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For the very first time in his life, Corbeau had found himself under the care and keeping of someone who looked up to him, rather than down on him. Who was there by his side out of a sense of purpose. Taking such immense pride in his duty to provide safety and security as they worked toward their shared goals. It sure hit different than the couple times in his past he’d been scooped off the streets and taken in as a charity case.
Philippe held none of that same brand of thinly-veiled pity in his heart. On the contrary—the depth of his respect and devotion became clear from the beginning.
For better or worse, the older man had made it his mission to learn as much as possible about his boss. His dedicated, steely gaze tracked Corbeau’s every move, studying him like even the most mundane piece of intel could make or break his ability to fulfill his role.
No crossing of his leg, flip of his hair or pout of his lip went unnoticed. From his preferred coffee order, to his glasses prescription, to which hair products he used, it was all filling up a database in that big brain of his as he lay in wait to leap into action and keep Corbeau from lifting a finger unless he absolutely had to.
It was pretty nerve-wracking, having someone on your tail at every turn, fitting themselves between the cracks of your life like a shadow. Such scrutiny was bound to prod at Corbeau’s innermost insecurities, and vulnerability was not something he’d ever worn well. Every available weakness he fought desperately to hide was simply a weapon to use against him. A potential for disaster, or a reminder of his inability to maintain normalcy where it seemed so automatic for everyone else.
Corbeau’s carefully constructed walls had always kept him alive, and he wasn’t yet sure if he could trust his associate with the task of tearing them down completely in the same way he trusted him as a professional.
That said, if he was really honest with himself, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like the attention more than he let on. The way those intense eyes made him squirm beneath his practiced poker face.
Problem was: right now, the last thing he needed was another reason to squirm.
He had made a terrible, irresponsible, immature lapse in judgment. One he’d found himself defaulting to before his life had involved reliable plumbing. A habit born from years of trying to brow beat his body into submission through sheer determination, as if he could will away whatever he’d put into it.
Only this time, he’d found himself in the middle of a meeting before he realized his blunder.
With Philippe sitting directly to his left on the couch, Corbeau tried to squeeze his legs together as subtly as he could.
It would’ve been imperceptible to anyone not attuned to his every move. But the mental image of Philippe’s jaw set in mounting concern was crystal clear without even having to look, and the idea of him figuring out what was wrong made Corbeau’s stomach flip.
Just below it, his current need sat like a lead weight, throbbing against the belted waistband of his slacks and stealing away all the attention he should be spending on the client who’d just sat down.
Corbeau had to piss, badly. Worse, in fact, than he could remember having to go in a long time. The urge had come on all at once, as it often seemed to do for whatever fucking reason, snowballing into a borderline emergency before it had become loud enough to thrust its way to the forefront of his stupid, overburdened brain.
Shit, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d used the bathroom. It had to have been well before he’d downed the large flamethrower roast that Philippe had fetched from the nearby café a few hours ago.
It may have even been before breakfast. That was something that was previously a rarity, but once Philippe caught wind that he’d been skipping it entirely, he’d insisted on providing it every morning.
Making sure his boss was set up for success had also begun to involve encouraging him to drink more water. The memory of every single sip he’d taken that day made him wince, like the images themselves were pooling into his overfilled bladder alongside everything else.
Damn him…here he was, finally taking care of his body for once, and the fates still found a way to punish him for his efforts.
The chatter around him grew quiet and it only amplified the pounding pressure gnawing at his dwindling composure. Based on the look he was getting, it was clear he’d been prompted while he was preoccupied with his own demise.
Their anxious guest shrunk under his piercing glare, anticipating whatever was supposed to come out of his mouth next. Corbeau managed to save face before things got too weird.
“Speak up,” his knuckles went white atop his knees, “…can’t hear you if you keep mumbling.”
“S-Sorry, sir,” croaked the client, documents crumpling in his trembling fist.
While the dumbass gathered the courage to continue, Corbeau cursed every individual life choice that had led him to such an avoidable fuck-up. The muscles in his gut tensed up and he tried so hard to focus on anything at all besides the monumental effort it took to keep his cool as he contained the flood.
Soon enough, that annoying voice started up again with more real run-of-the-mill bullshit. Whining about entrepreneurial pipe dreams and high interest rates and nothing that even came close to sounding promising enough to risk total humiliation over.
His obnoxious, nasally lilt did little to convince Corbeau of his hollow promises, only serving to exacerbate a burning self-hatred for having bothered with this punk in the first place.
