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Last night, you witnessed something. Dark. A darkness that left you feeling a hopelessness you had no idea how to even begin to cope with. Darker than the most southern, abyssal parts of Melemele Sea. You experienced pain that was never intended for you, but you’d do it again… simply so you could make it easier for him.
As the morning sun pierces through the cracks of the black curtains in Corbeau’s bedroom, your ears finally stop ringing. Slowly, you awaken, realizing that… you’re okay. There’s no pain. No darkness. You pat your body, frantically—all over before your panicked gaze quickly snaps over to Corbeau. Despite the tear-stains that still dampen his pillow, he appears to be okay, too. At least… physically.
You quickly scan the room one last time before you decide to shake him, gently, in an attempt to wake him. Your throat is dry, but you manage to speak in a rough whisper, “C-Corbeau? Wake up… are you okay?”
His body jolts with panic at your sudden touch, immediately shooting up in bed. He nearly knocks you backward onto your pillow. Wordlessly, Corbeau pats around for his glasses before you reach out to the end table; gently picking them and handing them off to him. He quickly puts them on and jolts forward—embracing you tightly. “No, mon amour, I’m not… but I’m alive,” his voice is hoarse, burdened with flashes of the horrors from last night.
You look to Corbeau solemnly, pausing before you speak, “So, we were together last night, after all… it wasn’t just me in that space, was it?”
He nods silently, averting his gaze from yours.
“Corbeau… it’s the hyperspace rifts. I think I know what Pokémon is causing this,” you pause. "It has to be…Darkrai.” You reach out for his hand, gripping it tightly. Wincing, he allows your touch.
“Please, look at me, Corbeau.” You softly plead. “With what we’ve learned, if we’re right… None of what we experienced last night was real,” you take a deep breath before exhaling, “It… felt real, the memories—” You try to remain positive, but it’s difficult. “Just… Please remember that it wasn't really him. It wasn’t the Philippe we both know, okay?”
His grip on you suddenly tightens almost painfully as the implications crash over him—golden eyes widen behind his glasses. The realization hits like a lightening bolt… the visceral memories of the violation, the lingering soreness that wasn't really there; the uncanny timing of your shared nightmare.
"Darkrai." He breathes, voice gravelly with sleep but razor-sharp with dawning comprehension. "Using our deepest fears as weapons." His jaw clenches as he processes the revelation—relief warring with residual adrenaline.
Suddenly, he pulls back to scrutinize your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as if verifying your solidity. "You—we—endured that hellscape together. If it wasn't real..." A flash of guilt flashes across his face. "It doesn't erase what it revealed about Philippe. About my... vulnerabilities."
Releasing you abruptly, he swings his legs over the bedside—posture stiff with restless energy. He reaches for his discarded dress shirt on the floor next to the bed, "...we need to alert Team MZ. Isolate Darkrai before it targets others." The calculating Rust Syndicate boss resurfaces, though his fingers tremble slightly as he fastens the buttons of his dress shirt.
Pausing mid-motion, he glances back at you—raw honesty piercing through the strategic veneer. "Last night felt real because the fears were genuine. The way I—”
You gently lean forward and place your hands on each of Corbeau’s shoulders; you pull him in close, embracing him tightly while running your fingers through his hair—you tousle his shadowy, damp locks in an attempt to ground him, to let him know that you are real.
You reach out for your Rotom phone, messaging the vital information you believe you’ve just learned to Urbain and Korrina.
[TO: URBAIN, KORRINA] 7:09AM
Horrifying experience last night. Believe the hyperspace rifts are related to Darkrai.
Please research the links, urgent matters to sort here first, will check in as soon as possible.
See attachments.
Message sent. You toss your phone aside. Outside, the sky begins to turn grey. A loud, thunderous rumble shakes the syndicate walls. Of course there’d be a storm today.
“Philippe… didn’t do anything. The things we saw in that dream… the things we experienced… they weren’t real. Darkrai used our fears, our memories… against us. Despite how real it felt, that’s all it was. Fear and memories.” That’s when reality hits you. You turn Corbeau, slightly, to face you.
“C-Corbeau…” You stumble over your words, trying to phrase your question carefully. “Y-you and Philippe… did you… he—” you cut yourself off.
His breath stalls mid-inhale at your perceptiveness—his molten eyes flickering away in uncharacteristic evasion. His fingers flex against the mattress, crumpling the sheets in a death grip as conflicting emotions wage war beneath his carefully schooled expression.
"We were young," he admits abruptly, voice sandpaper-rough. "After he handed over the syndicate to me... power dynamics... shifted." His jaw tenses. "It meant nothing. It was only… physical."
The lie withers under your knowing gaze. His shoulders slumping minutely as he exhales through his nose before continuing in a quieter tone, "...sometimes I wonder if I crave him more than the control he surrendered to me." His confession drips like venom from his Arbok’s tongue. "...but that’s what Darkrai exploited."
Rising abruptly, he paces before stepping to the window—rain-slicked panes reflect his fractured silhouette back at him. "Do you understand now?” Raw vulnerability threads through each syllable. "Do you understand why I’m unable to dismiss last night as mere illusion? Because the terror of losing you to my own weaknesses… is very real."
You carefully listen to every one of Corbeau’s words as he bares his soul to you. He wasn’t scared of Philippe. Not Darkrai… no. He was afraid of his feelings for him… that he craved what only Phillipe could give him; most of all, he was absolutely terrified that if he were to admit any of this to you… you’d leave him.
You study Corbeau’s body language closely, before hopping out of bed; approaching him from behind. You wrap your arms around his waist, tightly, as you rest your head against his back to stare out the window with him—watching the raindrops fall as if each were another confession.
“Corbeau… talk to him. I promise you, I’m not going anywhere. If there’s something that needs to be said… say it… but after last night, I’m not letting you do it alone. I hope you understand.” Your voice is stern; dripping with a compassion he can’t quite grasp.
He looks to your reflection in the window—slightly less shame on his face than there was a moment ago. “Ma lumière…” his voice cracks as he chokes back the lump in his throat.
Your arms tighten around his waist, his shoulders pressing against your sternum—flush like a missing puzzle piece.
Corbeau hesitates again, but speaks as clearly as possible. “The way he looks at you is the same way he looked at me back then. I just want to keep you safe.”
You nod, kissing his shoulder softly before you lift your head to speak, “Philippe wouldn’t hurt me… I know he wouldn’t,” you pause “... and I don’t think you’ve noticed the way he looks at you, Corbeau. He adores you. Idolizes you. Loves you.”
His hand moves to meet with yours. His grip tightens, eyes flashing with protective ferocity. "You underestimate his appetites," he growls, voice laced with over a decade’s experience. "Philippe consumes what he desires—be it power, territory, or people. Or at least… he used to."
