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Boss was wound tight today, and it was worse than it'd been in a long time.
True, it was the nature of running as complex an organization as theirs that some weeks would be worse than others, but the past ten or so days had been uniquely hellish. Contract violations from previously-trusted clients. Property damage from a Battle Zone erroneously erected around their base (an intern's mistake, Quasartico insisted; they owed the Syndicate one hell of a favor for that fuck-up). A fire in a nearby apartment complex that Corbeau had dropped everything to assist with. All that, plunked atop their usual mountain of day-to-day work.
This led into, of course, all-nighters and rescheduling hell and what must have been gallons of coffee consumed in the just-worth-it-enough-to-keep-trying effort to stay on track. They were run ragged, all of them.
Philippe had the stamina to last in this mode for a while yet. It was Corbeau he worried about. Boss had tenacity, that was for sure, and a willingness to put his body on the line for the greater good of Lumiose, but there was only so much man that could be put to work indefinitely like this. Only so much stress that could accumulate before something inevitably snapped.
Oh, they both knew exactly how to take the edge off—they just hadn't had the time for their latest brand of stress relief. The end of every day had them collapsing (when they could afford to collapse at all), and every morning alarm jolted them awake with no time to indulge in anything but the necessities.
Fucking each other did not count as a necessity. It was an indulgence, not a priority.
Although...
Seeing how stiff the boss's shoulders were, Philippe was getting pretty damn close to making the argument otherwise. He didn't want to sound like an opportunist looking for excuses, but the boss needed something. Anything to tweak that pressure release valve before the inevitable explosion. His increasingly foul mood was bound to make some poor grunt cry at this rate, or, Arceus forbid, start impacting their public image.
What kind of partner would he be if he didn't do his best to help out?
Philippe stood to straighter attention when the leather of the boss's desk chair creaked slightly. Corbeau slumped back in its cushions, having pushed his laptop away with abject disgust. He fussed through his hair with similar exasperation, and his heel struck the floor with an impressive tempo. His fingers soon laced over his stomach in falsified calm, the air around him so stormy that Philippe was surprised he couldn't hear thunder.
Most importantly, Corbeau had paused his work.
A man could dare to dream.
Philippe checked his watch. Glanced at the elevator. All visitors were strictly forbidden from arriving a second earlier than their scheduled time, lest they incur the wrath of the Rust Syndicate's notoriously particular boss. And, as fellow guardians of Corbeau's valuable time and energy, the Syndicate receptionists were strict as strict could be about who was allowed past the main lobby and when.
Given how the whole organization knew how frayed the boss's patience had become as of late, it was practically guaranteed that there'd be no surprise visitors.
When he glanced back at the boss, he found a yellow gaze waiting to be met, patient and still as a carnivore's.
Corbeau's heel had stopped tapping. The office air felt dead still. Philippe's own breathing was the loudest thing in his ears, and he decided to shatter the quiet with a simple, pointed question.
"Your schedule?"
Corbeau didn't even check his laptop. "Free until eleven."
They had twenty precious minutes. Philippe swore he could feel the flicker of his watch's second hand against his wrist—a pulse, a heartbeat growing slower in comparison to his own. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Corbeau's gaze traced down his body like the soft tip of a knife. Philippe measured the time he was allotted to serve, factoring in cleanup, recovery—twenty minutes should be plenty.
He had, after all, made his lover come in far less time than that before.
Tick...
They lunged for each other. Philippe didn't know who grabbed who first—only that the air itself separating them was an obstacle to be knocked aside.
Their lips crashed together, and in the aching relief of finally having a goddamn second to themselves, to kiss again, hold again, Philippe swore he could almost cry. There was the soft sound of a heavy coat crumpling to the floor, the sharp fwip of a tie whisking loose. Corbeau's arms latched behind his neck, and a slender leg hiked as high up his hip as it could strive for. A sharp press closer had him hissing against Corbeau's mouth. He was already rock-hard, guilty as charged.
That didn't matter. These twenty minutes weren't for himself. A good lackey always prioritized their boss's needs, and Philippe only ever tried to be good for Corbeau.
