Work Text:
Corbeau likes to be in the know about things, especially his employees’ lives. It comes with the territory of being an involved CEO (because as much as he hates the term, that’s what he is) and it’s part of why the grunts aren’t terrified of him despite his best efforts. When your boss is the kind of man who approaches you to ask how your kid’s science fair project turned out, no amount of intimidation will turn him into a scary guy.
Every boss should be like that, is what Corbeau thinks. His employees keep the Rust Syndicate a well-oiled machine, and it’s important he knows and respects them (and throws them fully catered baby showers and sends them checks with lots of zeros as wedding presents) so that he can better lead them.
Philippe is no exception to this rule, despite how close he keeps things to his chest. Corbeau may not know the big things, but he does know Philippe’s coffee order, and the name of his favorite patisserie, and how he can’t handle spicy food but likes it anyway, and the different brands of metal polish he uses for each member of his team. Philippe can bow down to the very concept of professionalism all he wants, but his personal life shines through in even the way he carries himself.
And he’s been carrying himself kind of differently these past few days.
One thing about Philippe that’s been obvious since he and Corbeau met is that at work he’s wound taut like an overcoiled spring, waiting with barely-concealed urgency to dash off and do something for the good of the company. But lately he’s been almost subdued, posture not quite so stiff and words not quite so polished. He even calls Corbeau by name once, not throwing that obligatory “Mr.” in front of it like he always does.
Corbeau’s first suspicion is that he’s high, but that’s tossed away when he thinks for even a second about how much of a teetotaler his assistant is. Philippe doesn’t even drink, and the idea of him hitting a dab pen or taking an edible without freaking the hell out is laughable. He’s just too high-strung of a guy to partake in such things.
Then, when Philippe is escorting him to a client’s place of business for a friendly discussion of finances (they’re going to threaten Rob about his overdue payments and probably make him cry), Corbeau notices Philippe is humming a little tune to himself. What’s his deal? Is he in love or something?
Corbeau is less intimidating than usual when they arrive at Rob’s Skincare Emporium, preoccupied as his mind rushes through the list of people Philippe seems genuinely happy to see when they come up to the office. Vinnie from Quasartico is a nice enough guy, but he’s married. Benson the intern makes his face light up every time they interact, but that could also be because they’re always discussing Steel types. Harmony is, frankly, a smokeshow despite her eyesore of a jacket, but Corbeau has his doubts that Philippe is even slightly interested in women.
That leaves… Corbeau. But that’s stupid. Philippe would probably rather dive in front of one of his Scizor’s brutal Iron Heads than have even the slightest romantic inclination toward his boss--it just wouldn’t be proper of him. Corbeau is also approximately ten years younger than the guy, which he’s sure Philippe would have qualms with as well.
So if it’s not drugs, and it’s not love, then what is it? A midlife crisis? Is 36 old enough for a midlife crisis?
“Boss?”
Corbeau’s ears perk up instantly at his assistant’s baritone. “What is it?”
He looks up from his shoes and finds that he’s confidently led Philippe into a familiar alleyway--one of his teenage haunts, behind a cafe that insists on tossing perfectly good day-old pastries into their dumpster--instead of back to the office. His feet always want to take him here whenever he’s in the Vert District, despite not having to hunt for food in the trash for going on seven years now.
How embarrassing. At least he didn’t bring Philippe to the bushes that still contain his threadbare sleeping bag in what is now Wild Zone 5.
Corbeau straightens his tie, throat convulsing in a dry swallow. “Uh, sorry about that. Got confused for a second.”
Philippe doesn’t say anything, but one of his eyebrows inches ever-so-slightly higher than the other. He follows Corbeau back to the office, both of them ignoring the stares and whispers that accompany them through the public eye. The elevator ride is mostly silent, and it seems for a brief moment that Philippe is back to his usual self, until he starts humming again.
This is absurd. Corbeau will not be made to look like a fool who doesn’t know the goings-on in his most trusted assistant’s life. When he settles back into his desk chair, Philippe’s presence a familiar comfort behind him, he hatches a plan.
“When are you going to tell me?” he asks, conversational. He doesn’t turn around, but he can feel Philippe’s shoulders stiffen.
“Uh…” It’s another out-of-character response. Is he a Zoroark in disguise? Is the real Philippe in danger somewhere?
“You know I know everything,” he presses on. “I always do.”