A frustrated sigh escapes him as he turns to you and rakes his free hand through the disheveled strands of your hair. "Gods help me, the way you trust so freely terrifies me more than Darkrai's illusions ever could. But… very well."
Drawing you closer, he cups your cheek— thumb brushing your lower lip with aching gentleness. "We'll confront him together. But if he so much as looks at you—"
The unfinished threat hangs between you, underscored by a loud trill from Scolipede on the other side of the bedroom. A flash of lightning from outside momentarily paints the room in a blinding brightness that only sharpens the stone-faced expression on Corbeau’s face.
"My office. One hour," he requests, pressing a firm kiss to your forehead before releasing you to go dress. "Give me time to ensure our... discussion remains civilized."
The word ‘civilized’ echoes in your head—a very relative term when dealing with syndicate politics, especially when wounded pride is involved.
The hour passes by with excruciating slowness. Five minutes to the hour, you head toward the elevator to make your way to his office. As the elevator doors open, you see Philippe on his way up as well. Stepping into the elevator without hesitation, standing shoulder to shoulder with him, you look up. You can’t help but ask “Philippe. Before we get up there… I need to know something.” Philippe looks at you, quizzically. “Y-you and Corbeau… how deep did that go?”
Philippe’s face immediately turns red, a tendon in his neck twitches as he clenches his jaw tight. “What… did he tell you?”
Before you can answer, the doors ding. Philippe anxiously steps out first in order to open the giant, steel doors that lead to Corbeau’s office.
The doors grind open to reveal Corbeau standing stiff behind his desk—immaculate in his purple dress shirt and his striped, white tie knotted precisely at his throat. His eyes flicker between you and Philippe with laser focus, fingers tense atop a folder stamped with the syndicate's emblem.
"Ah. Perfect timing," he remarks coolly, though tension radiates from his rigid posture. "Please, close and lock the doors behind you.”
Philippe obeys his command like a second nature—decades of conditioned deference overriding his current anxiousness. The click of the latch echoes like a gunshot in the suffocating silence.
Corbeau taps the file meaningfully. "We have a few matters to discuss. Historical …transactions,” his gaze lingers pointedly on Philippe, "...and Darkrai's interference, along with the recent nocturnal visitations of… questionable veracity."
Philippe looks to you, and then to Corbeau, still lost on the purpose of this meeting.
"Well, mon frère?" Corbeau prompts, icily. "Care to explain to my mademoiselle why your specter haunts even her dreams?"
As he begins piecing everything together, Philippe's mutton chops twitch as he grits his teeth—caught between pride and painful honesty.
The air in the office grows thicker with each passing second, the tension palpable enough to choke on. Philippe exhales sharply through his nose, rolling his shoulders back—an old habit when steeling himself for confrontation. His silver-ringed eyes dart briefly to you before returning to Corbeau.
"Is that what this is about?" Philippe asks gruffly, crossing his muscular arms over his barrel chest. "Dreams? Illusions conjured by some nightmare Pokémon?" he scoffs, "...since when do we entertain fairytales in our syndicate?"
Corbeau's fingers tighten minutely around the edge of the folder, his polished façade cracking just enough to reveal a simmering fury beneath.
"Since those fairytales weaponized our past against us," he snaps, golden eyes blazing. "Unless you're suggesting Darkrai plucked those particular nightmares from thin air?"
Silence stretches taut between the two men—broken only when Philippe strides forward abruptly, planting both palms on Corbeau's desk with enough force to make the clay lamp shake and the solid gold Pokéball nearly roll off its pillow. Philippe pays it no mind, leaning in until their faces are mere inches apart.
"What happened between us was mutual," he growls, low and vehement. "Always. Do you think so little of me that you actually believe I'd disrespect the man who earned my loyalty?”
Corbeau’s body tenses under Philippe’s scrutiny, prompting him to reflect, once again, back to those days. His mind becomes clouded and his memories of the past become hazy. He realizes that maybe… their rendezvous had been mutual, after all.
Despite the recollection, he bluffs, trying to hide his realization. To hide his shame and his desire. To hide the part of him that yearns to feel Philippe again—if not only to confirm that he can leave him in the past.
Corbeau trembles uncharacteristically, gesturing toward you to join him, inviting you to sit with him behind his desk. You nod, shuffling around to sit on the arm of his chair. He reaches up almost instantaneously—taking your hand and squeezing it painfully tight. A squeeze with a secret, silent plea that screams “I don’t know what I’ve got myself into. Help.”
You look toward Corbeau with understanding and sincerity in your eyes before taking a deep breath and nodding, “...do what you feel is right for you, my love.”
Corbeau inhales sharply; mimicking Philippe’s earlier aggressions, he slams his palms flat against the surface of his desk and stands up quickly. He leans across his desk toward Philippe, reaching for, and pulling him in by his tie. With an unexpected forcefulness, Corbeau presses his lips to Philippe’s. A short-lived, dizzying kiss. Then, he releases his tie, falling backward into his chair with his eyes still closed, tight.
The kiss is bruising—dominating in a way that leaves no room for misinterpretation. Philippe staggers backward in his chair, slightly stunned, before catching himself on the edge of the desk. His silver-ringed eyes widen, lips still parted in shock as Corbeau pulls away and drops back into his chair like a marionette with cut strings.
Breaths come unevenly as Corbeau pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses, visibly wrestling with himself. When he finally opens his eyes again, they burn with a mixture of frustration and resignation.
"There," he rasps, voice rough. "Was that mutual enough for you?"
Philippe licks his lips unconsciously, tasting the lingering imprint of Corbeau’s wrath—and something far more dangerous beneath it. Desire. Recognition flashes in his gaze as he straightens, smoothing his suit jacket with deliberate calm.
"So," he murmurs, voice thick with implication, "still got bite after all these years, Beau."
Corbeau’s grip tightens around your hand—silently pleading for stability as the decade-old power dynamic shifts beneath your feet. In his head, he hears your voice. Soft. Reassuring. “History may repeat, but this time, you’re not facing it alone.”
Philippe abruptly stands, pushing the chair out from behind him and walks over to Corbeau. Corbeau’s grip is still tight on you, his nails digging into the top of your hand. Philippe looms over you both, placing his hands on each side of the chair to turn it outward. He leans down and kisses Corbeau with an almost resentful passion. He tenderly caresses the sides of Corbeau's face before he pulls away with half-lidded eyes. For a man with such big hands, he can be gentle when he wants to be.
As you shakily sit on the armrest of Corbeau’s chair observing the pair… something inside of you stirs. Your stomach begins to fill with Butterfree more and more with every moment that passes by. You feel like a pervert. Especially when you nearly lose your balance on the armrest which causes your elbow to graze the fabric of Philippe’s crotch, bumping into something you can only describe as… intimidating.