Without breaking their kiss, he grasped his young lover underneath his thighs and hoisted him up, planted him right on the edge of the desk as if he weighed nothing at all. Corbeau was already attacking his own shirt, nimble fingers addressing each button as a pianist addressed each note in a score. Purple silk spread open to the stage of Corbeau's inked chest, and Philippe was already touching, hands encasing the sides of a small ribcage and thumbing at the well-disguised scars underneath the tattoos.
Corbeau's mouth tasted like the coffee he'd been drinking too much of lately, flavor delivered tongue to tongue. Philippe could taste something else, too, in the twitch of his boss's split tongue licking deeper into his mouth—frayed patience and desperation.
Corbeau was starving, and Philippe's duty could only be to sate him.
Clever fingers slid to the top of his head, and Philippe sank to his knees with hardly any guidance needed at all. He undid Corbeau's belt in a fever, dragged those high-waisted pants and boxer briefs straight down to the ankles with minimal help. No time to undress any further—the most important thing was already right in front of him.
He swore his heart skipped a big old thud every time he saw it. Corbeau's knees were spread wide just for him, not a speck of shyness to be found about being seen where he was most guarded. It thrilled him how Corbeau always presented himself (to him, only to him) like the mere glimpse of his cock was a grand gift—and it was, he swore it was.
Every inch of him was beautiful.
Dark curls of hair made a small, neat nest for the cock peeking out above the dusky folds already glistening with arousal. Heart pounding, Philippe reached for it. He thumbed back the hood and suppressed a groan at the sight of that plump pink glans standing stiffer just for him, as demanding as the man it was attached to.
He wasted a couple seconds glancing upwards, thumb rubbing small encouraging circles. He needed the view, of being looked down upon by the only man he would ever choose to submit to. The hand on his head didn't obstruct much. In fact, Corbeau allowed the momentary distraction. Their eyes met again, from low to on high, and Philippe's cock strained at what he saw there.
Greed was an expression the boss wore well. Underscored as they were by such dark circles, his eyes burned as yellow as avarice itself, a flame with no regard for the consequences of its boundless desire to consume. It took Philippe's breath away every time that gaze was burning into him. Scoring his flesh with a sear hotter than any buzz of a tattoo's needles. Of all the people Corbeau could want, and easily obtain...
The palm over his head jerked him closer, and Philippe went willingly. Gratefully. Drool pooled in his mouth like a starving man before a feast, and his jaw trembled open as he was guided home.
Corbeau's hitched breath and low curse of relief were as good a reward as gold.
Boss liked it best without any lead-up. Foot to the gas, no teasing needed, just a rough eager blowjob from someone desperate to please.
It truly was its own treat. He'd never given head to a man like Corbeau before, but it was shockingly easy to pick up the right skills—treat it like you would your own, boss had told him, and that had gotten him pretty damn far while he sussed out what Corbeau liked best.
Philippe breathed in the musky perfume of arousal surrounding him, nose buried in dark hair, getting drunk on the scent as he toyed with the little cock that throbbed every time he flicked his tongue along the side it was most sensitive on, tracing mercilessly for lack of time. It was stiff already, swollen, and tasted as addicting as the slick that was starting to coat his broad chin.
(Boss practically made puddles when he was really turned on. One of Philippe's favorite sights in the world was tugging the last of his lover's clothes down and revealing just how soaked he'd become in anticipation of being touched. It really stroked a man's ego like nothing else to know his partner desired him so badly.)
Arceus, he would live between these thighs if he could. There was no greater bliss than the privilege of being on his knees for this man. The massive strain below his own belt was easily ignored. Unimportant. Corbeau's pleasure was his pleasure.
Philippe began bobbing his head the way Corbeau liked it. His lips made lewd sounds around the short shaft, and the hand resting on his head became more demanding, pressing in rhythm with him to control the pace, to control him.
He practically whimpered when Corbeau reached down and spread with two fingers the skin around his cock, exposing more for his lover's eager mouth to worship. Philippe suckled gratefully, worked his tongue against the smooth roundness of the glans in as fast a pace he dared without overstimulating his partner beyond actual pleasure.
His hands soon found purchase around the boss's spread thighs—there was hardly any need to hold these willing legs apart, but he loved the feel of Corbeau's thighs in his grasp, the testing of his strength against a body that held such power over him despite being physically weaker. He pulled off for just a moment—dipped lower, broadened his tongue, lapped up the slick practically dripping from Corbeau's cunt and dragged it higher to wet his cock. The fingers at his head dug in harder.