Any reasonable human being would’ve excused themselves long before things grew so dire, would’ve known how to listen to their body without it having to scream before they bothered to pay attention.
Long before he started to get scared he wouldn’t be able to stand without losing control.
Philippe had spent their entire partnership thus far honing his sixth sense for those wordless pleas. Ones Corbeau could never bring himself to vocalize, even if he wanted to. If his right-hand man had any inkling about his current distress, he probably wouldn’t have to wait long to find out, and the anticipation only made matters worse.
Somewhere among the garbled drawl emanating from this cretin, barely audible above nature’s deafening call, came a sheepishly uttered “extension.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake…
Then, the incessant yapping paused to make way for a thorough clearing of the throat. The gross noise grated on Corbeau’s last nerve and startled him in the worst way possible. His eyes bugged out as his muscles betrayed him and his carefully crafted mask began to slip.
Fuck fuck fuck, how could he have let this happen?
In his periphery, Philippe’s presence sent another tremor through his core. The man’s aura was stifling, a nauseating uneasiness radiating from his hulking form.
“And that’s why…” the twerp pressed on, his shitty beady eyes darting around the room, “I would like to implore you to, um—”
“What makes you think,” Corbeau spat, shifting in his seat, “that you’re entitled to some special treatment when you can’t even look at me?”
At the very man you dare hold hostage at the expense of his relief! Of his dignity!
A stray piece of paper flew from the client's clutches and slid under the table as he choked out another lame apology, landing at Corbeau’s feet.
Seriously? Shit.
Normally, he would simply bend over and retrieve it, but…the thought alone sent him into a panic. Unable to hold his voice back entirely, he whined through his nose as another twinge rocked his middle.
He had half a mind to make the kid get onto his hands and knees and grab it himself. Before he could decide how to proceed in a way that wouldn’t risk catastrophe, though, the cushions beneath him were bowing under the weight of Philippe scooting closer. His huge arm came into view as he reached down for the memo, turning toward his boss for a brief second, worried brows knitted together.
The brat kept prattling on and on as Philippe set it down on the table and Corbeau caught a glimpse of the words on the page. Something about a stupid croissant stand of all things, completely unworthy of whatever poor tree had met a premature fate in order to facilitate its existence. It was a mystery why Corbeau had ever been convinced to finance someone so utterly incapable in the first place. He must’ve been drunk. He made a mental note to never find himself on that stretch of Vernal Avenue if this guy miraculously managed to secure proper funding elsewhere—he sure as hell wasn’t getting anything else from the Syndicate at this rate.
Once Philippe straightened back up, he made no attempt to return to his original position on the couch. Close enough that their legs were almost touching, Corbeau’s desperation ramped up impossibly higher. His muscles were so, so, so tired of hanging on.
His body absolutely begged him to follow through, to let out just a little bit, and a new pressure built behind his eyes, as if there was nowhere else for all this liquid inside him to go but trickling down his cheeks. Arceus, did he want nothing more than to ram his hands into his crotch and sprint off toward the bathroom like a toddler, even if he left an unfortunate trail in his wake. Anything to keep from completely debasing himself and destroying the reputation he’d fought tooth and nail to uphold, soiling yet another suit and his precious couch in the process.
Another quick leak forced its way into Corbeau’s underwear and he bit his lips so hard he was surprised he didn’t taste blood. Stinging tears threatened to breach his eyelids, blurring his vision, and his legs shook, hands braced hard on his knees, hips barely restrained where they really wanted to wiggle.
If anything else came out, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop it. At this point, it was almost certain. He was seriously about to pee his pants. Unfuckingbelievable.
Amidst images of sparkling porcelain thrones, Corbeau cycled through an internal catalogue of various violent methods of torture he could inflict upon this poor soul, if only for the crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Uh, excuse me,” said the kid, finally brave enough to make eye contact that Corbeau had never really wanted in the first place, especially not now. Whatever nervousness he’d grappled with previously had been replaced by an unexpectedly accusatory tone and a look that dared to carry judgment.
“Is there…something wrong, sir?”
There was no way this plebeian had caught on…
Completely lost and fit to burst, Corbeau turned his head and sought salvation in his subordinate’s eyes.
