Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/670059.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Les_Misérables_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      Combeferre/Enjolras
  Character:
      Enjolras_(Les_Misérables), Combeferre_(Les_Misérables)
  Additional Tags:
      Established_Relationship, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Anal_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-02-04 Words: 1378
****** Vir ******
by kalevalaSage
Summary
     Originally written for the Les Mis Kink Meme to fill the following
     prompt: "Combeferre bent over his own desk. Studying. While Enjolras
     has sex with him. Yes, at the same time."
Notes
     God this is so out of character it's ridiculous it almost reads like
     Courfeyrac/Combeferre but at least I hear it's arousing??
     Kink Meme: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/
     9761.html?thread=100897#t100897
     Tumblr: http://kalevala-sage.tumblr.com/post/42244571684/vir
Enjolras undresses alone, perfunctorily, peeling off his vest and his shirt and
his trousers, then taking care to stand at an angle to the lamp as he folds
them, letting the light play up the ripple of his stomach muscles when he
moves.  It’s to no avail.  Combeferre is still seated at his desk, pen bobbing
furiously as he scrawls out his latest revisions of what Enjolras knows but at
midnight doesn’t want to acknowledge is a Very Important Pamphlet.  Combeferre
loves Enjolras, and Enjolras knows this, but two years into their relationship,
he misses the days when he could entice his partner to jump him at the merest
suggestion of sex, or when he could at least receive some sort of
acknowledgement when he stripped. But Combeferre hasn’t even turned around.
It’s not typical for Enjolras to turn in earlier than Combeferre—the two
usually make a contest of who can withstand the most productivity and the least
sleep, but Combeferre’s vision is poorer, and even with his glasses, his eyes
tire out before Enjolras has devoured his fill of reading for the night. 
Today, though, Enjolras has put his books away early to start on a couple other
goals he’s set for the evening.
“’Ferre, come to bed,” he whines, his plea somehow simultaneously boyish and
sensual.
At the sound of his lover’s voice, Combeferre finally takes the time to glance
over his shoulder, where he catches a glimpse of the blond splayed on his back,
naked on their mattress.  He smiles privately and blushes, deciding that he
would indeed like to take up Enjolras’s offer of intimacy—if only he could get
this last sentence right.  After staring at the blur of text for thirty seconds
more, he decides he can’t.  Fearing Enjolras will be mad and give up on his
chances for the day and fall asleep again, as happened yesterday, he sighs in
defeat, rising from his chair to remove and toss aside his shirt.  Enjolras
melts into the blankets and rubs his half-hard penis idly, thinking he’s won
his partner’s undivided attention for tonight.  He is, however, wrong, and
Combeferre, struck with a final thought, reaches back for his pen to jot down
his inspiration before it flees.
“Damnit.  Give me just a second, Enj.”  The only response Combeferre gets is a
pointed mewl of disappointment, so he stands up out of his chair and bends over
the table instead, as if to convey that he’s really not planning on taking five
more minutes.  “Sweetheart, I’ll be right there, I promise.”
That’s when a devious grin spreads across Enjolras’s face.  Combeferre,
familiar with that leer, would have known to be wary had he taken stock of it;
however, hunched over his papers as he is, he misses it…
Combeferre jumps at the sensation of a greedy hand tugging down his waistband,
and curses as he loses his grip on his pen, sending it flying across the desk. 
Refusing to acknowledge or encourage Enjolras, he presses his lips into a tight
frown before stretching forward to retrieve it.  This turns out to be a
mistake; Combeferre’s indignant countenance melts into an embarrassingly loud
moan when Enjolras pushes a finger—unlubricated, Combeferre notes, wincing at
the pain—into the arse Combeferre neglected to re-clothe.  His lover’s
impatient hardness pokes at the back of his thigh, and despite himself,
Combeferre feels his own erection developing.
“Enjolras,” he hisses, “Control yourself.”
“You know…I don’t think I will.”  Enjolras is at once playful and cruel—but so
is Combeferre, to be honest. “You were topless, and mooning me.  And yet you
expect I can exercise restraint?  Especially when you’ve all but ignored me,
romantically at least, for the past week.  One begins to wonder if I’m not good
enough for you.”