"Faster, Philippe," was demanded of him, strained through clenched teeth. The only reason Philippe didn't respond with an immediate Yes, boss was because he didn't need a voice for his mouth to do all the talking.
He hastened the bobbing of his head, measured his suction to be more pointed. Whatever the boss needed, he would provide. What good was he for, if he couldn't satisfy the one who held his devotion so kindly inside their own chest?
Philippe's lower face was a shining mess by now, the musky scent thick in his nose and driving all rational thought out the window. His own dick was painfully, painfully hard. It was to the point that the pressure in his groin was its own masochistic kind of relief—proof that he was allowed to be this riled up, that Corbeau didn't mind if his most trusted ally-turned-lover found him so irresistible that his desire manifested in the swelling of his cock, the bulging of his pants that turned his fancy formal outfit into something lewd.
That was part of the joy of it. That he didn't have to resist anymore. Corbeau embraced his desire with open arms, and he fell into that embrace with his whole messy heart on display to be lapped up and savored (and best of all, kept).
A shaky groan left him, muffled into the treasure between Corbeau's legs. The scent, the taste, the flexible stiffness against his tongue, it all drove him mad. And that was to say nothing about the sounds—Corbeau was looser with his voice than usual, the stressors of the past many days putting cracks in his usual self-control.
He loved that Corbeau could be so human around him. He loved that he was allowed to pleasure him, to taste him, to make him come and make him writhe and sweat and moan and squirt all over the sheets with just his fingers. Arceus, Philippe loved that he was allowed to love him like this. The fall of the empire of Philippe's self-control had been the best thing to happen to their relationship. All those misunderstandings and missed opportunities had been worth it if it meant he could be on his knees like this.
Philippe made the mistake of glancing upwards, and almost came in his pants right there. Corbeau's glasses were askew, slipped halfway down his nose. His pretty mouth had fallen open, and little pink tongue twitched with unspoken praise behind his teeth. His eyes were closed, thank Arceus—hair fallen into disarray over his forehead, chest rising and falling like a desperate bird's.
"Come on," Corbeau panted, low and husky with need, "I'm almost there, come on... You know how I like it, don't hold back on me now."
He certainly did. Philippe shouldered closer, pinned his boss's thighs wider apart on the desk. Boss's cock pulsed madly in his mouth. Faster, firmer, sloppier—Corbeau liked it noisy, too—drove him wild when Philippe moaned and sighed like heaven existed right between his superior's legs.
It really did. He could station himself here and feast for hours if only they had the damn time.
"Fuck... Fuck, that's it. Right there. Good boy, Philippe, suck me just like that. Just a little more..."
His blood sang from the praise. Philippe wished they weren't on a schedule, because he wanted nothing more than to press kisses all over Corbeau's inner thighs and drenched cunt to show just how happy he was to earn those lovely words.
As it turned out, just a little more wasn't entirely true. The minutes ticked by with his dutiful service, but Corbeau's body seemed locked in a stasis of pleasure no matter how Philippe tried to tease him to release. On any other day, his tongue would have had Corbeau's whole body writhing and needing to be pinned still for him to keep at it, but something was different this time. It wasn't enough.
Corbeau's mounting frustration thrummed clear in every tremble of his body, every strained exhale and squirm and raspy command to adjust something.
This wouldn't be enough to finish in time. Philippe cursed the strain of their schedule this past week—too stressed to relax, was that it?
He had a fix for that, too.
Philippe slid a hand from Corbeau's thigh closer to center. Just one should be plenty...
His finger teased at Corbeau's core, finding it absolutely soaked and practically begging for stimulation. This always made the boss come like a faucet the rare times he was in the mood to have his whole pussy played with. They usually had a towel handy, but this was an emergency. If he couldn't get the boss off in time and they had to stop midway to get presentable for their next appointment, he could kiss both their sanities goodbye.
Corbeau's legs tensed on the desk the instant his fingertip dipped deep enough to announce its intentions.
"Philippe," Corbeau warned, any urgency thinned by the raw need in his voice.