“Boss, I-”
“I’m not mad!” Corbeau soothes, glancing over his shoulder with a grin that feels cruel but necessary to sell the act.
Philippe is bright red. “R-really?”
“Of course not. I just want to hear it from you. Straight from the Mudsdale’s mouth, as it were.”
Corbeau fully turns in his chair, then, taking in the uncertainty that comes off of Philippe in waves. Looks like he’s really falling for it.
“I, uh… it’s not really appropriate to say.”
Corbeau waves his concern away, already feeling smug. “It’s just you and me here, isn’t it? You’d think after half a decade working together we could loosen up on this whole ‘professionalism’ deal.”
Philippe fidgets with his cufflinks, then cracks his knuckles. Corbeau tries not to vibrate in anticipation. His right-hand man takes a deep breath, and…
“I got new underwear.” The words hover unsteadily in the air like flying Spindas.
Corbeau blinks, mouth opening and closing a few times before he can school his expression. “I… I’m glad they have you in such a good mood.”
All this over some boxers? He supposes Philippe could be a briefs guy, but still. Unless the clothes came with a personality transplant, there was no way that was it.
“You know,” Corbeau starts, and it’s fucking ridiculous, but he presses on: “I’m something of an underwear fan myself. I find they really complete an outfit, and, as you’re aware, can really lift a guy’s spirits.”
Philippe nods, like this is the most normal conversation in the world.
“Would you mind recommending the brand to me? Clearly they must be of excellent quality to have you so pleased.”
“Absolutely, boss. I didn’t realize we had similar, uh,” Philippe pauses to mess with his tie, “interests.”
Corbeau pulls a pen out of his desk and a Rust Syndicate business card out of his pocket (it’s a truly stunning design, charcoal in color with the company’s logo on one side and their contact information in a crisp, lavender font on the other), handing both to Philippe. His assistant prints a name down neatly, large hands surprisingly dextrous, and gives it back to Corbeau.
Queue de la Colombe, is what it says when Corbeau takes it. He slips it in his pocket to inspect later.
Later comes in the form of Corbeau getting ready for bed at the end of the day, the card fluttering out of his pocket as he unceremoniously shucks his pants. When his soft cotton t-shirt and sweatpants are on and he’s under the covers, he pulls out his Rotom phone and types what Philippe wrote into the web browser’s search bar.
The Maps app tells him it’s the name of a store in the Jaune District, a smattering of reviews praising the quality of garments sold there while a few complain about the price. Apparently Philippe really treated himself. Are his new boxers made of silk, like Corbeau’s? Or perhaps he’s more interested in cotton. Maybe they have interesting designs, like stripes or little Poke balls, and that’s why Philippe likes them so much.
Corbeau scrolls down to browse the store’s wares, anticipating some unassuming boxers and briefs with excellent thread counts…
But what he finds instead is lingerie. The kind women wear.
Well, if a store is dedicated entirely to underwear, they probably have a women’s and a men’s section, right? But as he scrolls further down it becomes obvious that Queue de la Colombe only sells women’s clothing. They also have a robust plus-size section.
There’s simply no way this is the store Philippe recommended. What purpose would he have in shopping here? Maybe he has a girlfriend, after all. But he’d been pretty clear back in the office that he had purchased new underwear. For himself.
Corbeau can’t decide if he’s more mortified at his own mistaken admission of interest in such things or the fact that he convinced Philippe to tell his boss that he’s been wearing panties to work.
“Arceus,” Corbeau murmurs. He pushes his glasses up to his forehead and pinches at the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes shut against the oncoming guilt. He never should have pressed Philippe on the matter. The only sensible thing to do is to never discuss it ever again, and try his best not to think about his second-in-command going about his business while wearing women’s underwear.
It just doesn’t make any sense; Philippe is such a masculine man. He specializes in Steel types, lifts weights at the gym that would make a Gurrdurr blush, and wears a full suit even on his days off. How can a man like that wander around in panties all day?
Corbeau can feel a blush spreading to his ears. Is it a sex thing? That would be seriously strange of Philippe, though, to get up to kinky shit at his place of employment. The Rust Syndicate means everything to him--he wouldn’t desecrate the office with strange sexual escapades, even if Corbeau asked him to.
Not that Corbeau would ever request such a thing from his friend and most trusted subordinate. That would be dumb. Corbeau isn’t even interested in Philippe. Any objective attractiveness Philippe may possess is completely irrelevant here.