Philippe always knew what to do, after all. What he needed, often better than himself. Though it pained him greatly to show such weakness, that it might tarnish his spotless image in those very eyes, things had escalated well beyond the point where he could salvage any semblance of his usual stoic charm. He had to face the fact that this wasn’t going to end in a way that wasn't messy, emotionally or otherwise.
Guess he was about to find out just how deep his partner’s loyalty ran. Would Philippe stick around once he realized his boss couldn’t even control his basic bodily functions? Corbeau couldn’t blame him if he didn’t—he hadn’t signed up for something like this. He really deserved someone better, someone who could carry themselves like a grown man, who didn’t need to be reminded to eat, to sleep, to brush his teeth, to use the damn bathroom, to be doted on like a child at every turn.
Corbeau couldn’t possibly hold back the tears dangling from his eyelashes any longer, and he was so ashamed when his lip began to tremble.
Seemed like that was the last straw.
Philippe fixed his best scary face at the client, breathing deep as he stood and spoke, his booming voice resonating in the office.
“Mr. Corbeau doesn’t appreciate his time being wasted. Why don’t I see you out.”
The kid looked stunned. He balked for a beat before he scrambled to snatch up his things, looking like he really wanted to protest but ultimately choosing self-preservation at the sight of those big clenched fists.
It felt like an hour had passed before the merciful closing of elevator doors behind the two as Philippe led the stupid son of a bitch out of the building at last. Corbeau couldn’t have been more grateful for the decision to leave him alone.
He immediately doubled over, crushing his hands between his legs and crossing them so hard they ached almost as badly as his swollen need. The leather creaked as he rocked back and forth, whimpering and sniffling into his lap, what a filthy mess he was, fuck!
There was no way he could move, he wasn’t even sure how he was still holding it in, another spurt escaped and he cried out, bouncing in place as his muscles continued to twitch and convulse and force him to empty. The steady flow lasted far too long before it died down, and the wet warmth against his fingers teased him dangerously–just let it go, it’ll feel so much better, it’s not worth it…
Philippe had helped preserve his decency to the public, but he was due back any moment, and Corbeau was seconds away from totally losing it. Panicking, he lifted his head and searched around the room for a miracle hidden in plain sight, and his eyes landed on the tiny trash can poking out from under his desk just as the elevator dinged again.
It would have to do.
Philippe raced back over, his heavy footfalls vibrating throughout the room.
“T-Trash can!” Corbeau stammered, “Hurry!”
He shut his eyes and focused on the crinkly sound of the bag lining the can in Philippe’s grip growing closer, thrust in front of him without any further question. If there was any confusion about the origin of Corbeau’s crisis, his current posture left nothing to interpretation, and he couldn’t bring himself to look back up.
He just needed to get his dick out, but…if he moved his hands…no, no, no, shit…
“Um. What can I do?” Philippe asked.
It took everything in him, but Corbeau sprang up and forced himself to face his closest friend. Philippe’s hands were raised helplessly at his sides and he looked extremely embarrassed, but not at all disgusted.
Corbeau's cheeks burned as he writhed in place, shoes tapping a sorry little dance, and more tears poured out as he tried to give Philippe a truly mortifying order in as many words as he could muster.
“Please,” he sobbed, “I’m sorry, but…I-If I move my hands, I’ll—”
Thankfully, Philippe seemed to read between the lines. Thick trembling fingers flew to undo his belt and fly, and it was incredible how Corbeau had found a way to reduce such an act to something so unsexy.
He winced as the damp fabric rubbed against him, feeling himself teetering on the edge of oblivion. It wasn’t like he would make Philippe actually pull him out, he wasn’t that deranged, and his slacks were only getting soaked the longer he delayed the inevitable. This was as good as it would get.
“Look away!” he cried, “…and plug your ears!”
Philippe’s hands snapped back and he whirled around so fast he almost stumbled, covering his ears as he was told.
Corbeau let go of himself long enough to tear out his wet cock and point it straight down into the unlucky little trash can, barely able to aim properly before he absolutely exploded.
He couldn’t decide which was worse. The vulgar sound of his pent-up piss hitting the plastic, or the obscene moaning he was doing as his exhausted bladder was finally able to rid him of his horrible burden.
It gushed in a fierce torrent, legs so weak and wobbly, tension flooding out of him with each shuddering breath. Since his muscles were screwed up tight for so long, it took some extra effort to relax enough to get it all out, and after what felt like forever, the stream slowly weakened until he was well and truly empty.