He popped off Corbeau's cock and licked his chops clean, hating to have his mouth empty but needing to explain himself.
"It's okay, boss." His finger retreated from the entrance, smeared the slick around just in case he got the go-ahead to penetrate. "If you make a mess, I'll clean it up. Nobody'll know. Promise you."
Uncertainty. A bitten lip. Philippe begged with his eyes, ducked down and lapped at Corbeau's erection to keep it happy. Then, a sharp sigh.
"Alright. I trust you, obviously, just hurry up and—"
A sound of pure shocked pleasure tore from Corbeau's throat as Philippe boldly sank a finger in to the knuckle. Lips a perfect 'O' and throat exposed, stomach clenched tight and revealing the shadow of subtle abs in the dim light. That was exactly the reaction he was wanting. No time to waste.
Philippe licked his lips and dove right back in, this time accompanied by the pump of a large finger into Corbeau's tight, clenching heat. Slick as the boss's tongue could be when seducing someone else, clinging to him tight like it didn't want to let go now that it finally had something stuffed into it.
Corbeau never lasted long with his insides getting stroked.
Philippe returned to a lavish pace with his cocksucking. Less hurried, curling his finger in time with every bob of his head. Corbeau's voice had truly broken loose, cussing freely and grinding out moans, hips rolling into Philippe's face like it was a canvas he was determined to coat every inch of.
...There it was. He could feel it, inside, the fluttering of muscle and increasing tension within that small frame. The pains of the last many days had already wound Corbeau into one giant taut spring prepared to explode at any second—this here was an escalation that threatened to snap the boss's body entirely in two.
He rubbed more insistently against the one particular spot that made Corbeau's thighs threaten to snap closed around his skull. Let them if they wanted to—he never minded struggling a bit, and he knew how to hold his breath.
Corbeau's lungs drew shallower and shallower. He swallowed, borderline whimpered, grabbed at Philippe's head like a life preserver to keep from drowning in the cresting waves of ecstasy.
"Philippe—fuck, fuck, right there, almost—!" His voice cracked. "Please, Philippe!"
Corbeau came with an agonized cry, his little cock throbbing into a loyal loving mouth. Philippe shuddered at the rippling around his finger, the gush of wetness as he was milked for all he could give with just a single thick digit. Thankfully for them both, it wasn't the fountain he had a contingency plan to clean; it was a slow crash that knocked the breath from Corbeau's lungs and made his back arch, legs shaking, pussy convulsing around Philippe's finger. He worked deeper, petting and stroking the shivering walls and suckling to his heart's content, enticing aftershock after aftershock until his boss collapsed into a twitching electrified heap upon his own desk.
Job fucking well done, if he could say so himself.
Shit. The time. Recovery, cleanup, getting dressed.
He replaced his hand with his hungry mouth. Deep licks, scooping what he could of what would drip onto the desk otherwise. Corbeau tasted incredible as always. Really was a shame he wasn't able to savor every drop of his boss's release straight from the source.
The tiny sounds flinching from Corbeau with every insistent lick soon reminded him of the burden straining in his pants. There was no way he could make it go down in time for the upcoming appointment, and forget about trying to hide it at his size—he had to handle this now.
He shot to his feet and undid his pants in a hurry. He pulled his heavy cock out and almost buckled at the knees at how good it felt to finally touch. The head was smeared with precum, practically shining as bright as the silver balls pierced through it, dim lighting be damned.
He bent over his hazy panting boss and planted a hand on the desk near his flushed pretty head, completely shadowing him beneath his bulk, and stroked himself madly. Just a short moment of selfishness to take care of himself—Corbeau would allow him that much.
Philippe raked his gaze down his lover's slack body. Blank sternum, the dip from ribcage to flat stomach. Narrow hips. Dark pubic hair, and a twitching, satisfied cunt...
It'd be so easy, in this position, to rut his hips forward and sink inside. He'd worked Corbeau nice and loose, and he'd been dreaming about it for how long, now? Corbeau had taken his fingers, his tongue, even pulled out that damned dildo and made him watch once in a fit of true sadism, but in all this time, they'd never gone 'all the way.' Philippe would never dare press for more. If this much was enough for Corbeau (or if it was as much as Corbeau could tolerate), it would be enough for him, too. That was how they'd always operated.