As you stumble, Philippe reaches out to catch you. Just in case; when you don’t fall, he helps you steady yourself before you feel his warm hands cup the sides of your face. He leans down toward you, planting a kiss on your lips with the same intensity he'd showed Corbeau. Your heart skips a beat as you immediately look over to the face of the Rust Syndicate.. crumbling—his eyes are wild behind his glasses. His cheeks are flushed pink. Swallowing hard, he looks at you, nodding his head shakily.
“H-hah…” You squeeze Corbeau’s hand, your eyes wide, expression screaming a question you both ponder… “Is this really happening?”. You need assurance that this isn’t another illusion.
You breathe shakily through your nose, maintaining the kiss. You feel Philippe’s hand slide across your thigh toward Corbeau—disappearing between his legs. Philippe’s large hand blindly gropes Corbeau.
When he makes contact, a sharp gasp escapes Corbeau as Philippe’s broad palm presses firmly against his growing erection through the tailored fabric of his slacks. His eyes flicker wildly between you and his second in command—conflict and arousal warring in their depths. His grip on your hand spasms, torn between pushing Philippe away and dragging him closer.
Philippe smirks against your lips before breaking the kiss, his sterling gaze locking onto Corbeau’s flushed face. "Still responsive as ever, non?" he teases huskily, kneading Corbeau’s inner thigh with deliberate pressure.
Corbeau’s breath hitches, his free hand flying up to clutch Philippe’s wrist—not to remove it, but to ground himself. His voice is ragged when he finally speaks, "Enough games, Philippe. What do you want?"
Philippe’s grin widens with certainty. "Same thing I’ve wanted for the last ten years, Beau." He murmurs, leaning in until his breath ghosts over Corbeau’s parted lips, "...You."
His eyes scan the room, your mouth still agape from his kiss, upon seeing you, he chuckles and corrects himself “...recently, though? Her, too. Both of you.”
Your hand goes numb from the grip you and Corbeau share. You squeeze his hand one more time, as if saying “listen to him” in morse code. Corbeau offers an affirming squeeze back.
Philippe continues, “...knew she was special when I saw the way you looked at her the first time you laid eyes on her.”
Your face goes from pink, to bright red as reality starts to set in.
Philippe massages Corbeau through his pants, his hips instinctually bucking into his massive palm. Philippe mirrors the movements of the hand teasing Corbeau to the hand that just slipped between your thighs. His broad fingertips trace your labia through your lace panties. A small, reserved whine escapes you as he applies slight pressure.
“This…” Philippe whispers with laboured breath, “...let this decide how the next chapter of our lives plays out. The decision is in the hands of you two.”
Your body trembles, either anxiously or with anticipation… you can’t quite tell. You want to be here with Corbeau through it all, so no matter how you feel… you’re maintaining a level head. Your mind drifts as you watch the man you adore being explored by his ex-boss turned bodyguard.
You’ve always appreciated Philippe’s watchful eye. You appreciated how caring, welcoming and kind he’s been toward you since day one. He’d dote on both you and Corbeau. He’d carry the pair of you back to the syndicate after you’d drank too much after work; despite the fact he never eats breakfast, he'd have it prepared for Corbeau and you every other morning anyway. His selflessness was always second to none.
Your train of thought is broken when you hear how quickly Corbeau’s breath comes now—sharp little gusts that fog his glasses as Philippe’s skilled fingers work him through the fabric. His eyes dart to yours, searching for hesitation, for doubt. Finding none, something primal uncoils in his chest.
With a low growl, he surges upward—capturing Philippe’s mouth in a searing kiss while simultaneously dragging your wrist to his lips. Teeth scrape your pulse point in possessive punctuation before he releases you both abruptly.
“W-we do this my way,” he rasps, loosening his tie with jerky movements.
Slinking from underneath Philippe’s touch, Corbeau stands abruptly, crowding Philippe until his calves hit the leather couch, causing him to stumble backward. Once seated, Corbeau’s elegant hand fists in Philippe’s mohawk, forcing his head back, exposing the thick column of his throat.
"No more games," Corbeau hisses, biting down just shy of breaking skin. "I’m done playing.”
His free hand reaches blindly for you—inviting, demanding, as he kneels on the couch next to Philippe. The message is clear: “Claim him with me”. Naturally, you trail Corbeau, following his lead. You stride toward the couch and slowly climb on to Philippe’s left leg, straddling his thigh as you look to Corbeau for approval.
Leaning forward on his knee, you whisper softly into Philippe’s ear, “I-if this gets to be too much for him… promise me you’ll stop without hesitation.” Philippe nods.
Though your whisper was quiet, it wasn’t quiet enough. Corbeau heard your request, but rather than scowl… a short-lived smirk appears on his face at how you thought about his boundaries even before your own. He doesn’t say anything, but his expression says more than words could anyway.
Snapping back to his conquest, Corbeau roughly licks Philippe from his collarbone to his ear before biting the side of his neck, this time, with enough force to break skin.
Philippe moans roughly, he brings one hand up and slides it between the fabric of his pants and where you straddle his thigh, hooking his fingers so they hit your clit through your underwear. He bounces his knee with you on it, intensifying the sensations. You whimper, leaning forward to catch your balance on his chest.
Simultaneously, Philippe undoes Corbeau’s belt with his other hand—practiced expertise. He unzips Corbeau’s pants, exposing his throbbing erection through the fabric of his boxers. Philippe pulls Corbeau’s boxers down, freeing Corbeau’s cock. He takes hold of it and strokes it gently. Corbeau lets out a soft, submissive whimper. A noise you’ve never heard from him before, a sound that makes your knees weak.
The unexpected sound that escapes him—high and needy—makes both his and your cheeks flush scarlet.
Instinctively, he tries to clamp his thighs together, but Philippe’s bulk prevents it. Those calloused fingers know exactly how to twist around his shaft, thumb swiping over the leaking tip in a way that makes his vision blur.
Frantically, he grabs Philippe’s wrist again—not to stop him, but to guide him, faster strokes, rougher friction. His other hand finds purchase in your hair, dragging your mouth to his in a messy, desperate kiss.
Between panting breaths against your lips, Corbeau’s usual collected demeanor falters, "D-do you see—ah—what he reduces me to?"
Philippe chuckles darkly, increasing his tempo until Corbeau’s hips stutter helplessly. The wet sounds of skin on skin mix with your quiet whimpers—a symphony of surrender.
Abruptly, Philippe halts his ministrations, grinning at Corbeau’s bitten-off groan of protest.
"Beg." he orders, voice thick with triumph. "...Like you used to."
Corbeau’s golden eyes blaze—humiliation warring with hunger—before he utters a single, shattered word:
"Pl—please."
