by Phail
illustrated by newbabyfly


“Tell me, does this rag smell like chloroform to you?” Clement asked, as he pressed his chest against Jean-Laurent’s back and waved the rag dangerously close to the scientist’s face. Normally flirting was not well-tolerated, especially given that Clement was a lab boy and Jean-Laurent was senior scientist, but it was after-hours.

Whenever they had to stay after-hours, there was absolutely nothing to do except hurry up and wait for the experiment that they were working on to produce some results. The lab was on the second round of tests for Dihydro-something-or-other and if it acted the same way it did last time (and they hoped it would; nothing pivotal in the formula had been changed) they’d be idle another hour before there was anything for Clement to document.

Which meant plenty of time for goofing off.

“I don’t know; smell and see?” Jean-Laurent’s voice was as smooth as ever, his accent–normally slight, when speaking academically, now deepened by the casual conversation. His voice was the first thing that had attracted Clement to him, in fact, and it was humorless as ever in a way that made Clement smile.

“You’ll have to catch me if I pass out,” Clement said, looking up through his dark lashes at the taller man.

Jean-Laurent’s lips pressed together into a thin line for a moment; that one movement was the only invitation that Clement got before the man turned and walked out of the main lab. The only rule with Jean was no sex in the laboratories themselves where most of their time was spent. The sorry excuses of converted closet space that the company called offices–only senior scientists had them–weren’t off limits, nor were the hallways or restrooms.

The offices were the safest place, though. Safest by far when, even though Clement knew for a fact that he and Jean-Laurent were the only people here, it was still early enough for the cleaning staff to hypothetically be around.

“You’re bottom,” Jean-Laurent said, matter-of-fact, as he opened the door to his office. Clement was fine with that. Still, being fine with it didn’t prepare him for the roughness that Jean used when he pushed Clement toward the desk. The sound of the lock was soft after the way the door slammed behind him.

Clement caught the look in Jean-Laurent’s eyes then, the normal clear blue bright with emotion as Jean urged him backward against the desk. That brilliant blue was all he saw, as Jean-Laurent’s lips closed over his and Jean-Laurent’s body pressed against his.

The analytical part of Clement’s brain told him that this was odd, something was unusual here. The sarcastic smart ass that was the rest of his brain wondered what had taken the geek so long to figure it out, but conceded that the geek usually was a little slow on the uptake. He didn’t think about it anymore after that; Jean’s long fingers closed around his cock and all of his brain shut down.

“J-Jean,” he breathed into the kiss, fingers searching for purchase on Jean-Laurent’s white lab coat.

“At your service,” Jean murmured, dark and sexy and accented. Clement swore; he could feel the reverberations of Jean-Laurent’s words all the way down his spine to his dick. His head went back and he gasped, unable to even conceive of forming words longer than four letters.

Jean-Laurent liked the way Clement was always so responsive. The way he never held back and always showed how much he liked every little thing. Clement knew this because Jean told him so, stubble whispering against Clement’s jaw as he spoke the words directly into Clement’s ear. Praise, delivered in soft tones, interspersed with promises that were delivered deeper. Dirtier, oaths as dirty as the words spilling uncontrollably from Clement’s mouth.

Clement couldn’t acknowledge the existence of anything beyond Jean-Laurent’s warm hand, moving at a steady rhythm. His heavy body pressing down against Clement, and who gave a fuck if there was something on the desk that was sharp and digging in. It was hard to care when he had Jean-Laurent’s mouth too, his voice and his accent, oh God his accent, and Clement couldn’t have asked for more.

The world–the real one–came into sudden and harsh focus as Jean-Laurent pulled away from him. Central air conditioning bit sharply against his bare skin, like going swimming at the Cape in October. He realized that his pants and his underwear were around his ankles, his lab coat pushed back and shirt pushed up.

“Wha?” Clement asked, knowing he sounded like a confused kid and not caring. He was thoroughly ravished, ready for more, and Jean-Laurent was on the other side of the desk rummaging through the drawers.

