Archive of Our Own

It’s late. The kind of late that turns office buildings into liminal spaces, sterile white light, buzzing vents, and that strange silence that creeps in once the last person’s badge has beeped out. Ray is slumped in his desk chair, back aching, glasses slipping low on his nose. His screen glows soft blue against his face, casting sharp shadows over his cheekbones and the mess of curls tucked behind one ear.

He scratches the side of his head, muttering something under his breath as another system file fails to load. There’s a cooling cup of vending machine coffee at his elbow and at least three open snack bar wrappers beside his mousepad. 9:43 p.m. No one else is here. But Gerard’s name echoes in his skull. He leans back and stretches his arms overhead, groaning low in his throat. The office AC hisses softly. His chair creaks.

“Did you hear Gerard went off on someone from Marketing today?”
“Apparently someone used their parking spot again. Ballistic.”
“They told someone to ‘get a grip or get replaced’ in front of the whole boardroom. No joke.”

Ray exhales slowly, shaking his head. His fingers go to the bridge of his nose… squeeze, like it’ll help reset his brain. He doesn’t know Gerard. Just enough to know they’re higher up. Stylish in a way that feels… wrong in a place like this. All cinched waists and clicky heels and sunglasses inside. Sometimes they pass by his department. Never speaks. But you feel them, everyone does. And Ray, poor sweet Ray, has been dreading the day he gets noticed.

He hunches forward again, trying to focus on the goddamn patch. Code blurs for a second and he blinks hard, the screen swimming before sharpening again. He scratches the back of his neck. “C’mon,” he mutters to the file. “Just install. Just once. Don’t make me call…” he trails off.

Even saying their name feels cursed. Gerard. They’re not here. Thank god. Ray would combust if they were. And besides, they’ve probably got better things to do than—ding. The elevator. Ray freezes, hand still on his mouse. He turns his head slowly, squinting at the hallway through the glass panel beside his desk. He tells himself it’s probably janitorial. Maybe someone forgot their laptop. Maybe it’s—

Click. Click. Click.

The sound of heels, sharp and deliberate, echoes down the polished tile. Ray swallows. No one else in this building wears heels at this hour. Ray exhales sharply through his nose and drags his eyes back to the screen.

Focus. Don’t look. It’s probably not—shit… he hunches over harder, pretends to type something even though he’s just hitting the spacebar. His fingers are tense on the keyboard. The footsteps are getting closer. Slower now. Casual. Familiar. He smells something sharp. Sweet. A little boozy. Expensive perfume mixed with the ghost of red wine. He doesn’t have to look up to know.

“Oh! Wow,” comes a voice like silk stretched over a knife. “Where is everyone?”

Ray doesn’t answer. He stares harder at the monitor, praying to every god he’s ever heard of. Gerard hums like they’re thinking, like they’re surprised, but he knows goddamn well they’re not.

“Don’t tell me the whole floor ditched,” they muse, heels tapping in slow half-circles now, they’re pacing just out of Ray’s eyeline. “Is there… a party I didn’t know about?”

Ray clears his throat. “Uh—yeah. I mean. There’s a thing? Upstairs? Team-building happy hour thing. I wasn’t invited.”

“Huh,” Gerard says, flatly, like they already knew that. Then, a beat later… “Oh. So it’s just you, sweetheart.”

Ray’s skin goes hot. He finally turns, just enough to see them. And yeah, okay, it’s Gerard. Their trench coat’s hanging open, loose over their shoulders. Beneath it there’s a pristine white blouse, collar open a little too wide. Black skirt. Stockings. Gloves on. Their hair’s a mess like they ran a hand through it on the elevator ride. Their eyeliner’s smudged in the corners. Their lips are a little red.

They smile. “Mr. Toro,” they purr, stepping a little closer now, they’ve decided to make this their evening entertainment. “What are you up to?”

Ray fumbles to sit up straighter, bumping his mouse to get the monitor to wake again. “Just—uh—server patches. System updates. I was behind on, uh. The mid-tier encryption routing and someone flagged the usage packets—so I figured I’d just stay behind and… yeah.”

He doesn’t realize he’s talking too fast until Gerard tilts their head at him and blinks, very slowly. “Wow,” they say, lips curling just slightly. “You must be really dedicated.”

Ray swallows. “Just—trying to be efficient.”

“Mm.” They fold their arms under their chest. The trench coat slides back just enough to reveal the sharp curve of their waist, the tight black fabric of the skirt clinging to their hips. “That’s good. We like efficient.”

Ray doesn’t know if the we means management or just Gerard and the wine still on their breath. He doesn’t ask. Instead, he stares at the monitor like it might save his life. Gerard steps closer. Ray feels it before he sees it, the slight dip of the desk as Gerard’s hand lands near his keyboard, fingers splayed in their sleek black glove. And then the shift of pressure behind him as the other hand braces against the chair, near the back of his neck. They’re leaning in. He doesn’t move. Can’t. He’s a wire about to snap.

“So what exactly are you working on?” Gerard asks, voice close enough now to skim the shell of his ear. “I mean. What could possibly be so urgent you’d miss free alcohol and worse karaoke?”

Ray swallows hard. The scent of them… wine, leather, some kind of dark floral thing that probably costs more than Ray’s whole week is clouding up his thoughts.

“I, uh. It’s just the server logs. Internal access tracking’s been buggy since last week. I was gonna wait on the patch but… figured it was better to just—get it over with.”

“Hmm.” Gerard doesn’t move. Their hand behind the chair curls just slightly, leather creaking. The arm of Ray’s chair digs into his side but he doesn’t dare shift away. “And you’re doing that all alone?”

He nods. “I mean, yeah. It’s kind of a one-person job.”

“Still.” Their eyes flick across the monitor, pretending to scan the lines of code. “We should’ve brought you upstairs. Poor baby Toro, working through the party.”

Ray forces a tight laugh. “Not really my thing.”

“No?” Now Gerard finally shifts, just a little, enough for their blouse to brush his shoulder. Their voice dips low. “You don’t like parties, Mr. Toro?”

Ray clears his throat again. “Not office ones.”

“Mm. I don’t blame you,” they murmur. “Too many bad hors d’oeuvres. Too much smiling. People asking what you do for the company, like that means anything.” They lean even closer, chin practically over his shoulder now. “You don’t smile much either. I like that.”

Ray’s fingers twitch on the keyboard. The cursor blinks, waiting.

“Show me, then.”

He blinks. “Huh?”

Gerard’s voice turns syrupy. “Your patch, sweetheart. Show me what you’re working on. You’ve got me all curious now.”

Ray hesitates, then clicks a few windows open. His hands move on muscle memory, trying to keep his breathing even. “It’s not that exciting—just the back-end routing scripts. I’m patching the logs to isolate the packet overflow and filter out the junk. See—uh—here.”

He points at the screen. Gerard watches. Doesn’t speak. Just watches his hand move, the way his fingers hover nervously near the mouse, the way his posture curls in on itself. They make a soft, thoughtful noise and reach over his shoulder to scroll a bit themselves, gloved fingers brushing the side of his wrist. They hold it there a little too long. “God,” they say lightly. “You’re so… neat.”

Ray glances at them. “Huh?”

“All your little files. Color-coded folders. System logs organized by quarter.” Their lips curl. “You’re either a genius or desperately lonely.”

Ray swallows again. “I—uh—guess both?”

Gerard grins, like that was the answer they wanted. They keep leaning on his chair. “You know, Toro. You could’ve told someone you were this good. You’d be three floors up by now. In a nicer office.” A pause. “Or… maybe you like being tucked away like this.” They tilt their head. “All alone. Quiet. Hardworking.” Their eyes drag over his profile. “So serious,” they add. “So tense.”