What really matters right now, Corbeau figures, is that Philippe is a happier man when he’s wearing panties. It’s frankly none of Corbeau’s business, and everyone involved will be better off if he just pretends everything is normal when he goes back to work on Monday.
Except, as it turns out, pretending everything is normal proves to be impossible. This is mostly because Corbeau can’t look at Philippe without thinking about panties.
What colors did he buy them in? he wonders as Philippe intimidates a client. Philippe’s favorite color is gold (to match Mega Skarmory, Corbeau assumes), but he mostly wears black and gray. It’s really a toss-up between those three. Or maybe he has a pair in the exact deep purple of the Rust Syndicate’s logo. Corbeau’s cock twitches in his boxers, intrigued, and he has to clench his thighs and think about spreadsheets until it loses interest.
What material are they made out of? The thought floats blissfully across his mindscape as Philippe stands beside him, double-checking his math on an interest rate at Corbeau’s request. It seems the store mostly carries lace, but there’s also satin and cotton and a few other materials Corbeau isn’t particularly familiar with. Right now, Corbeau and Philippe are so close to one another that Corbeau could just reach out and tug at Philippe’s pants to check. He resists the urge, crossing his legs in a move he hopes is casual enough to conceal his growing erection.
What style are they? Corbeau’s brain asks unhelpfully as he watches Philippe escort a prospective client from the elevator to his desk. His mind is frazzled with images of thongs and boyshorts and how they would look on Philippe’s shapely ass, barely containing what’s probably (if the size of the rest of him is any indication) a truly monstrous cock. He almost punches himself in the dick to keep it from getting hard again as he stutters through his usual spiel about how the Rust Syndicate is more than willing to provide a loan.
It’s definitely the least productive day he’s had in a while. That’s an understatement--it’s the least productive day he’s had since he accidentally took a Poison Jab to the back from his own Arbok (Water Pulse-induced confusion is a hell of a drug) and spent three days in the ICU. Even then, he’d managed to do paperwork from his hospital bed. Today feels like a total wash in comparison.
The clock strikes five and Corbeau has damn near nothing to show for it. He’s just been sitting behind his desk, typing about 10 words per minute and trying not to think about how good purple lace would look stretched over Philippe’s bulge. Arceus, he needs a cold shower.
“Boss?” Philippe asks, and Corbeau nearly jumps out of his skin. For all his thinking about his right-hand man, he’d certainly forgotten Philippe was still in the room with him.
“What is it?” he snaps, and instantly regrets it. Consciously smoothing his hackles down, he tries again: “Sorry, Philippe, I’m a little stressed out. What do you need?”
“Now that we’re officially off the clock, I was wondering what you thought about that store I recommended to you.” Philippe looks nervous to be bringing it up, but also a bit excited. It’s honestly pretty cute, Corbeau notes before he can slap himself.
Corbeau forces himself to appear casual, like a man who hasn’t been thinking about nothing but panties for the past eight hours. “Oh, Queue de la Colombe? I think they’ve got a great selection. Real nice stuff. I’m actually not sure what to buy, since everything seems so, um, awesome.”
Yeah, dipshit, he curses himself the second he closes his mouth, panties are just awesome, aren’t they?
But Philippe just nods, a rare smile overtaking his features. “It’s all really good quality. I really like their bikini-style ones. They’re lightweight, and the lace is soft.”
“What color?” Corbeau blurts out before he can think critically, “...would you recommend, I mean?” Nice save.
Philippe’s gaze becomes discerning, folding his arms and looking Corbeau up and down. “You’re definitely aware that purple is your color, but I think with your skin tone, something too pastel like a lavender might wash you out. I’d stick to darker purples and magentas. Maybe a nice deep black, too.”
Corbeau nods along, playing it as cool as he can. “Understood. I’ll make sure to keep that in mind.”
They exchange their standard goodbyes, and the second the elevator door closes behind Philippe, Corbeau unbuckles his belt like a madman and reaches into his pants to produce his aching cock. There’s already precum beading at the tip, and he swipes under the head with his thumb while he jerks himself off at a brutal pace. He grits his teeth against the hot wave of relief coursing through his blood at just the pressure of his hand around his cock.
“Fuck,” he hisses, bracing himself on his desk with one hand while the other flies up and down his erection.
In his mind’s eye Philippe is modeling for him, visibly excited in that alluring way only Philippe can be. His massive cock is straining against the front of his panties (bikini style panties, his broad thighs fully exposed), and when he turns around the swell of his ass is all but hanging out of the lace.