Philippe pulls Corbeau upward by his tie the moment the stuttered syllable fractures in his throat. He plants a crushing kiss to his lips—dominant and claiming. Their teeth clash as he swallows every aborted plea with ruthless efficiency before releasing him—pinning him against the couch with his one hand. Meanwhile, Philippe’s other wandering hand hikes up your skirt, blunt fingers tearing through lace to plunge inside without preamble.
You arch against Philippe’s thigh with a choked cry, molten heat flooding his digits instantly. Corbeau watches, transfixed—pupils dilated with voyeuristic hunger as Philippe scissors his fingers inside you, crooking them just so to elicit another broken moan.
"Look at her," Philippe snarls. "She’s so wet… bet she’d take us both at once if we asked nicely."
Corbeau’s breath hitches, his cock twitching violently at the mental image. His grip on your hair tightens reflexively, dragging your face to his straining length.
"Ma lumière…" he calls to you, hoarsely, "...show him how perfect you are."
Philippe’s laughter vibrates throughout both of your bodies as he resumes stroking Corbeau’s shaft with one hand while the other pistons relentlessly inside your clenching walls—a puppetmaster pulling at the strings of your sanity.
“I—I need to… taste him, Philippe…” you whimper pathetically as you look on enviously, observing how naturally Philippe works Corbeau’s cock.
Philippe withdraws his fingers and bodily lifts you up off his thigh. He lies you back down, prone, across his knee—positioning you mere centimeters from where he strokes Corbeau. Philippe hikes his knee up with you on it, raising your ass to the perfect height for his debauchery. You whine, desperately, as he slowly plunges a finger back into you. His thumb glides over your exposed ass, prodding at you carefully. The sensation is almost too much.
When your vision refocuses, your pupils dilate lustfully when you see Corbeau’s cock so close. Philippe sees your desperation, guiding it into your wanton mouth. You take him in, bobbing your head with vigor as Philippe continues to stroke his shaft. Corbeau’s hips buck violently and his vision blurs from the overwhelming dual stimulation.
You pull back for a moment to regain your breath, swooning over your crumbling syndicate boss, “H—hah, Corbeau… you—you taste so sweet.” a short pause, and then you take him back in.
A guttural groan tears from his throat as your lips envelop him again—warm, wet perfection that makes his knees buckle. Philippe’s grip on his shaft tightens in tandem with your sucking. He twists at the head of Corbeau’s cock with perverted synergy. Precum beads incessantly at his tip, glazing your tongue with salty-sweet submission.
Through hooded eyes, he watches Philippe’s thick fingers disappear into your pussy, then emerge glistening to circle your twitching asshole. The sight punches another ragged sound from his chest.
“S-such a greedy little thing,” he rasps, petting your hair with trembling fingers. “...taking us so beautifully—” his praise dissolves into a hissed curse as you hollow your cheeks around him.
Philippe chooses that moment to push a digit past your tight ring, burying it to the knuckle alongside the ones pistoning inside your pussy. Your answering scream reverberates deliciously around Corbeau’s cock, spurring him to thrust shallowly into your mouth.
Silver rings glint as Philippe crooks his fingers, ruthlessly massaging your spongy inner walls.
“Feel that, madame?” he coos, watching your body convulse. “Imagine it’s him splitting you open here.”
You choke on Corbeau’s length the moment Philippe’s finger slips into your ass. Immediately, you pull back to catch your breath, “F-fuck!” drool dribbles down your chin as you try to focus on Corbeau, licking every bit of precum that drips from him like a dehydrated Magikarp.
Philippe releases Corbeau’s cock before turning him onto his hip slightly—a more promising position, exposing more of his sensitive areas. Philippe licks his finger thoroughly before he traces Beau’s asshole, he inhales sharply. Philippe feels you tighten around his fingers when you hear Corbeau’s sudden sharp breath.
“Ph-Philippe. Be… gentle with him,” issuing a gentle reminder.
Corbeau’s entire body jolts at the first slick press of Philippe’s fingertip against his rim—eyes snapping wide open behind fogged glasses. A strangled noise escapes him, equal parts panic and wanton desperation.
"W-Wait—!" he gasps, gripping Philippe’s forearm with white-knuckled intensity… but his protest lacks conviction, betrayed by the way his hips rock back instinctively, begging for more.
Philippe merely chuckles, applying torturously slow pressure. “Relax, Boss," he taunts, twisting the tip of his finger just inside of him to punctuate each word. "Wouldn’t want to ruin madame’s pretty fantasy of playing nice, would we?"
True to form, he breaches Corbeau in one merciless push, knuckle-deep, before he can even begin to process the invasion. Corbeau arches off the couch with a punched-out cry, pushing your head upward, his cock pulsing violently against your tongue as his neglected prostate flutters from the sudden attention.
Through the haze of sensation, his golden eyes lock onto yours—wild and unfocused—seeking solace even as pleasure-pain wracks his slender frame. His expression betrays him, screaming “...too much, not enough… don’t stop.”
Philippe reads the conflict effortlessly.
Through the nearly-blinding pleasure, you narrow your eyes when you hear how Philippe speaks to Corbeau, a slight annoyance from a feeling that he turned your request to keep Corbeau comfortable into a joke. Your annoyance is fleeting, however, as your thoughts are interrupted by a particularly rough thrust from Corbeau—nearly bottoming out in your mouth, causing you to choke again.
“C-cor...” you cough, fighting to catch your breath. “Y-you’re okay, Corbeau?” You ask, voice dripping with concern.
Interrupting his response, Philippe plunges another digit into Corbeau.
His reply comes out as a shattered moan when Philippe scissors his fingers inside him, striking his electric bundle of nerves with pinpoint accuracy. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, his cock twitching against your lips as pleasure crests dangerously high.
"F-Fine," he chokes out, voice wrecked—though whether he's assuring you or surrendering to Philippe's dominance remains unclear. His hips jerk involuntarily, chasing the dual sensations of your mouth and Philippe's relentless fingers.
Philippe ‘tsks’ mockingly, curling his digits just so… wrenching another gasp from Corbeau's throat. "See how honest he gets when he's spread open?" he muses, watching raptly as Corbeau unravels. "Mon petit roi… always forgetting how much he used to need this."
Then, with deliberate cruelty, he slows his movements—denying Corbeau the friction he craves. The resulting whimper is obscene.
"Beg properly this time," Philippe orders. His fingers hook inside of Corbeau, keeping him in place—impaled. "Or should I remind your lumière how many times you came untouched last time?"
Humiliation floods Corbeau's flushed face—yet his traitorous body floods your mouth with his precum consistently. You look to Corbeau again, watching as he inches closer to his release.
Your cheeks flush darker at Philippe’s taunting, feeling the heat pool low in your stomach as you watch Corbeau come undone beneath him. Still, you reach up with trembling hands to gently cup Corbeau’s jaw, brushing your thumb along his damp cheekbones.