Ray doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth without choking. So he just keeps clicking, trying to focus. Even though Gerard is practically pressed against him, breathing slow and even. Ray scrolls through the logs, trying to ignore the heat creeping up the back of his neck. Gerard’s perfume is everywhere, soaked into the very oxygen in the room. And their voice… low, playful—has taken up permanent residence behind his ear.

“Go on,” they purr. “Explain this part to me.”

Ray glances at them, uncertain. “This part?”

“Mmhm,” Gerard says, tapping one long gloved finger against the screen. “With all the little… packets.”

He clears his throat. “Right. So—uh. That’s the overflow tracker. It logs any access attempts outside the main interval, then reroutes them into a secondary dump script so the system doesn’t get clogged.”

“A dump script,” Gerard repeats, sounding deeply amused. “So elegant.”

“It’s… basic. It just frees up processing memory, makes the logs easier to scrub later.”

“Wow.” Gerard’s voice drops, thick with mock awe. “You really do all this for the company, huh?”

Ray shrugs, fidgeting with the cord of his badge. “I mean… it’s part of the job.”

“No, no,” they croon. “Don’t do that. Don’t be modest.” Their hand moves again slowly gliding from the edge of the desk to rest gently on Ray’s upper back. Not hard. Just there. Anchoring.

“You stay late. You fix things no one even knows are broken. You keep the entire system from collapsing and no one even notices, do they?”

“They don’t thank you,” Gerard continues, almost sweetly. “They don’t see how much work this is. How careful you are. How smart you are.”

Ray feels the back of his neck burn. He wants to laugh it off but his throat is too dry.

“You’ve got all this power in your hands,” they murmur, eyes on the screen. “And you just give it away. You don’t even ask for anything.” They click their tongue softly. “That’s not very fair, is it?”

Ray tries to deflect, voice thin. “I—I’m not doing it for praise or anything.”

“Of course not,” Gerard says, leaning in a little more, breath warm against his jaw. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”

Ray’s fingers falter on the mouse, his whole body tensing. He feels the words hit him somewhere low, somewhere private, like Gerard had reached inside and pulled a string he didn’t even know was there.

“All this work,” they whisper. “All this time. And no one’s ever rewarded you properly?”

Ray shakes his head without thinking, voice barely audible. “No.”

“Tsk,” Gerard says, soft and disappointed. “That won’t do at all.” They reach forward again and slowly, casually pluck Ray’s badge from his desk. “You deserve something, don’t you think?” Gerard twirls Ray’s badge between two fingers, watching the way the little plastic square swings side to side. Their other hand is still resting lightly between his shoulder blades. Just enough pressure to remind him who’s behind him.

“You know,” they murmur, “I’ve got a bottle of wine in my office. Could split it. As a reward.”

Ray shakes his head instantly. “No—thank you, but—I really should finish this before the patch resets. If I don’t log it now I’ll have to—uh—stay even later.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Gerard sighs, letting the badge fall gently back onto the desk. “You’re always so responsible.” They lean in again. “You sure you won’t let me spoil you? Even a little?”

He shakes his head again. “No—I mean. I’m good.” But his voice cracks. A little.

“You’re shaking, Mr. Toro.”

They trail a gloved hand down the back of his arm, slow and idle, until their fingers brush his elbow. They stop there. Hold it. Ray goes rigid. “Are you nervous?” Gerard asks, sounding genuinely delighted. “You’re not scared of me, are you?”

Ray opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “…N–no.” It’s barely a whisper.

“Good.” Gerard moves again—until they’re half-perched on the edge of his desk. One heel kicked up against the cabinet, one stockinged thigh stretched long. They lean down a bit, gaze heavy. “Because I think you like this.”

Ray’s jaw is locked tight. His eyes are glued to the corner of the screen. He’s trying not to look at the lace edge of Gerard’s stocking, where it peeks beneath the skirt. Trying not to look at the curve of their thigh. The dark lipstick. The smile.

“You’re blushing,” Gerard whispers, tilting his chin up with one finger. “That’s cute.”

Ray’s breath stutters.

“No one touches you like this, do they?” Gerard continues, tracing along his jaw. “All this sweetness, and no one even bothers to look at you twice. It’s criminal.”

Ray makes a small, embarrassing sound in the back of his throat… like he’s trying to swallow a whimper. He’s flushed to his ears. His legs are tense. His hands are gripping the edge of the desk like he might fall out of his own body. And worse… he’s getting hard. He shifts in his seat, trying to subtly adjust, but Gerard notices immediately.

“Oh,” they’re clearly biting back a smile. “There it is.”

Ray lets out a strangled noise. “I’m—I didn’t mean to—”

“Shhh.” Gerard puts a finger to his lips. “Don’t ruin it. It’s flattering.” Their finger trails down. Presses gently to the knot of his tie. Just enough pressure to make Ray stop breathing again. “You’re adorable, Mr. Toro.”

“If I’d known you’d fall apart this easily,” Gerard says, tilting their head, “I would’ve cornered you weeks ago.”

Ray squeezes his eyes shut. He’s fucked. He is so fucked. Gerard shifts slightly on the edge of the desk, one thigh brushing the edge of Ray’s keyboard. The desk is too small for this, barely three feet wide, some cheap corporate laminate with a wobbly drawer, but they don’t seem to care. If anything, they like it. Like it’s beneath them. Like Ray is. They’re watching him now, like a bored cat watching a mouse breathe. Their voice drops.

“Up.”

Ray blinks. “S—sorry?”

Gerard doesn’t move. Just repeats, calmly: “Up.”

Ray’s legs don’t want to work. His whole body’s confused, caught between shame and heat and the sheer disbelief of what’s happening. His fingers hover over his mouse, pretending this is normal, that this is work.

“I said up, Mr. Toro.”

He finally pushes back from the desk. His chair squeaks. The distance between them closes fast because the cubicle is tiny, because Gerard’s skirt hem is already brushing the edge of his keyboard, because the air between them is hot and full of tension. Ray stands. Tall. Unsteady. Hands twitching awkwardly by his sides. He’s hard. So hard. And trying his best not to make it obvious. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting next. Maybe Gerard will stand too. Maybe they’ll laugh and walk away and say this was some kind of performance review test—

“Down.”

Ray blinks. “What—?”

Gerard cocks their head. “Don’t make me say it again.” Their gloved hand lifts lazily, gestures downward. “Knees, baby. Let’s go.”

Ray stands there for a second, his brain’s buffering. His face is flaming. His heart is punching his ribs. It’s not that he doesn’t understand… it’s that he can’t believe it. But Gerard’s looking at him with that same calm, faintly amused expression. Like this is part of his job, obeying them is natural.

“You’ve been so good,” they murmur, voice warm. “You stayed late. You did the work no one else wanted to do. You didn’t complain.” A pause. A smile. “Good boys deserve rewards.”

Ray swallows hard and he sinks. Slowly. Awkwardly. First to a crouch, then knees on the tiles, fingers curling into the edge of the desk for balance. He’s looking up now, looking at Gerard. And Gerard looks divine like this. Crossed legs. Stockings stretched smooth. Skirt hiked just enough to be suggestive. Their expression is pleased. “That’s better,” they purr. “Isn’t it?”

Ray nods, he doesn’t trust his voice anymore. Gerard tilts their head, considering him for a long moment like they’re deciding what to do with a new toy. Their gloved fingers tap gently against the edge of the desk.

“You look good down there,” they say simply.

Ray’s hands are shaking. His glasses have slipped lower on his nose and he can’t even fix them without making it worse. Gerard leans forward just enough for the scent of their wine and perfume to hit again—intoxicating. Ray kneels awkwardly, hands braced on the edge of the desk. His pulse is in his ears. The room feels warmer now.

“Hm.” Gerard shifts slightly on the desk, adjusting their weight, letting one heel dangle off their foot. “Spread your legs.”

Ray blinks up at them. “I—I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.”

His fingers twitch on the desk. “But… ma’am, I’m—why—?”