“Patience,” Jean said, in the rumbly voice that made Clement shiver. His eyes fell closed and his head dropped back against the desk as he took shaky breaths in, trying to adjust, trying to not adjust, and then just giving up for a moment.


Clement didn’t have much patience. He shifted, not actually getting up but instead using his shaky legs to turn himself without getting up. Peering down at Jean-Laurent, his breath caught in his throat.

The man was kneeling on the floor, the tube of lubricant that Clement had seen many times before open and laying on the carpet between the legs of the desk’s rolling chair. Jean-Laurent’s head was down, focusing on what he was doing. He was–was very probably kneeling there on the carpet fingering himself. Clement couldn’t actually see it, but the lack of pants and the way that Jean-Laurent’s hand disappeared between his legs couldn’t be much else. Especially with the way his arm muscles were moving–totally not a jacking-off movement.

The moan gave it away, though. A soft, almost stifled “ah” that went right to Clement’s dick

“Fuck,” Clement whispered, still looking down at the gorgeous sight before him. He had thought–Jean-Laurent had told him–that he was bottoming. He, Clement, not Jean-Laurent. But, well. Evidence was very strongly suggesting otherwise.

“You’re still bottom,” Jean growled as he stood. Clement recognized it for what it was: his last chance to refuse, and he didn’t. He scrambled to resume the position that he’d been in before, this time spreading his legs indecently while his chest heaved as he panted out his nervousness.

Clement got no warning before Jean-Laurent climbed on top of him. Not a word, nor a sound, as Jean-Laurent’s straddled Clement’s hips, the length of Jean-Laurent’s cock pressing against his own with the man’s weight behind it while Jean’s lips crushed against Clement’s.

His brain didn’t have time to analyze before it shut off. He didn’t think about what it meant when Jean-Laurent’s slim hips rolled forward and Clement’s cock was against the softer skin of Jean-Laurent’s ass. He just felt, lost in the sharpness of Jean-Laurent’s teeth against his ear, his jaw, his neck.

The sensation of the condom being rolled over his dick was like a push on top of a shove, adding to the torrent of feeling only because it was just one more thing. He had a passing thought that maybe this was what Jean-Laurent had meant by bottoming: being a tool, to be used for the other man’s pleasure and nothing more.

But he didn’t get a chance to think on it; Jean was using him already. Sinking down onto Clement’s cock slowly, and then rocking back and forth once he was in position. Testing the waters, and Clement just made a needy sound in the back of his throat.

Clement wouldn’t have noticed Jean-Laurent’s hands moving up if they hadn’t stopped partway to pinch his nipples–simultaneously and hard. All Clement could do was moan and shiver. He felt Jean-Laurent’s hands more vividly then, felt the individual fingers sliding upward, forefinger leading middle and ring and pinky over his collarbones to his neck. Clement started to say something when he felt Jean-Laurent’s thumb and forefinger on either side of his neck, palm pressed to the middle, but no words came out. Only a surprisingly loud, half-strangled moan that Clement thought didn’t sound at all like himself.

At the same time, Jean-Laurent started to ride Clement like he meant it, blue eyes bright as ever as he stared down at Clement steadily. His hand was steady too, pressing relentlessly against Clement’s throat. It felt unnaturally hot against his skin, fingers pressing in and even if Clement could sort of breathe, his chest felt warm and his head felt light.

“Jean,” he whispered–no way he could’ve spoken properly, and he was hoarse already to boot, “Jean, I–”

Jean-Laurent only hushed him softly, anything else he might’ve said drowned out by Clement’s cry when Jean-Laurent tightened around him. He moved faster now, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh punctuating the pressure of Jean-Laurent’s hand on Clement’s neck. The more slaps there were, the harder he pressed, and the heat in Clement’s chest turned to burning, a fire that fueled the lightness in his head to turn to outright dizzy–too dizzy to care that he could hardly breathe.

It wasn’t worth caring, when he could feel the orgasm building. He felt it deep in his stomach, and then his balls, the only concrete sensation. Physical feelings were abstract, blending and pushing him harder, faster, toward orgasm, with only the pressure on his throat holding him off from coming–for a moment, anyway.