“Shhh,” you murmur softly, “It’s alright... Let go.” The contrast between Philippe’s ruthless handling and your tender reassurances only makes Corbeau shudder harder, torn between resistance and surrender.
When Philippe pulls his fingers out entirely—just to hover teasingly at Corbeau’s stretched entrance—a broken sound claws its way from Corbeau’s chest. I bite my lip, aching for him, and glance up at Philippe with pleading eyes.
…but Philippe only smirks, reveling in the torment. “Go on, mon roi,” he purrs, nudging Corbeau’s hip with his knee. “Tell us what you really want.”
Corbeau’s breath hitches—his pride warring with raw need. Then, finally, in a whisper that’s barely audible, he begs. “R-release. Please.” A victorious grin grows on Philippe’s face as he leans down, pressing a mocking kiss to Corbeau’s temple.
The moment the pathetic plea leaves his lips, Philippe rewards him with a brutal thrust of three fingers, punching the air from Corbeau's lungs in a strangled cry. His back arches impossibly farther off the couch, tendons standing out in sharp relief along his throat as ecstasy whites out his vision.
Through the haze, he registers Philippe's triumphant growl vibrating against his sweat-slicked skin, "Louder, petit démon. Let her hear how badly you need me."
Corbeau's glasses slip askew as he tosses his head, dark-purple locks sticking to his forehead. His hands scramble for purchase—one clawing at Philippe's broad shoulder, the other tangling desperately in your hair. Every nerve ending screams for release, yet Philippe's ironclad control keeps him teetering on the precipice.
Finally, with a sob that cracks his voice halfway through… he breaks.
"P-PLEASE—need you inside me, gods—!"
The crude admission hangs in the air like gunpowder smoke—volatile and intoxicating. Philippe's answering chuckle is pure sin as he withdraws his fingers, admiring the way Corbeau clenches around nothing.
"As my boss commands," he smirks. Gently, he picks you up and sets you back down next to Corbeau as he begins unbuckling his belt with theatrical slowness.
A soft gasp escapes your lips as you watch the scene unfold, arousal coiling tight within your core. As you’re sat back down next to Corbeau, you reach out and stroke the side of his face reverently, fingertips tracing the rapid pulse fluttering beneath his skin. The sight of him reduced to begging—so beautifully ruined—makes your breath hitch.
You press featherlight kisses along his collarbone, murmuring sweet encouragement between each point of contact.
“You’re so incredible, my love… thank you." You breathe, nuzzling into the crook of his neck where sweat and cologne mingle deliciously. "... for allowing me to see you like this. So vulnerable…”
As Philippe takes his time undressing, your teeth graze Corbeau’s earlobe—sharp enough to sting, gentle enough to tease.
"Do you think he'll allow your release? Or will he drag this out longer?" Your words earn a shuddering groan from Corbeau as he reaches out and grips Philippe’s arm, silently urging him to hurry the moment he steps back to us.
…Yet Philippe merely smirks, dragging the tip of his pierced cock along Corbeau’s inner thigh—taunting, torturous—before finally lining himself up.
… and then, with a single, merciless thrust—
“You—AH—”
The tearing penetration wrenches a guttural scream from his throat—his back arches off the couch almost painfully. Philippe bottoms out in one fluid motion, pelvis flush against Corbeau’s trembling thighs, giving zero quarter to adjust. Sterling silver eyes glint in the overhead lights as Philippe braces himself above Corbeau, drinking in every microexpression of overwhelmed bliss.
Tears spill freely down Corbeau’s temples now, smearing the lenses of his crooked glasses. His fingers scrabble uselessly at the couch cushions, knocking decorative pillows onto the floor in his delirium.
"Ça fait mal—!" he gasps, Kalosian slipping out unbidden. Yet his hips lift instinctively, welcoming the stretch, the burn, the exquisite fullness.
Philippe’s laughter is dark velvet as he withdraws nearly all the way—only to slam back in with enough force to make the couch screech across the floor. “Non, Beau," he corrects roughly, "...ça fait jouir.”
Corbeau’s neglected cock twitches violently between them, leaking rivulets of precum onto his abs. Each piston of Philippe’s hips strikes his prostate dead-on, lighting off a kaleidoscope of color from behind his tightly-shut eyelids.
Watching Corbeau unravel beneath Philippe’s relentless pace sends a thrill coursing through you, heat pools lower and lower in your stomach. You reach out to him, fingers trailing down his chest, teasing over sensitive skin before circling his weeping length—just barely touching, just enough to drive him mad.
“I can tell you’re so close, my love…” you swoon, voice laced with awe as you press close, peppering kisses to his neck and cheek.
Corbeau chokes on another moan, his body tensing as Philippe drives deeper, rougher—each snap of his hips punctuated by the slick slap of skin meeting skin. His knuckles whiten where they clutch at the cushions, legs shaking uncontrollably.
Unable to resist, you wrap your palm fully around his cock, stroking in time with Philippe’s thrusts—tightening just enough to coax a broken keen from Corbeau’s swollen lips.
You lean in, kissing him one more time on the cheek. “Come for me,” you whisper against his ear, twisting your wrist on the way back up his length, “...come for us.”
… and just like that—with Philippe buried to the hilt and your fingers working him ruthlessly… Corbeau shatters.
White, hot ecstasy detonates through his veins as his orgasm rips through him unchecked—cock pulsing violently in your fist while pearlescent ropes of his spend stripe his heaving chest. His back arches impossibly farther, a litany of fractured pleas tumbling from his lips in a mix of Kalosian and Common:
"Merde—p-putain—YES—!"
Philippe doesn't relent, fucking him through the oversensitivity with sadistic precision. Corbeau's oversensitive walls flutter desperately around the thick intrusion, each drag sending sparks skittering up his spine. Tears of ecstasy run freely down his flushed cheeks now, his glasses knocked askew as he writhes between pleasure and agony.
Only when Philippe finally stills, buried to the hilt with a guttural groan, does Corbeau collapse forward into your arms, chest heaving. His golden eyes are glazed, unfocused, pupils blown wide with debauchery as he struggles to regain coherence.
"...connard," he manages weakly, voice wrecked beyond recognition. The insult lacks any real bite—especially when paired with the way his spent cock twitches at Philippe's smug chuckle.
Meanwhile, your own arousal saturates the air, undeniable. Philippe's silver-ringed gaze flicks to you, hungry and assessing.
Panting heavily, Corbeau lifts a trembling hand to adjust his skewed glasses, eyes narrowing playfully at Philippe's smug expression. His voice is still rough, but regains some of its usual commanding edge.