That was the wrong move. Gerard’s smile disappears. They lean forward suddenly:

“Are you disobeying me?”

Ray’s stomach flips. “No—no, I just—I don’t understand—”

“I didn’t ask you to understand,” Gerard snaps, teeth bared in something too smooth to be a snarl. “I asked you to do what you’re told.”

Ray’s breath catches, his cheeks flame hot. He hesitates for one second too long… until Gerard adds: “Now.”

He flinches.

“Now, boy.”

Ray does it, he shifts his knees apart on the floor, wide and awkward, thighs trembling slightly from the tension in his gut. His arms fall to his lap automatically, like he’s trying to cover himself, but—

“Hands on your thighs.”

He obeys, palms flat against his pants. His boner is painfully obvious now, straining in his slacks, pressed up awkwardly by the angle of his legs. He doesn’t dare look up at Gerard. He’s humiliated. Burning. Shaking. Something sharp and slow presses up under him. It takes a second to register what it is. He glances down. Gerard’s heel. Glossy. Black. Resting directly between his thighs, angled up against the thick, obvious heat of his cock. Ray whimpers before he can stop it.

“Oh,” Gerard breathes, feigning innocence. “You poor thing.”

They flex their foot just slightly, the heel shifting higher. Pressing deeper. Ray’s hips jerk forward barely, his body is trying to chase it without permission. “So sensitive,” Gerard coos. “You’d think no one’s ever touched you before.”

Ray’s voice cracks. “They—haven’t.”

That stops them for a second. Then they smile. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head. His thighs twitch. His back is tight with the effort of not rutting against the shoe currently pressed up against his dick.

“You mean to tell me,” Gerard says, smirking like Christmas came early, “you’re this obedient, this polite, this hardworking—” Their foot rolls up slightly. Ray chokes. “And no one’s ever claimed you? Touched you? Gotten you off?”

Ray’s whole body is trembling now. “No, ma’am.”

“You’re a fucking gift.” They press forward, heel digging just slightly up into the seam of his slacks, and Ray gasps, hips stuttering like he might fucking cum from that alone.

“You like that?” Gerard says sweetly, tilting their head. “You like my heel on your cock, baby?”

Ray nods, ashamed, jaw trembling.

“Use your words.”

“I—yes. Yes, ma’am.”

Gerard laughs. This is the most fun they’ve had all month. “Good boy.” And they press just a little harder. Ray’s knees are starting to ache. The shitty office tile is digging into him, but he doesn’t dare move at all, because Gerard’s heel is still planted right between his legs, pressing up against the stiff, throbbing bulge in his pants.

Every time they flex, just slightly, the pressure spikes, makes Ray’s hips jolt forward in a way that’s humiliating even to himself. His cheeks are bright red, ears burning, jaw clenched so tight he thinks something might crack. And Gerard just watches. Their legs are crossed casually at the ankle, like they’re just lounging during lunch, like they’re not actively grinding the sharp point of a stiletto heel against a desperate, painfully hard employee on the floor.

“Mr. Toro…” they say softly, almost thoughtful. “You really are so perverted.”

Ray lets out a tiny, choked sound. His hands grip his own thighs.

“On your knees in the office,” Gerard murmurs, nudging their foot up slightly, so the curve of the sole pushes flat and hard against the weight of him. “Getting hard from my shoes. You like this that much, baby?”

Ray shakes his head.

“Don’t lie to me.”

His hips twitch again.

“You’re soaked,” they say, low and delighted. “I can feel it. You’re making a mess in your slacks just from my foot.”

Ray can’t breathe. His vision is going a little blurry from the heat in his face, from the way shame and arousal are clashing so violently in his chest.

“You like being stepped on?” Gerard asks sweetly.

Ray makes a pitiful noise in his throat, tries to shake his head again… but it’s useless. Gerard doesn’t need confirmation. They can see it, he’s soaked through. “Want me to take my heels off?” They tilt their head, lips curved in that wicked little smile. “Or is it more fun like this?”

Ray is a wreck. His mouth won’t work. His forehead’s damp. His chest is rising in shallow, panicked breaths. He glances nervously toward the elevator hallway—they’re tucked behind a cubicle wall, sure, but if anyone comes in—

“Worried someone might see you?” Gerard hums. “Worried someone’ll catch you with your little boner pressing up against my shoe like a dog?”

Ray’s eyes squeeze shut. He’s never been this embarrassed. He’s never been this turned on.

“You look pathetic,” Gerard whispers, and it sounds almost loving. Their foot presses up harder. “Do you know that? You’re blushing like a virgin and soaking through your pants and you’re still not asking me to stop.”

Ray shakes his head, a broken little motion, and gasps, “Please—”

“Please what, sweetheart?” They draw their heel down the length of his cock, so gently it feels like fire. “Please stop? Please step harder? Please jerk you off with my toes?”

Ray lets out a full-body shudder. Gerard breathes, smiling wide now, eyes heavy-lidded. “I knew you were quiet, but I didn’t know you were this easy.”

Their foot lifts for just a second. Ray lets out a shaky breath—relief? Disappointment? Both? But then Gerard brings their heel back against him, firmly. Punishing. Teasing. “You really enjoy being played with? Getting ruined by my feet like some little perv?”

Ray chokes out: “Y-yes.”

“Say it again.”

“Y–yes. I—I like it.”

“Tsk,” Gerard clicks their tongue once again. “You’re lucky I don’t film you.”

Ray whines, he’s leaking. He can feel it. Through the fabric. Slick. Hot. Mortifying.

“You’re gonna cum from this, aren’t you?” Gerard drags the pointed toe of their heel up slowly again. “You’re really gonna cum just from my fucking shoe?”

Ray’s fingers twitch once, twice—then they move. He doesn’t even realize it at first, doesn’t think. He just reaches out, both hands come up and grab Gerard’s calf, the sheer of their stocking, the smoothness of skin beneath it. His grip is gentle at first. Hesitant. But needy. So needy. Gerard stills, their heel eases off the pressure just slightly.

“Oh, poor baby.”

Ray’s head drops forward in shame. Gerard slides one gloved hand along the desk, curling their fingers under the edge, the other drifting lazily toward Ray’s cheek.

“Can’t even help yourself now, huh?”

Ray’s hands are shaking against their leg, holding it.

“Hard as a rock, grabbing at my legs like a little puppy.” Their toe nudges him again, heel trailing slow across the sensitive bulge in his pants. Just enough to make him twitch. To make his grip tighten around their calf. “You wanna be my lapdog?”

Ray stares down, eyes glassy. “I—I—”

“C’mon, Mr. Toro.” Their voice softens. “You’ve got your hands on me already. Why don’t you show me how grateful you are?”

Ray whimpers again. He leans forward a little, instinctive, head still down—like some pathetic, blushing idiot.

“C’mon,” Gerard coos. “Kiss up my legs. Be sweet. You wanna cum, don’t you?”

Ray moans under his breath—barely audible—and nods.

“Then be good for me.”

And he does, he starts slow. Soft, shaking kisses pressed into the top of Gerard’s foot, the curve of their ankle, up along the seam of their stocking. His lips are dry, nervous, reverent. He doesn’t know how to do this—he’s never done something like this—but he wants to. God, he wants to. He trails up toward their shin, hands grasping the back of their calf. His glasses are tilted. His curls fall forward into his face. He’s breathing heavy, flushed, humiliated, clinging and kissing and trembling with every inch.

Gerard watches from above. Perfectly still. Their lips are parted slightly, their smile sharp. One hand on the desk, the other drifting lazily into Ray’s hair, pushing it back to get a better view of the mess they’ve made. “That’s it. Just like that.”

Ray makes a low sound in his throat and kisses higher, near the bend of Gerard’s knee. He’s completely gone. Gerard’s fingers stay in Ray’s hair. They stay spread wide against his curls, petting slow and absent. Their thumb drags lightly over his scalp. Once. Twice. Ray’s mouth is warm against their inner thigh now. He’s worked his way up without really realizing it—slow, reverent kisses pressed into stocking, into bare skin where the hem of the skirt has ridden up. His lips tremble every time he breathes. His shoulders are tight. He doesn’t look up unless they tell him to.

