A/N: With this fic, I fully acknowledge my apparent lack of shame and my willingness to do absolutely anything as long as I get something for doing it, seeing as I don't even ship these two. Enjoy, regardless.
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Why does he enjoy this? This slickness, this heat, this pain in the pleasure…
He shouldn't, and he knows it. The professor is a very smart man, after all.
"Come on, is that really all you've got, Professor?" Clive asks from beneath him, pompous even in this position. His legs are spread wide by Layton's rough hands, and bruises and bite marks cover his body in red splotches. The professor, for all his kindness, is not so gentle in the act of plunging into him with lube-covered fingers, drawing him open. Clive visibly bites back a sob as the fingers enter him one by one, and his hand clutches his hair. "Just…" he is panting, and he moans at the sudden emptiness as Layton pulls his hand away. "Put… put it in already, coward. If I just wanted fingers I could do this myself."
Beneath the sarcasm Layton can hear something akin to starvation in the boy's voice, and god help him, he is all the harder for it.
And yet he continues to take his time, preferring to draw out Clive's pain and pleasure both. One hand sliding expertly around the boy's cock and the other pulling fingers in and out, the professor hears Clive moan with his forearm pressed over his mouth in a failed attempt to silence himself. "Can't you…" Pant. "…go any faster—ahh," Clive taunts, breaking off in another groan as the professor's mouth slicks over his cock, tongue moving in quick strokes and the sudden warmth of his lips almost pushing Clive over the edge.
But as quickly as they appeared, both the mouth and the fingers are gone. Clive's head jerks as Layton's cock finally enters him, easing in past the initial tug. The professor pauses after that one quick thrust, and Clive opens his mouth to make another smart remark. But Layton's mouth covers his own, no affection in the kiss, and the boy tastes salt of sweat and tears from his own face.
"Shut up," the professor hisses, voice shaky but eyes strikingly steady on Clive's. He leans forward. "Je t'enculerais comme le diable," he murmurs into Clive's ear, and the boy feels a shiver run down his spine.
I will fuck you like the devil.
Clive yelps at the conflicting feelings of fullness then emptiness as Layton pulls in and out in increasingly quicker thrusts. His legs tremble, and he knows he couldn't close them if he wanted to. His toes curl and his brain goes fuzzy as ecstasy runs through his veins.
The professor cringes as Clive's nails rake over his skin, leaving swollen red trails behind, but he finds he enjoys this too much to stop simply because the boy has gotten what he wanted. More slickness lets him move more freely, and it's hot, and Clive writhes as Layton spills inside of him. He shoves the professor away, and Layton feels a pang of worry as Clive curls into a small ball, looking, somehow, even more naked and younger than usual. But when the boy rolls onto his side to leer at Layton, it's obvious he's alright, even as he lays his head down with a tired sigh.
"Don't look so pleased with yourself," Clive says with the sheets pulled up to his face.
Layton lifts an eyebrow and steps off the bed. After gathering up his own clothes, he pauses and glances over his shoulder, hand on the doorknob. He turns on his heel, takes five long strides back, and lays his jacket over Clive, letting his hand linger on the boy's small shoulder. After a moment of hesitation he leans down and kisses Clive on his temple, brushing his mussed hair out of the way. A gentleman at the end, he thinks wryly as he closes the door softly.
And when Clive enters the kitchen in the morning, Layton's coat wrapped around his shoulders and ready with a quick "what" at Layton's questioning glance, the professor finds himself smiling at the boy with the oh so sharp tongue.