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Combeferre is gasping, the hand on his throat broad and grasping at his flesh. He wants to close his eyes, but he can’t; he knows the punishment far too well to consider the infraction. Instead, he looks up at Claquesous, examines the ebony mask over his upper face, bearing only deep, brown eyes to the other’s sight.
"You like this." Claquesous says, voice rumbling, and it isn’t a question, so Combeferre does not answer his yes. Combeferre is a tall man, lofty even, but Claquesous is larger, and he thrusts the other man back onto the bed with ease.
Combeferre heaves in a breath, chasing away the dizzy darkness that had begun to impeach on the very edges of Combeferre’s vision. He is desperate as he pulls off his clothes, and once he is naked Claquesous laughs; the medical student tries to hide the shiver the sound draws from him, and fails.
Claquesous’ hand moves between his legs and feels the polished wood there, carefully carved, utterly decadent and more than slightly heavy inside him; Combeferre whimpers, eyes closing tightly before they open wide again. His spectacles are soon set aside, lest he break them, and Claquesous becomes a dark blur above him.
Combeferre’s mind wanders, settles on Enjolras, Enjolras’ prejudices: how would he feel to know Combeferre is with Claquesous? He would be furious, Combeferre has no doubt.
Those thoughts fizzle into the ether at a sudden bite to his thigh, and Combeferre cries out. Claquesous works the plug from inside him, where oil glistens, and he laughs again. It is a low, resonant sound, almost hoarse, and Combeferre is bewitched by the way that noise rings through him.
Claquesous presses three fingers into him and Combeferre lets out a sound, a sharp whimper.
"Claquesous, come, please, I beseech you, do not tease toni-“
"Boy." Combeferre wants to argue, wants to insist he is not a boy, but the other man must be twice his age, and he does not want to be beaten from arse to thigh tonight. Claquesous twists the fingers and Combeferre chokes on his next breath, and he knows without looking that Claquesous is smirking.
Claquesous’ fingers, marvellous fingers, begin to thrust, curling a little whenever they pull back, and each movement sends a shock through Combeferre, because it is too much too soon. He is left shaking, twitching and wriggling beneath the other’s touch, gasping.
He feels like a boy now, inexperienced, even though this situation is far from new to him.
And then Claquesous stops thrusting his fingers; he finds the one spot and begins to rub; Combeferre all but screams, muffling the noise against his own arm lest someone think a murder is happening and call for police.
And that laugh again.
Combeferre feels he might cry. It is on the edge between pleasure and pain, a sweet agony that Combeferre is burning to escape, but somehow wishes to continue.
"This is a Luciferian torture." Combeferre says, and it comes out a harsh whisper, because he worries still that his full voice might become too easily a scream.
"Good." Claquesous purrs, and then he dips, surrounding Combeferre’s length, previously untouched at his stomach, with his mouth. Combeferre does scream, now, and he comes, orgasm shaking through him.
Dear God, does it hurt.
It feels good, of course, but it is exquisite agony.
Claquesous pulls back, and the smirk has returned, Combeferre is certain; the older man is smug, and Combeferre is left staring up at his blurry figure, unable to move, for he is exhausted.
"How long…?" He hazards to ask.
"Say, thirty minutes. Forty." Combeferre lets out a weak noise. Claquesous laughs. "You will return tomorrow evening."
"Yes." Combeferre agrees, unable to refuse. "Yes, I shall."