“Aw,” Gerard murmurs, soft and amused, fingers still stroking his hair. Ray’s mouth is dry. His cock aches, pressed painfully against the fabric of his slacks, leaking from the closeness, from the scent of them, from the way they’re touching him. “You’re doing such a good job,” they continue lightly. Their nails scrape gently at his scalp, just enough to make him shiver. “That deserves… recognition.”

“Don’t you think?” Gerard asks.

Ray nods immediately. Embarrassing. His forehead brushes their thigh and he freezes, mortified—but they just laugh softly.

“You’re precious.” They say fondly. Ray feels his face burn hotter. Kissing his fucking manager’s legs, hard out of his mind, sweat damp at his collar. This is unreal.

“You know,” Gerard goes on, thoughtful now, eyes tracing over him, “managers usually show appreciation with raises. Bonuses.” A pause. “Promotions.”

Ray’s eyes flick up, just for a second, hopeful and panicked all at once. Gerard smiles like they caught something. “Would you like that, Mr. Toro?” they ask, voice sweet. “A raise?”

He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

“A better office?” they add. “Nicer hours? More responsibility?”

Ray’s hands curl into the fabric of their skirt without him meaning to. He loosens his grip immediately, ashamed, fingers shaking. “I—I don’t—” His voice cracks. He clears his throat. “I don’t know.”

Gerard’s hand pauses in his hair. “Oh?” they say gently. The silence stretches. Thick. Ray’s chest rises and falls too fast. He can feel how hard he is, how obvious it must be, how ridiculous he looks kneeling here with his mouth hovering so close to them, waiting. Gerard tilts their head. “Then tell me,” they say quietly. “What do you want, Mr. Toro?”

The question hangs there. Ray’s brain goes completely blank. He doesn’t know how to answer. He doesn’t know what’s allowed. What’s too much. What will disappoint them. His throat tightens. He feels small. Exposed. Desperate. So instead—he leans forward. Just a little. He presses his face into their thigh, cheek resting against warm skin, nuzzling instinctively, it’s the only safe thing he knows how to do. His lips brush the inside of their leg. A soft, helpless motion. His breath ghosts over them. He stays there, frozen, embarrassed beyond words, his cock throbs.

“Oh,” Gerard breathes. Their fingers curl tighter in his hair now—not harsh, but unmistakable. They look down at him with something dark and pleased in their eyes. “That’s what you want?” they murmur. “You don’t even know how to ask.”

“You’re so fucking good,” they say softly, stroking his hair again. “Just waiting.” Their thumb tilts his head slightly, not forcing—guiding. “Worked up and still trying to be polite.”

Ray’s hands slide to their knees, gripping lightly for balance. He nods against them. Can’t stop himself. Gerard hums, pleased. “I like that.” A pause. “I like when my employees know their place.” Their free hand slides slowly, up the inside of their thigh, right where Ray’s mouth is hovering. They don’t touch him yet. They just let him feel how close he is.

“Mm… say, while you’re down there…” Gerard hums lazily. Their fingers drift idly down Ray’s neck again, smoothing over the heat of his skin. “Could you take off my heels?” A soft tap of their shoe nudges gently against Ray’s chest. “Since you’re quite close.”

Ray moves, no hesitation. Embarrassed out of his mind, yes, but obedient. Desperate. Eager to please. His hands shake a little as he reaches forward. His fingers curl around the arch of Gerard’s heel, where the shoe hugs their foot. The black glossy leather is still warm from their body. A little scuffed at the toe, his fingertips brush over the base of the stiletto. He steadies his grip, and with careful reverence, he eases the heel down.

He sees their foot. Black stockings, sheer and dark, stretched tight over pale skin, with the faintest shimmer in the dim office light. The pad of Gerard’s foot presses softly into his palm, and through the fabric he can see everything—every subtle flex of muscle, every delicate bone, the soft slope of their arch, the elegant spread of their toes. The seam runs neatly along the bottom, vanishing beneath the curve of their ankle. There’s something obscene about how pretty it is.

Gerard watches him, amused. “You’re staring,” they purr. Ray jerks his gaze downward, face blazing, and reaches for the second shoe. Same care. Same trembling hands. He slides it off slowly, letting Gerard’s other foot settle into his palm, light and perfect and obscene in its delicacy. It feels… wrong. Unfair, almost, that something so graceful could be touching someone like him. He sets the second heel gently on the floor beside the first, careful not to let them clatter. He stays kneeling, hands on his thighs again, eyes low. His slacks are still painfully tight. He’s so hard he feels dizzy.

Gerard shifts lazily on the desk, uncrossing their legs just enough to stretch out. One stockinged foot slides forward. Presses gently—casually—right back against the bulge in Ray’s pants. Just resting there. Idle. Unmoving. Ray jolts, his breath catches. His whole body tenses. The weight of their foot is nothing—but it’s everything. Gerard hums faintly, they’re relaxing into it.

“Mmm. That feels better.”

Ray makes a pathetic sound in his throat. Gerard doesn’t press harder. They don’t need to. The contact is enough. The sheer intimacy of it. The black stocking dragging slowly with every twitch of Ray’s hips, the pressure feather-light and maddening.

“I could keep you like this,” Gerard murmurs. “Kneeling. Serving. You’d never complain, would you?” They flex their foot again, the ball of it rubbing slow across his cock through the fabric. His thighs twitch. His hips jerk forward a little without permission.

“Aw.” Their voice is so gentle it makes it worse. “You’re not even trying to hide how much you like this.”

There’s sweat cooling at the nape of Ray’s neck and he can feel how ruined he looks, kneeling like this, red-faced and aching, Gerard’s foot resting neatly between his legs.

“You want more?” Gerard asks sweetly. “Or is that enough for tonight?”

Ray doesn’t know what to say. He’s silent. Paralyzed. Embarrassed to his soul. So again… like instinct… he leans forward. He nuzzles their thigh and stays there. That’s all he knows how to do anymore. Gerard strokes his hair again, gentle and amused. “Good boy.”

Gerard’s foot shifts. Just slightly. The arch curves against the swell of Ray’s cock again—soft pressure. Not enough to get him off. Just enough to make him ache. Ray gasps, his thighs tense. Gerard hums low in their throat.

“Mr. Toro…”
“You gave into this so quickly.”
“Quicker than I expected.”

Their foot glides… slowly, maddening along the length of his bulge again. Ray shudders visibly, helpless. His fingers curl against his thighs.

“You seriously that into me?” Gerard’s voice is teasing now, light and curious. “Tell me…” Another faint press. Their toe traces the outline of his cock, lazy. “What do you fantasize about?”

Ray doesn’t know how to reply. He couldn’t if he tried. There is a literal foot in black stockings resting directly on his fully hard, leaking dick, and Gerard’s asking him to open his fucking soul. To confess. To admit how far gone he really is. I mean, to be fair, he has fantasized about Gerard. More than once. More than he’ll ever admit. How could he not?

Gerard in the office, every day, gliding through the halls like they own every fluorescent bulb, every broken printer, every overworked assistant. The way they talk… low and smooth, always with a faint threat hidden under every “thank you.” The way they sit in meetings, legs crossed just so, twirling a pen between gloved fingers. The heels. The skirts. The silk blouses. The perfume that shouldn’t be legal. And they’re never even trying. That’s the worst part. Gerard doesn’t strut or pose or tease intentionally. They just are. All dark lipstick and perfect posture. Even the way they sip coffee is seductive. Even the way they flip through emails.