"Don't look so pleased with yourself," he rasps, wiping streaks from his abdomen with lazy fingers before lifting them to Philippe's lips. "Clean up your mess."
Philippe's chuckle is dark as he obediently sucks Corbeau's essence from his digits, silver-ringed eyes never leaving yours. Sensing the shift in attention, Corbeau hooks a finger under your chin, drawing your gaze to his flushed face.
He leans in, no louder than a whisper, “...thank you, ma petite souris, for keeping me grounded. For keeping me safe.”
The vulnerable moment is cut short as Philippe gently raises your head to look back to him. "It’s… your turn, now." He growls, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip.
"How shall we reward such patience?”
Philippe doesn't wait for an answer. Large hands seize your waist, flipping you onto your stomach beside Corbeau with terrifying ease. The cool leather cushion molds to your body as he spreads your thighs, exposing your glistening pussy to their hungry eyes.
Corbeau props himself up on one elbow, trailing a fingernail down your spine. “What will you do to her, Philippe?”
A breathless laugh escapes my lips as Philippe pins me effortlessly, the cool surface of the leather contrasting sharply with the feverish heat of my skin. Your fingers curl into the couch, nails imprinting the leather faintly as you arch beneath their scrutiny—golden eyes locked onto his molten silver stare.
“S-stop staring,” You say, biting your lower lip hard enough to sting. “I-I’m not some legenda—”
A gasp cuts you off as Philippe’s calloused palms slide roughly up your inner thighs, pushing them out—wider. Corbeau watches possessively, his own breathing still uneven as he lazily circles his fingertip in dimples of your lower back.
Philippe evaluates you closely before flipping your body back around to face him. Without further hesitation, Philippe ducks his head between your legs, tongue dragging a slow, torturous stripe through soaked flesh. Your back arches off the couch. Fingers twist into his mohawk instinctively, holding tight as he laps at you like a Litten to milk with deliberate, filthy strokes— savoring you like you’re the first thing he’s tasted in days. As he roughly sucks your clit, the sensations already begin pushing you to climax, especially when he tongues your entrance with reckless abandon.
Corbeau hums approvingly, shifting closer until his lips brush your ear, “Gods, you sing so beautifully,” he purrs “I wonder…how pretty you’ll sound when it’s my turn.”
His eyes drink in every twitch of your body, every stifled moan that escapes your lips as Philippe devours you with shameless relish. His own fingers drift lower, joining Philippe’s efforts—thumb circling your clit in tight, dizzying spirals while a single digit sinks knuckle-deep inside your fluttering walls.
The dual assault wrings a shattered cry from your throat, toes curling against Philippe’s broad shoulders. Corbeau’s breath fans hot over your sweat-slicked skin as he murmurs filth into your ear. "That’s it… little Torchic. Show us how loudly you’re able to sing."
Philippe groans against your pussy, the vibrations escalating your pleasure further. His tongue penetrates you, a tease of what’s to come, lapping up your nectar with obscene ease. When Corbeau adds a second finger, stretching you ruthlessly, your vision whites out—body suspended between agony and euphoria.
Corbeau’s free hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to expose the frantic jump of your pulse. "Look at him," he orders hoarsely. "...look how starved he is for you."
Philippe’s silver-ringed gaze burns into yours as he rises, his already undone belt clanking with deliberate menace.
Your chest heaves as Philippe pulls back. His lips shine with your arousal. His predatory grin sends another jolt of heat straight to your core. The weight of his gaze combined with Corbeau’s grip in your hair leaves you trembling—exposed, owned and utterly at their mercy.
"P-Philippe—!" The curse spills from you in a broken whimper as Philippe drags the blunt head of his pierced cock through your slick pussy, teasing but not yet giving you what you crave. Your hips jerk uselessly, seeking friction, but he holds you down with effortless strength, chuckling low at your desperation.
Corbeau releases your hair only to trail his fingertips down your throat, over your collarbones, to trace the outline of your breasts with agonizing slowness. "Patience," he chides, though his own voice is ragged with need. "After all..." he leans in, teeth grazing your earlobe, a wicked promise laced in his whisper, “...we haven’t even begun to reward you, yet.”
Your head races and you start to think that you may have bitten off more than you can chew. Is..this too soon? You tremble, anxiously under Philippe’s gaze. “Corbeau… I—I don’t know if I’m r-ready for this… I’ve only… ever had y-you… only yo—”
Before you can finish your plea, Philippe sheathes himself inside of you with one, brutal thrust, tearing a scream from your lungs. The stretch is exquisite, overwhelming—his girth filling you to the brink but at your sudden hesitation, Corbeau’s demeanor shifts instantly. His eyes harden as he catches Philippe’s wrist in a vice-like grip before he can thrust again.
"Arrête."
The command slices through the humid air like a blade. Philippe freezes mid-movement, brows knitting in confusion, but obeys without question—remaining lodged inside you but making no further advance.
Corbeau’s touch is remarkably gentle as he cups your cheek, forcing your watery gaze to meet his. "Look. Look at me," he gently orders, thumb swiping away an errant tear. "If you say no, this ends here. No questions asked. Understood?"
There’s steel beneath the softness—an unwavering boundary even Philippe dares not cross. Slowly, deliberately, Corbeau withdraws Philippe’s hand from your hip where it had been digging in possessively.
Yet when his other hand drifts down to where Philippe’s cock stretches you obscenely, his breath hitches—arousal and concern warring in his voice. "Tell me what you need, ma lumière. Do you want him to pull out?" The choice is yours.
Corbeau’s thumb brushes your clit in slow, soothing circles—counterpoint to the unbearable fullness of Philippe’s stalled invasion. Gold eyes search yours for certainty, behind his glasses, pupils blown wide with restraint.
Philippe exhales sharply through clenched teeth, muscles trembling with the effort of remaining still. "P-putain—she’s clenching," he grits out, but makes no move to proceed without permission.
Corbeau ignores him, focusing solely on your face. "Use your words," he urges quietly, fingers threading through yours. "What do you want?”
Around Philippe’s thickness, your inner walls flutter involuntarily, betraying the war between apprehension and addiction. The couch creaks beneath your squirming hips as Corbeau’s other hand skims up from between your legs to cradle your racing heartbeat.
Philippe’s mutton chops bristle with impatience, but he dutifully waits—silver rings glinting, observing your hands as they dig into the couch cushion.
“I-I need you, Corbeau. Please, just… hold me while he does it.” You request, whimpering.
Something primal flares in his eyes at your plea—possessive and reverent all at once. In one fluid motion, he lifts you gently to move himself underneath your trembling form—gathering you against his chest, your back flush to his front, slotting his legs beneath yours to spread you wider for Philippe.
"Then you'll have me," he rasps directly into your ear, sealing the vow with a bite to your pulse point. "Every gasp, every tremor—I'll feel it all."