That’s only a half-truth, but it still stings.  Coupling this argument with his
growing arousal, the pamphlet is beginning to feel a little less important than
his boyfriend.  Combeferre lets Enjolras shove him down onto the table—not that
he would have had the strength to resist him anyway, but he still would have
let him, he tells himself—with the hand that isn’t currently pushing
fingers—it’s fingers now, two, plural, and Enjolras still hasn’t bothered to
lube them in any way—up his anus.
“If the tables were turned, if you’d seen me half-dressed and working, I’d want
to know you liked what you saw well enough to lose control a bit.”  Enjolras
isn’t angry, just passionate.  He always gets like this, Combeferre knows—hot
and bothered and passionate.  It doesn’t help that his passion is for
rhetoric.  And Combeferre kind of does want to listen to his better half and
lose control, but his nude chest is still flush against the desk, and he is
experiencing the strange sensation of rubbing his nipples into freshly applied
calligraphy: arousing, but inky, and definitely not conducive to the paper’s
future legibility.  Trying not to panic over the defacement of his work,
Combeferre shuts his eyes and counts to ten and tries to calm himself, which is
hard to do when Enjolras’s dry fingers are scissoring inside him.  The fingers
brush his prostate and Combeferre pounds his fist into the desk, dropping the
pen.
“Okay, goddamn, can you just use lube!”  At this outburst, Enjolras chuckles
and withdraws from Combeferre’s hole, leaving him panting.
“There’s the voice of reason.”
Combeferre tries and fails to steady his breathing as he hears Enjolras
rummaging through a drawer, uncorking a bottle, grunting at the coldness as he
always does as he applies its contents to his dick.  “You win.”
“Good.”  The glee in Enjolras’s voice is infectious as he lines his cock up to
his partner’s ass.  “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Before Combeferre can retort, Enjolras slams into him and he yelps more audibly
than he wishes he did, but it’s okay because all of a sudden Enjolras is
groaning in his ear too.  The blond keeps a hand on Combeferre’s back, keeping
him pinned to the desk, but reaches around his waist with the other, grabbing
hold of his prick and jerking him off in time with his thrusts.  Combeferre
whimpers and savours the sound of Enjolras’s own noises intermixed with their
combined laboured breathing.
A couple minutes of bliss later, he feels a telltale stirring in the pit of his
stomach.  Confined to the desk as he is, he can’t do much but moan about it
incoherently and wonder where the hell he’s going to come because that’s going
to happen soon, but Enjolras seems to get the idea.  Or at least, Enjolras’s
body agrees with the first part of that sentiment, because his hips thrash
against Combeferre’s rear, plunging his entire length into that arse and once
again brushing Combeferre’s prostate as he spills inside his lover.  It’s all
Combeferre can do not to plateau simultaneously, and he barely contains himself
even with Enjolras’s hand clamped at the base of his cock.
Enjolras comes in three warm spurts, whispering his name throughout, imparting
a peace Combeferre certainly doesn’t feel as he struggles not to ejaculate. 
When Enjolras is done, his breathing deepens again, but doesn’t quite get the
chance to normalize before he takes a deep breath, turning Combeferre around
and engulfing his dick with his lips.  Combeferre hardly feels the caress of
Enjolras’s tongue before he spends himself in Enjolras’s mouth, his mind
turning blank and his muscles spasming as he rides out his climax.
When he comes to, the first thing he wonders is why he’s resting his head on
the surface of his desk.  Sighing as he remembers, he gets up to survey the
damage.  His manuscript is pretty much trashed.  The papers have absorbed an
astounding quantity of drool, smearing the once-immaculate lettering into an
abstract art.  At least there’s no semen on it.  For a moment, Combeferre
contemplates rewriting the document before he forgets its contents, but is
interrupted by a tired voice from the bed.
“Now are you ready to come to bed?”
Combeferre smiles and nods, sleepy in the afterglow of his orgasm.  He finally
finishes undressing, stepping out of the pants that have already fallen to his
knees anyway, and curls into Enjolras’s waiting arms.
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