Ray’s seen it. He’s watched it. The worst is when they look at him across the office floor. Just a passing glance over sunglasses, nothing more. But Ray feels it for the rest of the day. It’s humiliating. He hates himself for it. For how many times he’s stolen looks. For how many nights he’s jerked off in the shower thinking about the sound of their heels, or the curve of their waist under that pencil skirt. For how many times he’s imagined being called into their office and told to kneel. Beg. Serve.

And now he’s here. On the floor. Gerard’s foot pressing lightly against his cock. Asking him to confess the fantasies that got him into this mess in the first place. Ray wants to die. He’s too shy. Too overwhelmed. Too goddamn hard. So he lowers his head again, shame burning red across his cheeks, and presses his lips to the inside of their thigh. Soft. Silent. A pitiful attempt at a response.

Gerard smiles like they already know. They let him sit like that, kneel like that, for a long indulgent second. Their foot shifts again, stroking faintly along his cock, watching him squirm. Still waiting. They hum. “That’s okay,” they say softly. “You don’t have to say it out loud.” They lean forward, resting their elbow on one knee, chin in hand, studying him with lazy satisfaction.

“I can see it all over your face.” The black stocking stretches faintly as they shift their ankle, the fabric whispering softly against Ray’s slacks. Every tiny movement sends a jolt straight through him. He’s trembling now, full-body, barely-contained. His breaths come short and uneven, chest hitching like he’s fighting something sharp and overwhelming. Gerard watches. Attentive.

“What’s that face for?”

“You gonna cry, sweetie?” Gerard continues, amused now. Their foot drags agonizingly across the length of his cock again. “Such a pervert.”

Ray whimpers, it slips out before he can stop it. Gerard leans back slightly on the desk, posture relaxed, completely in control. Their foot never leaves him. Instead, it settles—pressing down just enough that Ray’s knees threaten to give out.

“Go on,” they coax. “Undo your belt.”

Ray’s hands twitch in his lap. His fingers curl. Uncurl. He doesn’t look up. His face is burning. His heart is pounding so hard. “I—” His voice cracks. He swallows. “I shouldn’t.”

Gerard laughs softly. “Oh, honey.” They tilt their foot again, pressing. “You’re already on your knees for me. Let’s not pretend you care about shouldn’t anymore.”

Ray’s breath turns shallow. His eyes shine behind his glasses—wet, embarrassed, overwhelmed.

“You want my foot, right?” Gerard says gently. “You want it on you.” A pause. “You want more than that.” Their toes flex slightly, the stocking brushing hot and firm against him, and Ray makes a helpless sound that’s halfway to a sob.

“C’mon, boy,” Gerard murmurs. “Be good.”

That does it. Ray’s hands move, shaking fingers fumble at his belt buckle. He can barely see what he’s doing… his vision’s blurred, chest tight, breath uneven. The click of the buckle sounds impossibly loud in the quiet cubicle. He undoes it. Then stops. Hands hovering. Waiting. Gerard hums approvingly. “There you go.” Their fingers drift back into his hair, stroking slow and grounding. “Such a good listener.” Their foot presses down again, heavier this time—claiming.

Ray lets out a soft, broken whine and bows forward slightly, forehead almost touching their knee, belt undone, pants straining, dignity completely gone. Gerard just enjoys the view, watching him squirm. Watching the belt hang open. Watching Ray fight not to grind helplessly into their stocking-clad foot like some stupid, horny animal.

“Underwear next.” Their voice is light, expectant, like they’re giving him a mundane task. “C’mon, sweetheart. We don’t have all night.”

Ray’s hands move on instinct. Thoughtless. He slips his thumbs under the waistband of his briefs and slides them down. Shaky. Awkward. His cock springs free—flushed, leaking, twitching with tension. And god, he can feel the air hit it. Cool and humiliating. The dim glow from the monitor flickers faint blue across his thighs, casting shadows that make everything feel dirtier. He’s exposed now.

“Oh my god,” Gerard giggles. “You are starved, huh?”

Ray wants to fucking die. He bows his head and attempts to fix his glasses, letting out a soft, mortified whimper caught in his throat.

“You sure you’re not a virgin?” Gerard exhales. “Because this?” They gesture vaguely at his flushed, trembling, aching cock. “This looks like virgin behavior.”

Ray lets out a shaky, high breath. He’s twitching. His dick is so hard it fucking hurts. Gerard’s foot glides back down—this time bare stocking against bare cock. The pressure is feather-light. But it’s contact. It’s Gerard’s fucking foot, black nylon soft and slick against the pulsing head of his dick. He can’t think. He can’t breathe. His hips jerk before he even realizes it, chasing the touch. Gerard slides their foot along him again. Slow. Down the length. Heel to tip. Then back up.

Ray didn’t even know he was into feet. Seriously. He’d never really thought about it. Never gone looking. It was never even on his radar. He liked hands. Kisses. Maybe the occasional dirty thought about being touched by someone in control. But feet? No. That wasn’t his thing. And now he’s kneeling in his cubicle, half-naked, dick bare, flushed, and whining as Gerard Way… his manager… jerks him off with one stocking-clad foot. He’s soaked. He can see the precum smeared against the black nylon. Slick. Sticky. Proof.

He still wants more. He’s already whining. Pathetic, high-pitched little noises he can’t stop. Every time Gerard presses a little firmer, every time their arch drags over his tip, Ray whines like he’s begging and doesn’t even know what for. His hips buck—just once. Reflexive. Gerard doesn’t even tease him for it. They just smile.

“You poor, poor baby boy.”
“You didn’t even know you’d let someone do this to you, huh?”
“Didn’t know you’d let me?”

Ray shakes his head helplessly. His hands are hovering, he doesn’t know what to grab. His own thighs? The floor? Gerard’s ankle? He’s not in control of anything anymore. Least of all his body.

“Mm,” Gerard hums. “You’re already whining for more.” They press a little harder. The ball of their foot strokes up, slow and careful.

Ray lifts his eyes. Hesitantly. It hurts to make eye contact right now. His cheeks are blotchy. Tear-streaked. Eyes glassy and wide behind fogged-up glasses. His curls cling to his forehead with sweat. He’s flushed all the way down his neck. He looks wrecked. And worse… he knows what he looks like… pants open, dick out, cock twitching in the cold air as Gerard’s foot rolls over it slow and sweet. He’s been reduced to whimpering for friction, and now he’s got the audacity to look up.

Gerard looks back, all calm indulgence. Ray blinks, lashes damp, and for a second he sees them. The view from down here? It’s criminal. Gerard’s thighs are spread comfortably, draped in stockings and sin. Soft. Plush. The way they spill over the edge of the desk, relaxed, like they know Ray wants to bury his face there and cry. The shape of them, thick and full and grounding. Ray wants to live there. Drown there. Suffocate.

The trench coat is gone… he didn’t even see it fall. It’s somewhere on the floor, forgotten. Gerard’s white blouse is still buttoned, just barely, pulled taut across their chest and stomach in a way that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. The fabric clings to them like it’s fighting to hold on—strained at the belly, hugging the soft swell of their middle. The little dip of their navel. The slight crease at the waist. The faint, teasing outline of a belly roll under the fabric. Lovehandles.

Ray stares, his cock throbs. Because Gerard looks… so good. Not posed. Not filtered. Not trying. Just there. A little sloppy from the wine earlier. Blouse untucked. Tie loosened. Makeup smudged. Hair mussed from their own fingers. Round in all the ways Ray wants to grab and kiss and get lost in. He wants to bury his face in their thighs and sob. He wants to push his nose into their stomach and stay there forever. He wants to wrap his arms around their waist and beg for permission to cum like a fucking dog. But he can’t. Because he’ll cum just from doing that. And that would make him even more of a loser than he already is. Because he’s already getting off from a footjob. A footjob in the middle of his cubicle during overtime.