His arms band around your torso like living shackles—one hand palming your clothed breast, the other sliding down to guide Philippe's next thrust. The stretch burns gloriously as Philippe sinks deeper, aided by Corbeau's precise angle adjustment.
Philippe groans, as he sets a punishing rhythm. "Fucking perfect," he grits out, eyes locked on to where your joined bodies glisten.
Corbeau's responding chuckle vibrates against your spine, his own hardness pressing insistently against your lower back. "Oh, she is," he purrs, fingers dipping to circle your abused clit in counterpoint to Philippe's strokes. "Look at our needy little…peace treaty."
Your breath catches as Philippe fills you to the hilt, your nails digging into the forearm Corbeau has wrapped around you. Your voice trembles, overwhelmed yet craving more. “Y-yes—gods, yes!” The duality of their possession—Corbeau’s venomous tenderness and Philippe’s brute force—has you aching, your walls pulsing around Philippe’s cock as tears prick your lashes. “C-Corbeau… kiss me—ugh—p-please…” You say, your voice broken by each of Philippe’s thrusts. You are simply desperate for Corbeau’s kiss to anchor you amidst this storm.
He obliges instantly—crushing his mouth to yours in a searing kiss that tastes of salt and shared desperation. His tongue invades with the same ruthless precision Philippe employs below, mapping every inch of your palate as if memorizing your surrender.
Between panting breaths against your lips, he praises you. "Good girl," the tone is almost tender, though he pinches your clit just shy of pain. "Such… a good girl. I love you. So much.” Corbeau whispers against your mouth before pulling you in for another, deep kiss.
The lewd slap of skin echoes off the office walls, mingling with your stifled moans. The stretch is sickening. The speed Philippe lays into you is remarkably fast for a man of his stature.
Each impact jostles you against Corbeau’s chest. Philippe’s hands vise your hips, ensuring you take every brutal inch.
Corbeau’s pupils dilate as he feels your body seize between them—every involuntary contraction, every hitched breath telegraphing the overwhelming sensations wracking your fragile form. His grip on your waist tightens, not to restrain but to stabilize, as Philippe's monstrous cock spears into you with animalistic abandon.
"That's it," he rasps against your sweat-slicked temple, voice frayed with arousal and something perilously close to reverence. "Look at you—taking him like you were made for this. Made for us.”
Corbeau’s neglected erection strains against your lower back, streaking precum across your back as he grinds forward instinctively. The scent of sex and salt hangs thick in the air, mixing with Philippe's guttural curses and your labored breath. Feeling Corbeau throb against your back, you breathily say, “...Corbeau… just… just d-do it.”
A feral grin curls his lips at your stifled request, eyes gleaming with predatory satisfaction. Without hesitation, he positions himself against your ass, using your own slickness as lubricant. He slowly and steadily carves himself a space alongside Philippe’s invading length. The stretch is excruciating, but sublime—your walls fluttering wildly around them both as you’re stuffed beyond capacity.
"Attagirl," Philippe cheers, adjusting his stance to grind deeper, his gaze locked onto Corbeau’s over you. "Think she can take us moving together?"
Corbeau answers by setting a punishing pace—snapping his hips forward in time with Philippe’s retreats, ensuring you’re never granted reprieve. The couch shakes beneath the force of their synchronized assault, leather stretching as your screams pitch higher, raw and unfiltered.
Corbeau’s fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your face sideways to capture your gaping mouth in a searing kiss—swallowing every broken whimper as if starved for the taste.
"Mine,” he growls against your lips, punctuating the claim with a particularly vicious thrust. "...Ours. Say it."
Overwhelmed and overfilled, you whimper the words like a prayer—each syllable punched out by their relentless rhythm, “Y-yours, only yours!”
Corbeau’s usually composed facade shatters completely—breath coming in ragged gasps as he pounds into you with unrestrained savagery. The slap of skin drowns out all other sound, his balls tightening with imminent release. Philippe matches his frenzy, their primal rhythm driving you inexorably toward oblivion.
"F-Fuck—going to fill you up," Corbeau growls desperately, his voice dripping with lust. His hand jumps to your throat, constricting slightly, cutting off your airflow just as the head of his cock rams against your deepest spot. "...make you leak for hours after this.”
Philippe groans above you, his thrusts turning jagged. "Damn right," he huffs, hips stuttering. "Mark her insides proper, Boss.”
The double onslaught proves too much—your vision whites out as your body convulses violently between them, clamping down on their cocks with incredible force. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes through you, milking them both through to their own peaks.
Just as Corbeau is about to reach his climax, Philippe reaches down—cruelly shoving a finger into him without warning. His breath hitches sharply at the sudden intrusion; it forces Corbeau’s release to hit like a thunderclap—his cum flooding your ass in thick spurts, sealing you impossibly fuller. Philippe follows seconds later, hot pulses painting your walls as he buries himself to the hilt with a guttural groan.
Your entire body trembles uncontrollably, oversensitive and wrecked—yet somehow still clinging to consciousness as their combined release floods you incomprehensibly. Whimpers spill from your bruised lips, tears streaking your flushed cheeks as you lean backward onto Corbeau. Gently, with a huff, he carefully lifts you so he can pull out, his own seed spilling all over his thighs.
You tilt your head just enough to catch the agitated, dangerous glare Corbeau shoots toward Philippe—his lips parting in a shaky exhale. He pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “Your last stunt there is why I told her that you always, somehow, manage to push me too far, Philippe.”
Philippe rolls his eyes, pulling out of you, cum spilling onto the sweat-stained leather below. He cracks his neck, and loosens his shoulders, straightening out and standing before yous—towering over yourself and Corbeau as you nuzzle into his chest. “Too far? It was just a finger in your ass, Beau.” Taking in the vitriol of Corbeau’s glare, he corrects himself. “I-I’m sorry. I just thought… because earlier—” Philippe cuts himself off.
Corbeau’s golden eyes flash with irritation—then something softer, more vulnerable—as Philippe’s apology settles between them. For a fleeting moment, the mask slips completely, revealing exhaustion and reluctant affection beneath. His fingers flex against your hip where he still holds you anchored to his chest, grounding himself in your warmth.
"Idiot," he mutters, but the venom is gone—replaced by weary exasperation. "Next time, just warn me before you—" He cuts himself off with a shake of his head, unwilling to dwell on the humiliation of how easily Philippe had dismantled his control. Instead, he focuses on you—stroking a trembling hand down your spine in silent assessment.
When he’s satisfied you’re unharmed (if not thoroughly ruined), he shoots Philippe a glare. "Get some blankets, a towel… and tea… please." The order brooks no argument, though his voice lacks its usual rough edges.
