vision clears, Montparnasse has lifted his hand from his cock and is
surveying it with some faint, dazed distaste. It is slick with thick strands of
his come; no doubt he had made sure to trap his spending so none would spill on
his trousers.
Though satiation sits heavy and warm low in her belly, the urge to play with
‘Parnasse a little is still strong. “You ought to clean up after yourself,”
Éponine says, taking hold of one wrist, and lifts it to Montparnasse’s mouth,
slipping the tip of a finger between his lips before he can react.
His eyebrows rise, and he removes the finger, the tip sliding out with a pop,
resisting the push of Éponine’s hand.
“Perhaps a handkerchief would be better suited to the task,” he says, voice
hoarse.
She laughs. “You’ll clean them,” she says, pushing his fingers back into his
mouth, “or I will wipe them all over your pretty waistcoat, see if I don’t.”
Montparnasse’s eyes flash and he looks like he might curse her – but her hand
is still tight on his cravat, and after a moment Montparnasse drops his eyes
and sucks his fingers, one by one, until they are spotless, and kissing him has
a strange taste – like salt, but bitter, and underlying it all is the sweetness
of triumph.
End Notes
     It's my first attempt at het after literally everything I've written
     being about two dicks and you can probably tell from how I didn't
     even try to talk about vaginas in any way shape or form hhhhhh oops
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