So he holds back. Barely. Keeps his eyes on Gerard’s thighs. His curves. The slight jiggle of movement every time their foot strokes up his shaft again. He reaches forward slowly. Shaking. Carefully. He brings both hands up to Gerard’s ankle. Fingertips brushing the curve of their stockinged leg. His grip is gentle. Tentative. He’s afraid if he grabs too hard, Gerard will stop.

Gerard’s foot pauses for half a second before they press down again. “You want to cum, don’t you?”

Ray nods—tiny, shame-filled.

“You want to cum just from my foot.”

He nods again. He can’t lie. Not anymore.

“That’s okay,” Gerard whispers. “Good boys don’t need complicated things.” Their foot strokes him again—slick now, soaked in his precum, gliding with easy, devastating rhythm. Ray whines, his grip on their ankle tightens. His hips twitch. His whole body is flushed and crumpling… just from Gerard’s curves, from their thighs, their belly, their foot pressing up against his cock.

Gerard keeps smiling. “All this,” their voice is rich with satisfaction. “From one foot.” Each stroke drags slick and warm now, stocking darkened where Ray’s ruined himself against it. The pressure is light, almost lazy, but it’s everything. Ray’s breathing is completely fucked—short, broken pulls of air like he’s been crying without sound. His grip on their ankle tightens, fingers curling into the nylon. His face is a mess. Eyes red and glassy. Tears clinging to his lashes, jaw trembling. His hips start to stutter forward, chasing every tiny movement.

“Ma’am—” he chokes, voice breaking.

They hum, amused, watching him fall apart. “Oh?” Another slow stroke. “That close already?”

Ray nods frantically, humiliated beyond words. His whole body is shaking now, thighs burning, stomach tight, chest hitching like he’s about to sob. He tries to hold it, tries not to embarrass himself further, but it’s useless. “Please—” he gasps, barely audible.

Gerard gives him just a couple more strokes. Ray then cries out as it hits him. His body jerks forward, hips bucking hard into their foot as he cums, warmth spilling fast and messy against the black stocking. His whole frame shudders, knees threatening to give, forehead dropping toward Gerard’s leg as he rides it out in helpless, breathless waves.

When it finally fades, he’s left panting. Shaking. Gerard looks down at him, pleased. “Tsk,” they say softly. “What a mess.”

Ray’s face burns even hotter. He can’t look up. He’s catching his breath, chest heaving, tears streaked down his cheeks. Gerard tilts their foot slightly, lifting it just enough to get his attention.

“Go on,” they murmur. “Thank my foot.”

Ray freezes. “…What?”

They smile wider. “C’mon.” Their foot nudges his chin. “You don’t get to make a mess like that and not say thank you.”

His throat tightens. Shame floods him—thick, suffocating. But he doesn’t hesitate for long. He leans forward, cheeks blazing, and presses a soft, reverent kiss to the top of their stockinged foot. Then another. Then one more… longer this time. “Thank you,” he whispers, barely audible. “Thank you… ma’am.”

Gerard laughs quietly, delighted. “Good,” they say, pulling their foot back and brushing his cheek with their toes once more, gentle and possessive. “That’s really good.” They straighten, smoothing their skirt, utterly composed again. Ray stays kneeling, breathing hard, spent.

Ray shifts forward just a little. Knees sore. Thighs still twitching from the aftershock. His cock is soft now, sensitive. But the tension hasn’t left his body. If anything, it’s worse, because now he’s full of adrenaline and shame and something else, something needier.

He clears his throat, quiet. “…Ma’am.” It’s barely more than a breath. His voice is shaky. Hoarse from gasping and panting like some ruined virgin two minutes ago. His head dips lower when he says it, he’s afraid the word alone might offend them.

Gerard doesn’t respond. Not immediately. They’re looking at their foot. The one he just came on. Still wearing the black stocking, now darkened and wet. The smear of it—hot and clinging, glossy under the dim light. Gerard clicks their tongue faintly.

“What a mess you made.” They lift their foot just slightly. Turn it. Observe.

Ray stares at the curve of their ankle. “…Ma’am.” This time they glance down. Just slightly. Their eyes flicker toward him, curious. “Can I…”

“Can I, uh—please you too?”

Gerard blinks. Then raises an eyebrow, amused.

“Oooh?”
“You always want to please, don’t you?”
“So hardworking.”

Ray’s face burns. He looks down immediately. Back to their ankle. His fingers are still curled lightly around it, he’s holding onto the only thing grounding him to earth.

Gerard hums thoughtfully. “I expected as much from you.” They lean back just slightly on the desk, foot still resting gently on his thigh now, dragging faint lines of cooling slick over him as they speak.

“Always volunteering.”
“Always offering help.”
“I knew there was something about you, Mr. Toro…”

Here they let their gaze trail down his body again. Soft. Leisurely. His glasses are fogged. His curls are a mess. His collar’s skewed. Tie loosened. Cock half-soft, resting awkwardly against him. Face wet. He looks nothing like the overworked, quiet little tech he was at 5 p.m.

Gerard is thinking, because honestly… they have checked him out before. Nothing obvious. Never lingering. But… they’ve noticed. The way his sleeves bunch up at the elbows when he’s pushing something under a desk. The way his curls fall in front of his eyes when he’s staring at code. The way he fidgets during meetings—clicking a pen or tapping his leg. The way he blushes when spoken to directly. Gerard had wondered, once or twice, what he’d look like flustered. Turns out, the answer is: perfect. He looks fucking delicious.

Gerard smiles to themselves. “You’re lucky I like eager boys.”

Ray lifts his eyes again. Hopeful. Gerard leans in, just a little. “So what are you offering?” they ask. “What do you want to do for me, Mr. Toro?”

Ray’s hands are still on Gerard’s ankle. His mouth is dry. His whole body’s screaming to move, do something, but he’s too nervous to speak. But then he looks up. At Gerard’s thighs. Their stomach. The soft roll under their blouse. The way they’re sitting—spread slightly, heel brushing against the floor, skirt rucked up just enough to show the sheer top of the stocking. Their blouse is tight. Their skin is flushed.

And Ray wants. So he tries.

“Can I…”
“…can I kiss you?”

A pause. Silence thickens. Gerard blinks. Then tilts their head, smiling softly. “Oh, sweetie,” they coo, voice melting. “Of course.”

Ray exhales, moving forward slowly. He starts at their ankle. Nervous. Gentle. A small kiss, barely more than a brush of his lips. Then another, higher up. The stocking clings to their skin as his mouth warms it. Each kiss grows more reverent. Needier. He presses into them, up along the curve of their calf. Their knee. Upward still. His hands drift, trembling, to their thighs. And he spreads them carefully, watching their face the whole time, waiting for any flicker of protest. There is none.

Gerard hums. Lazy. Pleased. They shift slightly on the desk to get comfortable, planting their palms behind them as they lean back just enough to let him in. Their thighs spread wider under his hands—soft and thick, the pressure of them giving way just a little as he kneels between.

Ray nearly dies. They’re squishy. He had fantasized about this. Not in words. Not even in images. Just feelings. The thought of sinking his fingers into someone soft. Pressing kisses into warmth and fullness and curve. But this? This is better. Gerard’s thighs are thick. Plush. Warm. The kind of softness that invites worship. The black stocking digs in at the top of their thighs just enough to leave a faint indentation and Ray’s mouth is right there. He stares, wide-eyed. Sweating. Aching again already. His lips press a little higher. Inner thigh now. Gerard’s skin is warm through the nylon, and when he kisses it, his nose brushes the softness of their belly where it peeks from under the blouse.

Gerard watches with a tilt to their head. Eyes half-lidded, arms behind them, letting Ray take in the view while they just enjoy being adored. Then they speak. Playful. “Oh, Mr. Toro?”

Ray jerks slightly, lips hovering over their thigh. Gerard smiles down at him. “What are you doing down there?” They shift, the desk creaking faintly under their weight as they roll their hips just slightly forward. Their thighs press around his hands, soft and full, and Ray twitches.