He panted from exertion, riding a crashing wave of endorphins like he was coming down from an orgasm, it felt so fucking good. He still ached terribly, sore from the overwhelming stretch, but he was so, so relieved, at last…
Close by, Philippe still stood tall, dutifully obscuring himself from the shameful display, and the humiliating reality of what'd happened set in ever harsher with each passing moment.
This was it, wasn’t it? The man must be traumatized. Shaken to the core, unable to reconcile the powerful image of Corbeau he’d put on a pedestal with the events that’ve just unfolded. He must be kicking himself for allowing such a fucking baby to lord over him all this time.
Philippe had to have figured he was finished by now, but he didn’t drop his hands or make any move to turn and see. Corbeau couldn’t imagine what kind of face he must be making if he couldn’t even bring himself to look. Maybe he was waiting for the go-ahead. Or maybe he was busy typing out his resignation letter in his mind.
While he still had a moment, Corbeau tucked himself back into his briefs, cringing as the wet spot on his crotch began to cool. Ugh, he really needed new clothes. And a shower. He felt like such a creep.
As he bent down and tied the trash bag into a knot, he wiped his drying tears on his sleeve. There was absolutely no way he’d make Philippe traipse through the lobby and back out to the dumpsters holding a bag of his piss, that was completely out of the question. But he wasn’t sure if he could bring himself to do the walk of shame with noticeably peed-in pants. It was bad enough he’d potentially exposed himself to a client, let alone if any of the grunts took notice, or passersby. Maybe he could just play it off as a stray waterfall attack from Gyarados…
“You okay?”
Startled, he looked up to see Philippe peering over his shoulder.
Corbeau sighed deeply.
“Yes, Philippe…I’m alright. For the most part. You can turn around.”
When he didn’t move, Corbeau’s worst fears were all but confirmed, and new tears welled up behind his eyes. He had no idea what he was going to do now, without his right-hand man by his side, all because he can’t be bothered to keep track of his own needs.
“Sir…”
“I’m sorry,” Corbeau breathed, shoulders shaking with the effort of suppressing another sob, “This never should’ve happened. You can go.”
“No!” Philippe answered emphatically with his back still turned, “Let me help. I’ll take care of you, take you home, run a bath…”
Corbeau’s heart leapt into his throat.
“…Really?” He hated how pathetic he sounded.
“Of course.”
If it was fine, why couldn’t Philippe be bothered to look at him? Just like that croissant stand freak…was he really so wretched to behold?
“Turn around, Philippe,” Corbeau’s rattled psyche couldn’t handle another moment not face-to-face.
No answer, no movement.
“Turn around!”
“…Please,” came a groan.
“Philippe,” Corbeau was deadly serious, “Turn around. Now.”
Eventually, he did as he was told.
Philippe’s shoes squeaked against the floor as he made a little circle, hands clasped unnaturally below his waist as his eyes scanned the scene between the trash bag and his boss’s pouty, tear streaked face. He didn’t seem upset in the slightest, but he had this bizarre look about him that mere embarrassment couldn’t account for, and Corbeau didn’t really have the energy to psychoanalyze.
He glanced down at Philippe’s tightly laced hands, tired and irritated and ready to put this behind them.
“What, you gotta pee now too?” Corbeau scoffed, trying to make light of the whole thing.
No answer, again.
“You’d better spit it out.”
“It’s inappropriate,” Philippe said quietly, squeezing his eyes shut, face flushing a deep shade of red.
What the hell could he possibly have to say that could be more inappropriate than pissing your pants in your own office?
“Whatever…” Corbeau bent over, plucking the bag up between his thumb and index finger, “You said you’d take care of this, right? Not gonna let me cause a scene on my way out, are you? I’ve been through enough.”
“Sure, boss,” he reached for the bag, the liquid inside sloshing around, and Corbeau wanted to crawl into a hole and die, “…just don’t be mad.”
“What’re you…” Corbeau’s voice trailed off as Philippe removed his other hand.
It was unmistakable for someone at his size. Philippe was hard. Corbeau’s eyes blew wide and he felt his face heating up again at the obvious bulge.
“I have a sweatshirt,” Philippe pressed on, unable to face the situation directly, “you can tie it around your waist if you’d like…Sorry, that’s the only solution I have at the moment. And then we can go.”
He turned and made for the cabinet where he kept his personal items, leaving Corbeau standing there all jumbled up inside in a whole new way.
Well…at least he wasn’t going anywhere, for now. Kinky bastard.