But damn it, damn his miserable greed, he wanted so badly to fit his boss on his cock someday and see that handsome face wrecked in rapture. He'd been allowed to paint his seed in places he never would have dared to hope for before, but inside... Imagine being allowed to someday come inside Corbeau. Paint his insides, lay claim to them. Own his little lover inside and out...
Philippe's balls tightened up at the mere fantasy, and he chased the feeling towards a pathetically quick release. He gritted his teeth, bit back a rough groan, and spilled his seed all over his partner's taut stomach. Rope after rope of it, aimed low to avoid the horror of accidentally marking his boss's face unasked-for.
"Arceus," he gasped, tugging a few more spurts out and marveling at how hard he was still capable of blowing a load at his age.
Corbeau chose that moment to struggle more upright, sharp elbows propping him up on the desk. He observed the dripping lines on his stomach and cracked a dry, humored smirk that told Philippe he was already feeling immeasurably better.
"You know..." Boss adjusted his glasses. "For a second there, I thought your aim was gonna be more ballsy."
He snuck out a disbelieving laugh at the implication that Corbeau would have been okay with it. There was really no predicting what this man would be in the mood for.
"Had to take your tight schedule into consideration, boss," he explained out of thin air. He pulled his pocket square free, transfixed on the streaks of white on Corbeau's abdominals. "Wouldn't have minded licking you clean all over again, but if I did, I'd have lost track of time for sure."
"Hah. You dog." Corbeau swept his hair into place and snatched the fabric from him, apparently deciding it was faster to wipe Philippe's cum up himself. "I'll let you come on my dick next time, as a reward for doing so well. You got me rather excited thinking that you would."
Oh, he would remember that.
Philippe snorted, body feeling ten tons lighter. "Apologies for being considerate, boss."
"Please, you're never sorry when I let you finish on me. Time?"
"Three minutes to get decent."
"Would you look at that. No wonder I keep you around."
"Very funny, boss."
He helped the smaller man off the edge of the desk and prioritized pulling his partner's slacks back up, fixing them in place as if nothing had happened at all. He had to be careful; Corbeau was always extra sensitive after sex. If he was too rough with pulling the fabric back into place, Corbeau would flinch as it rubbed him raw.
He helped Corbeau with the rest of his shirt buttons, and handled the knotting of his white striped tie. Hair, fixed. Glasses holder, perfectly laid. Even Corbeau's flush had faded—the dark of the office would help with that, too.
Best of all, Corbeau's countenance had, at long last, relaxed. The pinch between his brows had disappeared, and the slope of his shoulders was more casual than it had been this past whole week. It may not be enough to push him through another all-nighter, but at the very least there was no more risk of him biting somebody's head off.
There. Tidy as could be. Any subtle disheveled details could be explained with the lie of the boss having just finished a battle recently. It wasn't strange for any active trainer to have a little sweat under their collar at random times.
A low bing carried across the office. The elevator had activated. Someone was on their way up.
"Philippe, wait. Your face."
His hand flew to his beard. Shit—he'd need to wash up properly before he could be presentable again. How could he forget to factor himself into the time they had? "The client?"
"Won't care if you're missing. Go, I can handle them just fine. Be back as soon as you can."
"Thank you, boss."
"I should be thanking you, for taking such good care of me." Corbeau's smile flickered wider, and Philippe fell in love all over again. "Now get out of here before they notice what a fiend you are."
Philippe turned on a heel and strode straight towards the subtly placed door in the office that led to the stairwell. He pushed it open right as the elevator announced itself on this floor, and overheard the confident stroke of Corbeau's greeting, nonchalant and proud.
"There you are, right on time. We have much to discuss, you and I. Please, have a seat over there. My friend just left to fetch us some tea."
Of course Corbeau knew he would still be listening. Shaking his head, Philippe eased the door shut and stole away, savoring what he could of Corbeau's lingering scent on his face before he washed it clean away.
He swore, the moment this all eased up and they finally had some time to themselves, he wasn't stopping at just one gifted orgasm. High interest rates weren't merely a financial concept; every chance he'd been robbed of to make Corbeau cry his name lately, he planned to pay back threefold, and he was sure there'd be no complaints.