Corbeau wants to pound on his desk and howl like a Manectric at the thought, but he settles for a series of desperate little noises, bucking up into his hand as heat swirls in his gut. He tucks his chin to his chest, breathing hard, and doesn’t even care when his glasses slip off his face.
The Philippe in his head is coquettishly charming and entirely earnest at the same time. Fuck, that’s just like him, isn’t it? For all his broad shoulders and brute strength, he’s so… so…
Pretty.
Corbeau’s orgasm wells up in him like a sob, and he shakes into it with the enthusiasm of a virgin. Cum shoots onto his slacks and drips down his shaft, easing his slick movements as he brings his free hand to his mouth and bites his fist to muffle a groan. When it’s over his chest is heaving, ecstasy crackling behind his screwed-shut eyelids. His hair feels sweaty when he tilts his head back, using his clean hand to perch his glasses back on his nose.
He doesn’t even notice the elevator doors have opened again until Philippe clears his throat.
“Boss…?”
Corbeau’s softening cock is back in his pants before he even registers Philippe’s presence. He wipes his wet hand on the leg of his ruined pants and sits straight up, schooling his expression and forcibly slowing his breathing. Philippe is just staring at him, one foot out of the elevator.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine!” Corbeau barks. “Why wouldn’t I be? What are you doing back here, anyway?”
Philippe frowns at him, clearly unconvinced, and steps fully into the office. “My keystone fell out of my pin. I’m retracing my steps to find it. You look flushed.”
Of course he does. He always turns bright red after a good orgasm. “I don’t like to repeat myself, but I will: I’m fine.”
Philippe doesn’t respond, just walks closer. His gray eyes scan the floor, but flick to Corbeau occasionally. Corbeau scoots his chair in as much as possible, hiding his wet pants beneath the desk, and tries not to squirm.
“Well, looks like it isn’t here!” Corbeau chirps when Philippe stoops to look under the desk. “Oh, well! Guess we’ll just have to ask Quasartico for a new one.”
Philippe eyes him again. “Are you getting a migraine, boss? I’ve got some of your, oh, shoot…” He fumbles a pill bottle from his pocket and watches in dismay as it rolls beneath the desk.
“H-hang on,” Corbeau starts, but it’s too late. Philippe is bending all the way down and sticking his head under the desk to try to find the bottle. Corbeau wants to scream and kick him and then singlehandedly punch out every stupid fluorescent light in this office that guarantees Philippe can see the cum drying on his slacks, but he settles instead for burying his face in his hands.
He can tell the second Philippe notices, because the big man jumps about a meter high. Everything on Corbeau’s desk moves a solid five centimeters to the left from the force with which Philippe’s head hits the bottom of it.
Corbeau is contemplating suicide when Philippe emerges from under the desk, face bright red and gaze distant. He wordlessly pockets the pills, then presses his keystone back into his Rust Syndicate badge.
“Goodnight, boss,” he says, appearing a little weak in the knees as he staggers back to the elevator.
Watching Philippe press the elevator button and wait patiently for the doors to open without even sparing a glance at Corbeau is driving him insane. When the embarrassment becomes unbearable, guilt and shame bubbling into a potent mixture that threatens to send Corbeau to the floor, he finally opens his mouth.
“Uh, sorry.”
Philippe still doesn’t turn around, elevator doors opening with a pleasant chime. “I didn’t see anything, Mr. Corbeau.”
And suddenly Corbeau is pissed. That little switch in his brain that he tries to avoid touching is flipped, and he can practically feel his mouth filling with venom. He leaps to his feet.
“Yes, you did!” he barks. “You know what you saw, and you know it’s your fault!”
That gets Philippe to wheel around and look at him. “What?”
“You and your stupid panties!” Corbeau is in a proper rage now, tugging at his hair and liable to say anything that enters his head. “Your sexy fucking panties! You’re driving me fucking insane!”
The elevator doors slide closed. Philippe is still standing there, mouth agape, watching Corbeau do a quadruple backflip off the handle.
“It’s all, ‘hey, boss, by the way, I wear women’s underwear!’ And you just expect me to not feel any particular way about that? You don’t expect me to lose my mind?”
Philippe suddenly looks very small. “I’m sorry, boss. I-I’ll stop wearing them right away.”
Corbeau is incandescent, fists trembling where they’re braced on his desk. “I don’t want you to stop! I wanna see!”