The abstractness of physical feelings meant that it took a few seconds to realize that there wasn’t pressure on his throat. That nothing was holding him back from coming, not the spots in front of his eyes or Jean-Laurent’s voice, vague and distant. Nothing at all was holding him back, so he came.

He might’ve screamed, might’ve slammed his hips up against Jean-Laurent, might have just felt every muscle in his body wound up tight enough to hurt and came with nothing more than a whimper. Clement didn’t know; he blacked out.

“Clement?” Jean-Laurent’s voice was far away.

Clement felt loose all over, boneless and disoriented enough that it took a moment for him to realize that he wasn’t being held down anymore; he just didn’t have the energy to raise his head. Other sensations came back slowly: the bite of the central air conditioning, the soft background hum of fluorescent lighting, the fact that he was laying sprawled out across Jean-Laurent’s desk, stomach splattered with semen. Chest rising and falling in time with his breathing.

Clement opened his eyes, turning his head to look the direction that Jean-Laurent’s voice had come from. To the side of the desk now, calmly wiping at a wet spot on his lab coat with a tissue.

“Are you back with us, then?” Jean-Laurent asked, and Clement started to laugh. He felt a ghost of the fire from earlier, now no more than a sudden, brief sharp pain that cut his laughter short. He pressed a hand against his chest, forcing himself to not take deep breaths. Obviously that was a no-no, just yet

“Tissue?” The box was on the edge of the desk; Jean-Laurent picked it up and offered it to Clement. He almost grabbed it and threw it back at the older man out of spite–that normally humorless voice actually sounded amused. Go figure that it took sadism to draw it out.

“You ass,” Clement said, with feeling, but took the box anyway. Jean-Laurent only smiled, probably knowing damn well that it was the truth.

“It’s 6:45. Be back in the lab by 7.”

…and ready to prove it, Clement thought as he watched Jean-Laurent turn and leave. Clement hated clean-up, but it was completely necessary in an almost unpleasant way with how he felt sticky all over. Probably had worked up a good sweat–he tried not to wonder if that was a normal sort of thing to happen when one was nearly choked to death.

He pulled his clothes most of the way on–nobody was around to care if his fly wasn’t buttoned or zipped–and walked down the hallway with the wall as support. Clement’s knees felt like gelatin, unstable and prone to shaking a lot when he tried to move too much. He had to stop once, leaning against the wall and breathing for a moment before he continued on.

Somewhere between Jean-Laurent’s office and the bathroom, Clement felt a lot more of the way toward normal. Enough to have half a plan in his head of splashing water on his face and then maybe washing off his torso, when he got there. But he didn’t get that far, frozen as he stared at his neck in the mirror.

There were bruises. He had bruises. Not bad ones–or not bad ones showing yet anyway–and they didn’t exactly look like fingers. Maybe. More just like angry red marks just under his jaw, over the front and sides of his throat, and oh God that actually looked like fingers. He would be fine going home tonight, sure, but what of tomorrow? He was not going to be able to show up looking like this.

Cleaning plans forgotten, Clement all but ran into the lab. Jean-Laruent leaned against the counter next to the microscopes, that slight, amused smile (smirk, Clement realized. It was a fucking smirk.) greeting him.

“Bruises!” he said, too loud and short in a way that made him sound like some Tourette’s patient with a faulty vocabulary. His brain still wasn’t exactly working, damn it, and his vocal chords were worse. Speaking loudly had hurt.

“Ever worn make-up before?” Jean-Laurent asked, as if it were a normal thing for men. Or any kind of good response to what Clement had said. Well, maybe in France both make-up and suggesting that your lover use it after you gave him bruises by choking him during sex were normal. But this wasn’t France.

“No! Of course I–” Clement began to shout, but cut off because he was too hoarse and truly shouting felt like having hot, jagged coals shoved down his throat.

“Would do best to learn how.” Jean-Laurent looked at him levelly. There was nothing to do except glare at him for a moment, then turn and head back to the bathroom.

Clement knew one thing: he would certainly think much harder before consenting to bottom again. That was for goddamned sure.

illustrated by newbabyfly

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