Author Note: Welcome to Bind Your Hands with Pleasure. Written for paigefnknarkin on tumblr. É/E smut for the fic war - Éponine ties Enjolras up. So obviously there is consensual bondage. Don't like, don't read. :)
Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.
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Bind Your Hands with Pleasure
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He comes home from another exhausting day at work, bleary-eyed, feet stumbling, hands nearly shaking from twelve cups of coffee ingested in a quarter as many hours.
This latest case is brutal and it's all he can do to keep going. But it's one of those pro bono cases where his client came to him with hopeless eyes and bruises on her face, clutching her children to her with hands covered in cigarette burns, and all he could think was, "This was Éponine's mother once upon a time, and if somebody had helped her…"
Well, long-story short, there's a reason why he has a reputation of simultaneously being the kindest and most merciless lawyer in the city.
"Ponine? Ponine, I'm home," he calls out, voice tinged with weariness, one of his hands coming up to undo the know on his tie and the top buttons of his shirt—it's the sky blue one that Éponine bought for him after his last case, "to match your eyes," she'd said, winking.
He glances at the clock and winces. It's eleven p.m. Not the latest he'd ever been back, but still not a reasonable hour.
She wouldn't say anything, though. She never says anything, just accepts it with a serious, quiet look.
When he'd asked her to marry him, she'd stared him straight in the eye and told him that she wouldn't stand for it if he tried to put her first, if he ever gave less than all of himself to achieving his dreams, because she wasn't here to change him, and he better damn well not be here to change her, but if he wanted, they could change the world together, side by side.
So she runs her private detective agency with her siblings and they track down missing women and children (and sometimes help a few truly desperate ones disappear to safety). He works at the law firm with Combeferre, challenging the city's unfair laws and fixing the broken system from within.
And they stumble home together and remind each other what it is they fight so hard for.
"Welcome home."
He turns towards the doorway and nearly trips over himself in shock.
She's wearing his favorite set of lingerie, the one he actively has to remind himself not to tear off her because he wants her to be able to wear it again. It's a black lace bra that's delicately patterned and so sheer he can see her nipples through it, paired with barely-there panties, thigh-high black stockings, and stiletto heels.
What kills him, however, is the dress shirt she's thrown on top of it all, the blood-red one that's missing half the buttons because she ripped them off when she surprised him two weeks ago at the office. She's rolled up the sleeves but it's still far too big on her, coming down past her hips and hanging so loosely on her shoulders that one is left bare.
"I—uh—you—" He stutters a little helplessly before falling silent. Even after a decade of knowing her, years of being with her, and three of those spent married to her, she can still render him completely speechless, all his clever words deserting him at the sight of her.
She smiles knowingly, walking forward and tugging him to her by his tie. "What's the matter, baby? Cat got your tongue?" she asks, trailing her fingers up his chest to play with the buttons of his shirt and giving him a teasing look from beneath dark, sooty lashes.
He growls a little in response, placing his hands on her hips and pulling her close to him. "You know exactly what's wrong with me," he says.
Unexpectedly, her smile dims a little and he feels a moment of panic—normally she'd tease him back. Did he say something wrong?
"I know," she says softly, running a hand gently through his hair. "You've been pushing yourself hard lately. I just thought you deserved a break." She wraps her arms tightly around his waist.
He rests his forehead against hers, sighing a little at how right it feels, being in her arms. "Thanks. You didn't have to do this for me, you know."
She pulls back and raises a brow archly, and there is the mischievous side of her he was expecting. "But I didn't do this for you."
"You didn't?" he says, slipping his hand underneath the shirt and tracing the bare, smooth skin of her back.
She shivers a little, her eyes dilating in response, though her voice remains light and teasing. "Nope. I did this for me." She begins unbuttoning his shirt and presses a kiss to his chest, the tip of her tongue darting out to taste his skin. "Mmm. Yeah. I really missed doing this. I haven't had the time to…appreciate you properly, you know?"
He groans and shifts his hips against hers, trying to relieve the pressure building up inside him.
She chuckles and tugs his head down, tangling her tongue with his as his hands roam over her body, caressing the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts, the line of her spine.
She pulls away when he tries undoing the clasp of her bra. "Nuh-uh. We're not doing this your way. I told you—you need a break, and letting you make me come so many times that I lose count isn't exactly restful."
"But you like it when I do that," he complains, reaching for her again.
She smacks his hands. "No. My way or the highway, babe."
He pouts and she laughs at him. "That's not fair," he says.