He stops, then, to catch his breath, and it’s like his brain finally syncs up with his tongue again. In the first wise move he’s made in a hot minute, he covers his mouth with both hands.
Philippe stares at him, eyes the size of Poke balls. “Really?”
Corbeau tries to smooth out his expression, very aware that he’s making that face that tends to make clients burst into tears. “Yes.”
He can hear Philippe’s breath hitch from across the room. Slowly, silently, Philippe’s fingers creep to his belt buckle.
Corbeau crosses the room in an instant. He’s desperate to reach out and touch Philippe, but instead he jabs at the elevator button. When the doors open, he practically shoves Philippe inside, falling over himself to punch in the code that gives him penthouse access.
“The second we get up there, you’re going to show me.” It comes out feeling like a threat, and Corbeau feels obligated to add: “If you want.”
Philippe nods, a flush high on his cheeks. “I do.”
“Good,” Corbeau says, decisive. Then he grabs Philippe by the tie and hauls him down into a brutal kiss.
The second their lips meet, Corbeau wants to slap himself for not doing this way sooner. Philippe’s mouth feels perfect against his own, even at the fast pace Corbeau is setting for them, and he feels a pang of disappointment at all this time he’s wasted not realizing that kissing Philippe was even an option.
The elevator doors slide open and the two of them stumble out into Corbeau’s apartment like lovesick teenagers leaving a closet. They’re still kissing as Corbeau maneuvers them to the couch, and when Philippe is pushed back against the leather Corbeau finally pulls back.
“Okay, beautiful,” he murmurs, watching with delight as Philippe blossoms at the word, “show me your cute little panties.”
Philippe is up in an instant, practically tearing his clothes off. He’s making Corbeau wait for it, starting with what covers his upper half. As his bulk is slowly revealed, Corbeau leans back on the couch, spreading his legs and squeezing at his reawakening cock through his cumstained pants.
Philippe is absolutely stunning. This isn’t the first time Corbeau’s seen him shirtless (the Summer Solstice Syndicate Social wouldn’t be worth attending if they didn’t rent out Lumiose’s premier indoor waterpark every year), but it’s the first time he’s ever allowed himself to really appreciate Philippe’s visage beyond a passing thought of “woah, nice.”
The immediate, most striking feature Corbeau takes in are the bold tattoos decorating his body--Steelix winding up his right arm while Scizor and Aggron jockey for full control of his left, Mega Skarmory resplendent between his shoulder blades and Klefki inked lovingly at the small of his back. Then, at his collarbone just beneath where his Syndicate badge sits, is the old Rust Syndicate logo from before Corbeau took over. It’s functionally the same design and not worth getting redone; only missing the little Poison-type droplets that cement the Syndicate as Corbeau’s company.
Then there’s the body beneath the ink. Philippe is wideset; muscles ripple beneath the skin of his back and shoulders while his arms boast impressive bi’s, tri’s, and other ‘ceps Corbeau can’t name. His midsection is covered by a thick layer of fat that has Corbeau practically drooling, especially since he knows that beneath that soft covering his abs are rock hard. His pecs are nothing to sneeze at, either: thick and firm in appearance with a little gold barbell through each nipple.
“...Mr. Corbeau?” Philippe is looking at him, hands hovering over his belt buckle.
Corbeau sits up a little straighter at the look on Philippe’s face. He’s visibly nervous, thick eyebrows knit together at the center of his forehead while he shifts his weight around.
“Hold still, will you? I can’t admire you properly when you’re moving all around.” It comes out abrasive, as do most things that leave Corbeau’s mouth, but Philippe relaxes a bit at the words.
“Can I…?” he asks, pulling at his slacks.
Corbeau nods, excitement blooming in his chest at Philippe’s eagerness to obey. He tries not to hold his breath as Philippe opens the belt buckle, then unbuttons his pants, then unzips his fly…
“Arceus,” Corbeau breathes. He can feel precum collecting at the tip of his cock.
Philippe looks good in gold. The panties are frilly around the edges but sheer over his skin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Corbeau notes with a hint of interest that Philippe’s nether regions are perfectly smooth--does he wax? More importantly, though, Philippe is half-hard and already barely contained by the lingerie. Corbeau can’t help but lick his lips at the sight of such a monstrous cock.
Pants abandoned to the wayside, Philippe stands completely still in the center of Corbeau’s living room. He’s looking at Corbeau, eyes searching, and when Corbeau allows a smirk to overtake his features Philippe seems to have found the reaction he wanted.