“At least tell me,” Gerard purrs. “Hm?”

“What is it you want so badly?”

Ray whimpers. Because he doesn’t know how to say it. That he wants to put his mouth on them. That he wants to kiss every inch of their thighs, their belly, their cunt, their soft lower stomach, the stretchmarks, the warmth, the curves. That he wants to live under their skirt like it’s his full-time job. That he wants to press his face against them and thank them. But he never knows how to speak for himself in these types of situations. So instead? He kisses higher, nuzzles closer. His nose presses into the crease of their thigh, hands going to their hips. Fingers brushing the hem of the skirt. He doesn’t dare go further without permission. But he wants to.

“You’re so well-mannered,” Gerard murmurs, one hand moving forward now, brushing his hair back from his forehead. Their fingers card through his curls again, tender. “You going to keep being a good boy and ask properly?”

“Please,” he whispers. It barely makes it out of his throat. His whole face is red. He lifts his gaze, eyes glassy, voice cracking.

“Please can I—”
“Can I go down on you, ma’am?”

Silence.

“Ohhh,” Gerard sits up a little straighter. “That’s what you want?”

Ray nods quickly, like he’s afraid they’ll say no. Gerard laughs indulgently. Their hand strokes through his curls again—palm warm, fingers slow. “You really are something else, Mr. Toro.” They shift on the desk. Move slowly, gracefully. Adjusting. Their thighs spread wider, the desk creaking beneath them. The skirt rides up further, bunched now, revealing the top of their stockings, the soft give of their hips, the plush curve of their belly, and their panties. Black. Lacy. Cut high on the hips, hugging the softness of them perfectly. Damp at the center. Thin. Clinging. Barely covering anything.

Ray’s breath hitches hard. His eyes drop and stay there. Gerard leans back on their hands, relaxed now. They glance down at him with calm authority. “You want these off?” they ask, cocking their head.

Ray nods quickly again. “Y–yes, please.”

Gerard hums, and then, casually, they hook their thumbs into the waistband and begin to pull them down. They lift their hips just slightly to shimmy the fabric down… over their thighs, past their knees, down to their ankles. The panties drop soundlessly to the floor. They don’t even look at where they land. Just shift again, letting their legs fall open, thighs soft and spread, sex bared to the warm office air and the very stunned man kneeling in front of them. “There,” they say softly. “Easy access.”

Ray stares. He can’t help it. The stretch of their thighs. The heat of their skin. The way the soft of their belly rounds forward just slightly over the curve of their mound. Everything about them makes him ache. Not just in his cock, but in his chest. In his teeth. He licks his lips, shy. Glances up once more.

Gerard nods once. “Go ahead, sweetheart.” Their thighs are spread wide. The skirt is rucked up, blouse tight across their belly. They’re leaned back on their hands, watching with an expression somewhere between intrigued and deeply smug.

They’re expecting something timid. A few shy kisses. A tentative lap. Because Ray is, after all, a trembling, weepy mess on his knees. He’s flushed and quiet and shaking. And he asked for permission.

But then he reaches up and he touches their hips. Hands steady now. Confident. Warm. He looks up one last time, eyes shining, and then leans in. Though, Ray knows what he’s doing. His tongue starts slow, broad, warm licks from bottom to top, dragging through Gerard’s folds like he’s savoring it. No teasing. No fumbling. Just pressure and rhythm and intent. He mouths at them, hands firm at their hips, thumbs brushing the softness of their stomach, fingers pressing into the meat of their thighs.

Gerard lets out a sound they absolutely weren’t planning to make. Because Ray’s tongue is focused. He dips it inside gently, then back up, circling, licking slow around their clit. No sloppiness. No hesitation. Just practiced, reverent hunger. He knows where to go. When to slow down. When to hold still and just suck softly, then pull back and lick up again. Gerard grips the edge of the desk. Their thighs twitch slightly.

Ray glances up through his lashes, mouth locked to them, and groans softly against their pussy like he’s in heaven. Like the taste of them has short-circuited every rational part of his brain. His nose presses into their skin. His jaw works slow and strong. His lips suckle around them. Gerard’s stomach tightens. Their head tips back. They blink down at him—a little shocked, honestly. “You’ve… done this before,” they breathe, a little too late.

Ray hums low in his throat, tongue swirling, and the vibration makes Gerard’s thighs jerk again. “F-fuck—” They weren’t expecting this. Not like this. Not from him. Not from the shaking, blushing employee who was just crying from a footjob. And yet here he is, mouth buried between their legs, devouring them with purpose.

He shifts them slightly—adjusts them. His palms slide beneath their thighs, lifting gently, guiding them wider so he can fit deeper. He presses them open. He moans softly into their cunt as he licks up again, flicking over their clit just right. Gerard gasps. Their hips twitch. One heel drags along the carpet.

“M-Mr. Toro—”

Ray doesn’t stop. He slides one hand up slowly, palm warm against the curve of their belly, thumb stroking just beneath their waistband. His mouth stays steady. He drinks them in. His tongue glides, circles, presses, sucks—and it’s clear now that this isn’t the work of desperation. This is the slow, confident worship of a man who has absolutely fantasized about this moment in painful, intimate detail and is now doing everything in his power to make sure it’s worth the wait.

Gerard bites their lip. Their thighs twitch again. Their breath gets uneven. It’s not loud. Not dramatic. Just a sharp, involuntary inhale that punches out of them when Ray’s tongue presses exactly where it shouldn’t, devastatingly precise. Their fingers curl hard into the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening as their body betrays them in tiny, uncontrollable ways. Because Ray is too good at this. His mouth moves with intention. He knows when to flatten his tongue and when to narrow it, when to linger and when to pull back just enough to make it worse. He hums softly as he works, the vibration traveling straight through them, and Gerard’s thighs snap shut around his head without permission.

“Oh—fuck—”

They clamp around him, thick and strong, trapping his face there like a reflex. Ray groans into them, muffled and needy, hands tightening instinctively at their hips. Gerard curses under their breath and forces their legs back open with shaking hands. “No—no, don’t—” They laugh breathlessly, half-lost already. “Shit. You can’t—”

But Ray doesn’t stop. His hands roam with more confidence than he lets himself have anywhere else. He looks beautiful like this… hair a mess, glasses crooked, mouth glistening, eyes dark and focused. That’s the real problem. Because Ray is hot. Not in a polished, effortless way—but in a raw, earnest, hungry way that sneaks up on you. Broad shoulders hunched between their legs. Strong hands. Mouth talented enough to make their thoughts dissolve. He looks like he’s meant to be there, kneeling, worshipping, losing himself just as much as they are.

Gerard’s head tips back again. Their throat is exposed. Their blouse rides up another inch as their stomach tightens and relaxes in waves. Their hips start to rock despite themselves… tiny, unconscious movements chasing Ray’s mouth.

“Jesus,” they murmur, voice wrecked. “You—fuck—you really know what you’re doing.”

Ray groans softly in response and changes rhythm, he heard it and took it as encouragement. His tongue presses firmer now, then eases, then circles again, slow and intentional. He drags his mouth up just enough to breathe and then dives back in, nose brushing, lips working, absolutely devoted.

Gerard’s composure is hanging by a thread. Their thighs tremble. Their toes curl. Their grip on the desk tightens and loosens as they ride the edge, suspended in that warm, hazy bliss where thoughts scatter and all that exists is sensation. Heat pools low in their belly—threatening. They’re trying so hard not to lose it. Not to completely lose their shit in front of their employee. But it’s hard when he’s right there. When he knows exactly where to lick. When he sounds so needy, so desperate to please, and looks up at them every now and then like he’s checking if he’s doing well.

Gerard exhales a shaky laugh, half-delirious. “God, Toro… if you keep that up…”

They don’t finish the sentence. Honestly, Gerard has been turned on since they walked in. It started the moment they saw Ray slouched in his cubicle, bathed in the sterile glow of a half-dead monitor, curls tucked behind one ear. The way he’s fucking unaware of just how good he looked in the dark.