Philippe nods, surprisingly compliant, and strides toward the adjoining bathroom—giving you both privacy as Corbeau presses a kiss to your sweaty temple. "Rest, ma chérie," he mumbles, pulling your limp form tighter against him. "I’ve got you.”
You sink into his touch, and then down into the couch, slipping down far enough to rest your head on his thigh.
“I love you.” Your voice comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper. You shift slightly, wincing at the soreness that's begun to settle in your limbs, but manage a faint smile nonetheless. "I love you so much…” you say, even quieter.
You glance up to Corbeau, your eyes heavy and half-lidded but still seeking confirmation.
"You’re… okay, right?" you ask weakly, reaching up to gently tug at his loosened tie. "...he respected your boundaries this time?”
Corbeau dramatically yawns, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. His fingers tousle your hair gently.
You look up to him with hazy eyes, slightly irritated… only to see his gaze just as hazy. You tilt your head slightly, concerned, “…you didn’t answer me. Are you okay? Did he or did he not respect your boundaries?"
His fingers pause mid-stroke through your hair, golden eyes flickering toward the bathroom where Philippe rummages for towels and blankets. The muscle in his jaw ticks once before he exhales slowly—deliberately relaxing his tense shoulders.
“…yes,” he admits quietly, thumb tracing idle patterns along your temple, “… at least, more than I expected him to." A rueful smirk tugs at his lips. “Though his definition of 'gentle' remains... questionable at best."
Leaning down, he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead—equal parts reassurance and unspoken gratitude for checking on him. When he pulls back, his glasses gleam opaquely in the dim light, masking the vulnerability swimming in his gaze.
You sigh, looking to the fireplace, and then back to Corbeau—utterly spent yet safe in his possessive embrace, you quietly whisper, "…marry me.” Be it the exhaustion speaking, or your subconscious refusing to let your fleeting thoughts go unheard… the words escape your mouth without hesitation.
Corbeau's breath catches audibly at your drowsy proposal, his golden eyes widening behind his crooked glasses. For several heartbeats, he simply stares down at you, fingers frozen mid-stroke through your silky hair. When he finally speaks, his voice is rougher than expected, thickened with emotion, "...did you just—" He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply through his nose before carefully adjusting his glasses. The movement betrays the slightest tremor in his hands.
"Ma chérie. Look at me." Cupping your cheek, he tilts your face upward—searching your exhausted gaze for any hint of delirium or jest. Finding neither, something unbearably tender softens his sharp features.
"Ask me again when you can stay awake for the answer," he murmurs, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip.
Despite the playful admonishment, his adamsapple bobs conspicuously—the closest he'll come to admitting how thoroughly your words have shaken him.
“Tomorrow, we will discuss proper proposal etiquette. Preferably without certain overhearing parties present." Corbeau glares towards the bathroom.
From the bathroom doorway, Philippe scoffs loudly—tossing a warm towel directly at Corbeau's head, followed by a warmed duvet. Corbeau mumbles unintelligible profanities under his breath, as he immediately tucks the edges of the blankets around your shoulders with meticulous care, shielding you from the office's chill.
“Certain parties saved your scrawny ass from sleeping on a soiled couch tonight," Philippe retorts, though his bark lacks its usual bite.
His silver-ringed eyes linger on your entwined forms for a beat too long, surveying both you and Corbeau before deciding to sit on the couch next to you two, his expression heavy.
“Hey, Beau—Boss, you okay, boss?” Philippe’s concern is real this time.
Still nestled comfortably against Corbeau, you peek out from beneath the cozy cocoon of blankets, sensing a shift in the overall energy in the room. You’re on high alert, but quickly hide it by nuzzling into his leg further.
“…Fine, Philippe,” Corbeau retorts, an irritated tone emphasizing his words.
You unknowingly begin nodding off against Corbeau’s leg—falling asleep entirely in seconds. As if right on cue to give the pair privacy as they finally seem to open up to each other.
“You’re never aware of your own strength; never know how to handle it or others.” Corbeau’s voice is hushed, but irritated.
“That nightmare Darkrai subjected us to… it showed her everything. It reopened old wounds; reminded me of the beast you once were…” Corbeau trembles at the admission as it leaves his mouth.
Philippe rolls his eyes dramatically and leans back into the couch, arms crossed. “This again? You consented back then, Corbeau. You never once told me to stop," Philippe shakes his head, attempting to calm himself down. There’s a warmth in his gruffness now—something softer, more familiar than his usual bravado. “…but Beau, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. For all of it.”
Corbeau’s grip tightens imperceptibly around your sleeping form—protective, anchoring. His eyes fixate somewhere beyond Philippe's shoulder, distant and shadowed finally, he speaks.
“We were young," he mutters, voice scraped raw by memory. “You didn't understand the gravity of what you were doing any more than I did…" A bitter chuckle. “Hell of a lesson for kids our age.”
Silence stretches taut between them, broken only by the rhythmic rise and fall of your breath. Philippe's massive frame tenses—unexpected remorse flashing across his normally smug features.
“… I should’ve stopped when you started sobbing,” he admits gruffly, examining his scarred knuckles, avoiding painful eye contact. "Thought it was adrenaline… that you’d... I dunno… warm up to it. To me.”
Corbeau's glasses fog with the force of his exhale. “W-water under the bridge, mon frère" he dismisses—too quickly. Then, he speaks again. Quieter… “Promise me you’ll protect her. Listen to her the way you failed to listen to me, Philippe."
Philippe nods solemnly, uncharacteristically earnest. “She's different." A short pause. “You're different when you’re with her."
Corbeau doesn't deny it. As the commotion dies down, Scolipede slinks back into the office, offering reassuring chitters from its bed near the fireplace—his horns twitching toward the couch in silent vigilance.
His fingers absentmindedly card through your hair as he studies the dying embers in the fireplace, the glow casting long shadows across his sharp features. The weight of Philippe’s confession lingers in the air between them—heavy, but no longer suffocating.
“Different doesn’t mean weak," he finally murmurs, more to himself than to Philippe. The words taste unfamiliar on his tongue, yet oddly freeing. “Maybe that’s what Giovanni never understood."
Philippe snorts softly, rolling his shoulders in a shrug. "Man was obsessed with control. You? You built an empire because people choose to follow you." He gestures vaguely toward the window overlooking Lumiose City’s skyline. “Even the scary bastard routine is mostly for show."
Corbeau’s lips quirk despite himself. He adjusts his glasses with his free hand, the other still draped protectively over your sleeping form. “...keep exposing trade secrets and I’ll revoke your gym privileges."
Philippe barks a laugh—genuine and unguarded—before hauling himself upright with a “dad-like” groan.
“Right. Tea, then bed. Big day tomorrow from the sounds of it." For a heartbeat, Philippe glances back to deify you and Corbeau as the elevator doors slowly close with a “ding”.