Slowly, movements bordering on lazy, Corbeau raises a finger and uses it to draw a circle in the air. “Give me a twirl, pretty thing.”
Philippe obeys, and if these panties make his cock look spectacular then they’re a one-stop PR team for his ass. The firmness of his cheeks are only accentuated by the see-through material, and the ornate edges frame it delightfully.
Corbeau’s cock twitches under his hand. He needs it buried in something yesterday, but settles for fishing it out of his pants and giving it a squeeze.
Philippe’s eyes drop to Corbeau’s cock instantly, honing in like a Corviknight spotting prey. He glances up at Corbeau’s face a few times, mouth opening and closing as he tries to work up the courage to speak.
If Corbeau weren’t so turned on, he’d let Philippe flounder a bit. Feeling nice (and horny enough to explode), he cuts straight to the point:
“You wanna suck it?”
Philippe nods, flush spreading down his chest.
“Cute,” Corbeau teases. “Go ahead, then.” He spreads his legs wider to accommodate Philippe’s size, a rush thrumming through his blood as the larger man gets down on his knees in front of him.
Philippe glances up at him one more time, and Corbeau offers him a grin that feels smug on his face. Then he leans down and all Corbeau can think about is the feeling of a hot mouth on his cock.
Philippe has absolutely sucked dick before. It’s incredibly obvious, from the way he pulls his lips over his teeth to the way he takes him down to the hilt. Corbeau’s hands ball into fists, a moan punched out of him at the wet suction of Philippe’s lips. His thighs threaten to snap shut around Philippe’s head, but two massive hands hold them apart.
When Philippe starts bobbing his head, it takes everything in Corbeau not to start whimpering. Between the Infinite Z-A Royale and the aftermath of that nonsense with Prism Tower, there hasn’t exactly been room in his schedule for a hookup. Sue him if he’s a little extra sensitive to someone else’s touch.
It probably doesn’t help that it’s Philippe’s touch, and he’s clearly a very experienced guy. The head of Corbeau’s cock pushes into his throat easily. Philippe swallows around it like he’s starving, and Corbeau whines high in his throat. He’s powerless to stop himself, bucking his hips forward and letting out some high, breathy sounds he’s never made before.
Philippe looks up at Corbeau through surprisingly thick eyelashes, and Corbeau spends exactly three seconds toying with the idea of cumming down his throat before his orgasm looms too close for comfort.
“That’s enough,” he says, voice strained.
Philippe pulls off, licking his lips. His pupils are massive, fingers tense on Corbeau’s inner thighs, and Corbeau glances down to see his massive cock straining against gold lace.
“All good, boss?” he asks, just the slightest bit hoarse.
Corbeau nods, smoothing out his breathing as best he can. “Excellent work, as expected.”
Philippe has shed his tie, so Corbeau just leans down and grabs at the back of his head to pull him up into another kiss. He gets a little liberal with his tongue and teeth, swallowing down the little grunts Philippe produces.
When they separate, breathing hard, Corbeau practically leaps to his feet and grabs Philippe’s wrist. He tugs him down the hallway to his bedroom, leveraging his grip to throw his assistant down on the bed.
Philippe looks up at him like he’s all-powerful, eyes hungry as Corbeau strips hurriedly down to his boxers. He clambers up onto Philippe, straddling his hips and immediately pressing their cocks together through layers of silk and lace.
“M-Mr. Corbeau,” Philippe moans, low and a little shaky.
“I’ve got you, beautiful,” Corbeau replies, shifting his hips to watch Philippe’s face flush even more.
Pleasure is shooting up his spine with every movement, every little bit of friction against his cock delicious and addictive. He lets himself shudder, a groan working its way out of the lowest part of his chest. Philippe gasps underneath him, eyes shut and precum soaking into his panties.
“So fucking pretty,” Corbeau murmurs, hands braced on Philippe’s shoulders. “Look at you, all dressed up for me.”
Philippe’s hips jump up, seemingly of their own accord.
“You like being so beautiful, don’t you, sweetheart?” Corbeau’s voice gets low, like the growl of a Lucario. “You love being the prettiest in the room.”
Philippe nods, his own hands coming up to dwarf Corbeau’s hips. He’s panting, now, a sheen of sweat on his skin.
“You’re fucking stunning,” Corbeau groans, feeling heat spread through his gut. “You close, baby?”