Gerard’s head stays against the wall of the cubicle, thighs trembling. Ray’s mouth moves with ruthless precision, tongue stroking deep and up. The way he flicks over their clit and then sucks so gently, then flattens his tongue again for slow, deep laps—

“F-fuck, Ray—” They reach down, grabbing his hair and fisting it, finally losing their composure. “Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking—” Their voice cracks. Their whole body arches, thighs closing again around his head for just a second before they force them open wide. Ray groans low against their cunt, pressing in harder. Moaning into them like he’s high. His nose brushes their clit.

Gerard is blissed the fuck out. They can’t think. Their stomach is tensing. Their thighs won’t stop shaking. They’re grinding now—can’t help it—hips rocking into his mouth, chasing that slick heat that’s been threatening to boil over since Ray kissed their fucking foot.

He’s got them on the edge. Right there. Their chest heaves. Their skin feels like it’s drenched with sweat. Their foot kicks once, aimless. Ray hums into them. The vibration punches straight through Gerard’s core. “Shit—shit—” It takes just a couple more seconds. A deeper press of his tongue. A final suck. A moan from him that sounds like he’s the one about to cum. Gerard squirts… warm, wet, fucking devastating. It spills out in a messy, gushing rush against Ray’s mouth, their thighs, the edge of the desk. It soaks the hem of their skirt. Splashes Ray’s chin, his cheeks, his goddamn glasses. The sound they make is absolutely wrecked—a sharp, broken cry, equal parts shock and release.

“Oh my—fuck—Ray—!” Their hips grind forward, uncontrollable. Their thighs lock again, trembling around his head as their hands claw into his curls. Ray stays buried, taking it. Gerard’s vision whites out for a second. Their legs won’t stop twitching. Their foot knocks over a water bottle. Their hand nearly smacks the damn keyboard off. The desk creaks under them, drenched.

For a long moment, there’s no noise. Gerard breathes hard through their nose, blouse clinging to their chest, tie askew, lipstick long gone. Their stockings are soaked. They slowly loosen their grip on Ray’s hair, fingers sliding out of his curls like they’re coming back to their body inch by inch. They blink down at him. Down at the disaster that is their spread thighs, the sopping wet mess they’ve left dripping onto the floor. Ray’s chair is practically splattered. His keyboard was so close to getting absolutely fucking ruined.

Gerard exhales and sits up. Brushes their hair off their damp forehead. They’re trying to collect themselves. But fuck. They just squirted all over the floor of their junior employee’s cubicle while he moaned into their cunt. And they don’t care. The mess? Whatever. The floor? Replaceable. HR? Not their problem. But what they do care about? Is Ray. Ray, who’s just now leaning back slightly, cheeks flushed, lips shiny, the curve of his mouth pink and open and utterly devoted. Ray, who quietly takes off his fogged-up glasses and sets them beside them on the desk and then looks up at them like he’s waiting for something.

And he is. He’s waiting for praise. Gerard lets their gaze drift down—slowly. Appreciating the view. The mussed curls. The sweat along his brow. His pants still undone. They smile. “You did so well, baby.”

Ray blinks like he might cry again. His shoulders drop in the tiniest exhale of relief.

“Better than I expected, honestly.”
“That mouth of yours should be illegal.”

Ray looks away. Grinning, embarrassed. Gerard’s voice drops suddenly. Calm. Firm. Dead serious.

“Now help me clean up.” A beat. Their hand gestures casually toward the mess: their skirt, their thighs, the edge of the desk, the absolutely soaked spot on the floor between Ray’s knees. “All of it.” Their eyes flick back down to him.

“Now.”

——

The mess is mostly gone. Ray’s hair is a complete disaster. And Gerard’s stocking has a rip in it that wasn’t there an hour ago… but whatever. They’re already up, already reapplying their lipstick in the glow of Ray’s shitty monitor. Ray’s just barely gotten his belt redone when Gerard curls two gloved fingers under the knot of his tie.

“Let’s go.”

Ray stumbles when they tug. “W-wait—go where?”

Gerard just gives him a look, that always means don’t question me. “My office,” they say simply. “I’m not ready to go home yet.”

Ray follows, he barely has time to grab his glasses off the desk before Gerard pulls—not harshly, but firmly, guiding him down the hallway by the tie. His eyes are wide. He’s trying not to trip over himself because Gerard is dragging him through the empty evening hallways of the corporate building. The lights are dimmed, sterile elevator chimes, tiled corridors, glass doors that reflect Ray’s shell-shocked expression as he follows Gerard through the building’s upper floor.

They pass a few empty conference rooms. A break room with a flickering light. Some forgotten tinsel hanging off a printer. And then finally… Gerard’s office. They push the glass door open, dragging Ray across the threshold by the tie. It clicks closed behind them. And it’s so different in here. The overhead lights are off. A warm desk lamp glows amber from the corner. The blinds are half-closed. The desk is immaculate. The walls are lined with shelves and weird band posters and a half-dead plant someone forgot to water two weeks ago. And most importantly? There’s a couch. Black. Leather. Well-used. Gerard tosses their coat onto it. They let go of Ray’s tie, smoothing it once then they shrug out of their heels and collapse onto the couch with a long, dramatic sigh, head thrown back.

“God. I hate December.”

Ray stands there like a deer in the headlights, still holding his glasses, tie crooked. “You… wanted me to come here for…?”

Gerard glances over. “To sit.” They pat the space beside them. “And because I like having you near me, Toro. Obviously.”

Ray blinks, shuffles forward and slowly sits. He doesn’t know where to put his hands. Gerard leans their head on his shoulder immediately. Closes their eyes. Exhales. “Mm.”

Ray sits completely still. Which is funny, considering he was just on his knees in a cubicle a few minutes ago with his face buried between Gerard’s thighs. But now he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Not when Gerard is lounging on the couch beside him, utterly relaxed, heels off, stockings still damp and clinging to their thighs.

Ray tries not to look. It’s hard. His hands are clenched in his lap. His legs are stiff. He’s breathing shallow like he’s afraid any sudden movement might restart the chaos all over again. He stares straight ahead. And in the middle of it, he doesn’t even notice Gerard shifting closer. Until they’re kissing him. Ray jolts. Their lips are soft, and there’s that taste of cherry and something deeper, something heady. The press is warm, but Ray’s whole body goes rigid again like this is somehow more shocking than the foot on his cock earlier.

When Gerard pulls back they leave behind a perfect smudge of dark red lipstick. And then, they do it again. And again. A kiss to his cheek. Another to the other side. One to his forehead. One to the corner of his mouth. Every single one leaves behind a bright, obvious, completely unmistakable lipstick mark, staining his skin.

Ray doesn’t move. Gerard cups his face with both gloved hands, one on each cheek, and squeezes gently like he’s the cutest little squishable thing on earth. “Awww,” they coo, smirking. “You’re so adorable, Ray Toro.”

“I wish I’d paid attention to you sooner.” Gerard goes on, kissing him again. Another kiss, this one right to his nose. “All those nights you stayed late working. All those little emails. That sweet nervous face when you’d ask for help—ugh, precious.”

Ray is beet red. Still silent. Still stunned.

“You’re coming over to my place tomorrow,” Gerard says, lips against his jaw now. “For dinner.”

Ray finally swallows. “I—I am?”

“Yes. No complaints.” Another kiss. Right beneath his ear. “I’ll even cook. Or maybe I won’t. Doesn’t matter. I’ll just sit you on the kitchen counter and kiss you there too.”

Ray makes a noise somewhere between a wheeze and a laugh. He hasn’t even blinked yet. His glasses are slightly askew. His beard is covered in kiss marks. And Gerard is peppering him with affection. “You’re such a treat,” Gerard whispers. “I’m keeping you.”