"Who said anything about being fair? Come on, let me be in charge for a bit."
"I don't know what house you're living in, but aren't you in charge three-quarters of the time, Éponine?"
She rolls her eyes as she leads him to the bedroom, hips swaying with every step and the fabric of his shirt moving with her in ways that drive him absolutely mad with lust. "Please, Mr. Control Freak, we both know that isn't true. It's a fifty-fifty thing, and it's my turn now."
She pushes him onto the bed, and he falls willingly enough, pushing himself up on his elbows to look at the way she's half in shadow, half in light. She kicks her shoes off and clambers after him, knees placed on either side of his hips, hands placed solidly on his shoulders. They kiss lazily, languidly, as if they have all the time in the world, but soon Enjolras starts getting impatient. As soon as he gets his shirt off her, his hand immediately dips into her panties and his fingers find her clit.
She hisses as her hips buck involuntarily into his hand, and she bites his lip hard.
"Ow!" Enjolras wipes his mouth and comes away with blood on the back of his hand. "Ponine, what the hell was that for?"
She glares at him. "I told you. This is about what I want. And right now I want to make you come so hard you see stars."
He swallows heavily and she smirks. She leans forward and kisses him, a close-mouthed kiss at odds with the way her hips grind down on his erection. "Let me," she whispers against his lips.
She takes his tie and holds it up, a question in her eyes.
His eyes darken—they haven't done this in a while, especially since he always finds it so difficult to relinquish control, but the few times he'd let her tie him down had been some of the most explosive sex of their lives.
Wordlessly, he holds out his wrists and she smiles.
(How easily he trusts her, this marble man of hers—how easily he yields to her and her alone. She loves it, she loves him, she loves them, all the broken, jagged pieces of them fitting perfectly together.)
She binds the tie firmly around his wrists, her deft, skilled fingers easily tying the knots—not enough to cut off circulation, but tight enough so the silk digs into his skin and will surely leave marks that will last for days.
Afterwards, Éponine pushes him back and ties him to the bed post, arms above his head, body completely at her mercy. "Tell me if you want to stop, okay?"
He nods, certain he'll be doing no such thing.
She balances herself on his hips, looking graceful and sensuous and so damn beautiful it takes his breath away. She bends forward and presses wet, open-mouthed kisses to his neck, his sternum, his abdomen, lower and lower until her tongue is tracing patterns on his hipbone, teeth nipping at his skin, hair brushing over his thighs.
"Goddammit, Ponine," he moans, hands straining against the bindings, but the cloth doesn't give and neither does his wife.
She gives him a pleased, wicked look before finally taking him into her mouth, which is warm, wet, and far too skilled for his own sanity, and it isn't long before he's gasping out profanities by the bucketful, "fuck!" and "damn it!" mingling with "oh, God" and "please" and the breathless, lyrical syllables of her name.
Right before he's about to come, she lifts her head and lets him go. He nearly sobs with frustration, but soon she's moving over him, and yes, oh, God, finally, finally she's bearing down on him, taking everything she wants from him, joining him with her in that age-old dance.
She rides him, moving fiercely, wildly, and he can't do anything but let her.
"Éponine, please, please, please," he begs, past any semblance of self-control or dignity, all his careful barriers and boundaries undone by the untamed, passionate heat of her.
"Shhh," she murmurs tenderly, putting her weight on his wrists, hand curled tightly around them so she can feel the rapid beat of his pulse. "Let go. It's okay. I'm here. Let go."
And he does, body arching off the bed as he comes with a ragged cry, eyes blind with pleasure, spilling himself into her as she shudders above him, eyes shut tight and lips curved around his name.
Afterwards, she unties his wrists and places soft kisses on the faint red marks, brushes back the sweaty curls from his forehead, and rests her head against the thundering beat of his heart.
"Good?" she asks.
He nods wordlessly in reply, fingers tightening on her hips.
"Good," she says again, and he falls asleep to the feel of her fingers tracing his shoulders and the sight of her dark eyes watching over him.
The next day, he walks into the kitchen with a spring in his step, whistling off-key. Éponine laughs at him before pulling him to her with a tug on his tie.
"Ready to kick ass and take names?" she asks.
He ducks his head and kisses her, long, slow, and thorough. "Mmhm."
She smiles up at him before fiddling with the sash she's wearing around her waist. "Good. So am I. And when you get home, maybe you can return the favor, huh?"
Later, after a day of causing poor Combeferre no end of trouble with how he switches from absurdly determined to suddenly distracted, he does.
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