Philippe nods again, wet patch at the front of his panties only growing bigger.
“So quiet. Feeling shy?”
“S-sorry, boss.” Philippe’s voice is quiet but rough. “Don’t know what to say.”
Corbeau grins down at him in a flash of teeth. “How about you tell me you like it?”
Philippe doesn’t respond, face bright red, and Corbeau forces his hips to grind to a halt.
“Say it.”
“I like it.” The words are small--dainty, even. They suit the delicate panties stretched across Philippe’s twitching cock.
Corbeau begins to move again, dragging their cocks together in slow, steady shifts of his hips. “Well, what do you like? Be specific, Philippe.”
“I-I, ah, I like being pretty, boss.”
He is pretty. Objectively. Corbeau leans down and kisses him again, all teeth this time, and relishes in the noise that earns him.
Philippe makes a punched-out sound against his mouth and his hips start shaking, hot cum shooting from his cock and thoroughly ruining his cute little panties. He gasps and groans, and his grip tightens on his boss’ hips until Corbeau is sure he’ll have perfect finger-shaped bruises in the morning.
Not to be outdone (and nearly drooling at the thought of Philippe with similar marks), Corbeau leans down and bites hard at the Rust Syndicate logo on Philippe’s collarbone, sucking at the skin to ensure it leaves a mark. Philippe cries out and arches his back, shaking against Corbeau as more cum spurts through thin lace.
Right there with him, Corbeau feels himself tipping over the edge. He grunts low into Philippe’s collarbone, then whines high through his nose as he cums in his own underwear. It’s just as euphoric as it was in the office, his head swimming and hips stuttering desperately through it.
When his brain is done leaking out of his cock, Corbeau relinquishes the hold his teeth have on Philippe’s skin and presses a few delicate kisses to the angry red mark. He breathes hard, sweat cooling on his skin and a wet spot spreading across the silky fabric of his boxers. He’s tempted to just lay there forever, but he has to check in on Philippe, so he pushes himself up into a sitting position.
Philippe gasps as their softening cocks jostle together, but besides that looks pretty pleased. He’s flushed all down his body, pink as a Luvdisc, and Corbeau feels fondness flash in his heart.
“Feeling okay?” Corbeau asks.
Philippe nods, but he looks almost guarded. It’s like his eyes have shutters pulled over them.
“Talk to me.” It’s an order, and he knows Philippe will follow it whether he wants to or not.
“Are we going to do this again?”
Corbeau blinks. He hadn’t really thought about it, being a little busy having mind-blowing sex with the hottest man he knows.
“I’d like to, is what I mean,” Philippe continues. “You don’t have to, uh, feel the same way--I can just go home right now, but…” He looks away, bashful, and it’s so cute Corbeau could explode.
“Yes,” he all but declares, reaching down to cup Philippe’s face. “Yes, let’s do this all the time. And you’re staying for dinner. You want fettuccine?”
Philippe sits up so suddenly that Corbeau nearly goes flying. It’s only by the grace of Arceus (and Philippe’s burly arms crushing Corbeau to his chest) that he doesn’t completely fall off the bed. He kisses Corbeau, soft and slow, and Corbeau melts into it instantly.
When they part, Philippe kisses down Corbeau’s jawline, murmuring in his ear, “fettuccine would be great, boss.”
There’s nearly six years of unspoken something in the words. Corbeau feels light in his chest, head spinning as he sags forward in Philippe’s grip, but he needs to make one thing clear.
“From now on, these,” he reaches down and snaps the waistband of Philippe’s soiled panties, “are part of your official uniform. You may buy more whenever you want using the company card.”
Philippe opens his mouth to protest, but Corbeau cuts him off:
“Fine, use my personal card, I don’t care. But I expect you to wear them daily, and I’ll be checking. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, Mr. Corbeau,” Philippe responds instantly, gray eyes still a little hazy from his orgasm.
Corbeau nods, decisive, then leans in and kisses him gently. Philippe’s shoulders slump and a wide hand comes up to stroke through Corbeau’s hair. It’s so easy to get lost in this, the press of Philippe’s lips and the slight scratch of his impeccably groomed sideburns.
The rest of the evening is blissful, and their fettuccine gets cold because they get too distracted discovering how easily Philippe can lift Corbeau onto the kitchen counter. Corbeau wouldn’t have it any other way though, and when Philippe is snoring softly next to him in bed all he can think about is how happy he is to have stuck his nose in his assistant’s private life.