Work Text:
He shouldn't be pissed off. Philippe absolutely, fundamentally, should not be pissed off. But here he was, fists clenched so firmly that his neat nails are digging half moons into the meat of his palm. He knows it's just work. Corbeau greases a few palms with sweet talk and a little flirting to keep the wheels turning. To keep things moving smoothly when they needed someone else's influence to get something done.
That knowledge did not change that seeing someone else put hands on Corbeau - his Corbeau - made him obscenely angry. An arm across his shoulder. A hand on his knee (or worse, his thigh) that oriented a little too close to a hand between his legs.
The anger is white hot every single time. It's so stupid - he knows Corbeau will be coming home with him that night, and that it'll be him that reverentially helps him strip out of his tuxedo and between his silken sheets, pressing kisses up his inner thigh and to every part of him he can reach as he pulls him to his chest in their bed.
His jaw sets a little as the businessman Corbeau is schmoozing leans in, closer, arm sliding around his waist, practically pulling Corbeau into his lap. Philippe's hands flex at his sides, straining to wrap around the person putting his hands all over his lover. He has no right to feel this irritable about it, if he was honest with himself. He and Corbeau were not open about what they had: everything was still furtive glances and touches and trysts in secret, kisses shared after everyone else had gone home, and what passed for dates simply meals in one of their homes, either Philippe cooking for him in his small apartment or ordering take out to Corbeau's from a local favorite while teasingly griping about how awfully arranged his fancy kitchen was.
They weren't open, and he had no right to be angry about someone that didn't know that such a relationship existed behaving like this. No anger is reserved for Corbeau: this is work, nothing more. Using every weapon in his arsenal to lure someone in. He knows that this man means nothing to Corbeau. Less than nothing, even: frequently when he had to do work like this the first thing he wanted to do on their return to his apartment was pour himself into the shower and let Philippe scrub every inch of him like it had somehow rendered him unclean.
A movement from Corbeau snaps him to his attention. Saying his goodbyes. He tries not to let the relief pool in him too quickly, and moves to grab Corbeau's overcoat, holding it so that he might slip into it easily. He glazes over for nearly the entirety of the conversation, going through the motions of getting his Boss out of the building and down, back into the streets of Lumiose towards their car and home.
"…You looked angry."
Internally, Philippe scolds himself. He thought he'd had a better poker face. But Corbeau's tone is amused, like Philippe's internal conflict had delighted him. He stands to one side as Philippe hunts through his pocket for the car key.
"…Didn't like him touching you like that."
"Yeah? That right?"
"Yes. I didn't like him touching what's mine."
"Yours?"
Philippe glances about them both, slightly furtive. There's no one about, and they know from prior research and experience that there are no cameras to be found here. It was precisely why they used this particular car park. His movement is quick, and he sweeps Corbeau up, practically slamming him into the side of the car as he crowds him in, faces inches apart, thick thigh pressed firmly between Corbeau's legs, making it apparent just how much bigger he was, how much more of a presence he would be than the man who'd been behaving like he wanted nothing more than to be the one bedding him.
"Mine."
Corbeau's breath hitches, and his pupils blow wide at the weight of Philippe's leg on his cunt through his trousers, the older man lifting him just enough with it that Corbeau's full weight is supported on his leg. Even this is enough to spread him, and promises his bulk there later, making him ache. He opens his mouth to say something, but he finds himself too tongue tied.
"A- Oh. Oh. Oh. Wow."
Philippe smiles wickedly, huge hands coasting down Corbeau's body to grope at him, eliciting the most delicious little gasps and whines from him.
"I think," Philippe begins, hands teasing at his thighs, tantalizingly close to what Corbeau wants to beg him to touch: "You like that I don't want anyone touching you but me. And you want a reminder of just who you belong to, 'Beau."
Corbeau licks his lips, and looks for a moment like he plans to respond, and Philippe waits, continuing to just tease and squeeze his way around his lover.
"…Take me home. Mark me as yours again."
It's the only order Philippe needs to hear. He presses a searing kiss to Corbeau's lips, the younger man moaning into it involuntarily, Philippe's hands still kneading at his ass and thighs, keeping him corralled into his touch in a way that makes him rut needily on Philippe's leg. And then it's over, Philippe pulling away and letting him down like nothing had happened, smoothly leaning past him to open the door and hold it for him.
"Boss."
Corbeau can hardly believe what just happened. He can't even muster the energy to be irritable, with the promise of Philippe being like that with him as soon as they get back. After swallowing down a needy whine at the loss of contact, Corbeau slides into the car and into his customary seat, the one allowing him to watch Philippe's face in the rear view mirror as he drives, and squeezes his legs together, trying his best to ignore the pooling wetness in his underwear and the needy throb of his dick.
Philippe slides into the driver's seat, starting the car to pull slowly out of their spot and down out of the car park, taking them both back to Corbeau's apartment over the Rust Syndicate offices. The anticipation was torture. Knowing that soon he'd have his hands all over his little bird, and all the time in the world to wring all the prettiest noises from him. Tomorrow was their shared day off, the one where the Syndicate took a break out of appreciation for everything their staff do to improve the city. After all, why shouldn't they enjoy the fruits of their labors?
Philippe intended to enjoy the fruits of his, after all.
The car drives slowly down the ramp into the basement, and Philippe quickly exits, intent on removing his Boss from the vehicle and escorting him up to the penthouse like a gentleman, and after that he'd remind Corbeau just how ungentlemanly he could be when he wanted to be. As soon as the door's open, Corbeau steps out, biting his lip slightly as he looks up at Philippe. Then the pair quickly walk to the elevator, intent on limiting just how much longer they had to wait.
And the answer is not long at all. As soon as the front door is closed behind them, Philippe is upon him, yanking Corbeau back roughly, pressing the hard line of his cock along the small of Corbeau's back, letting him feel just how affected by him he was. To Corbeau, his hands are everywhere at once, along the plane of his chest and down his stomach, groping at his things and ass and grazing his nipples through his shirt, Philippe's mouth just above the collar of his shirt.
"I'm gonna remind you exactly why it's me you come back to. Why it's me who you keep in your bed, Boss. I'm going to take you apart with my mouth and my fingers, and ruin you for anyone else but me."
Corbeau's breath hitches, and his body presses back against Philippe, desperate for any kind of friction. He's never felt more over dressed in his life, and wants nothing more than for Philippe to strip him down.
"Bedroom."
It's spoken to his huge second in command as an order. He doesn't want to spend any time further waiting. He's surprised when Philippe's grip tightens deliciously on his hips, enough force that he knows he'll be able to count his fingertip bruises in the morning.
"No."
Corbeau goes to be indignant, but he's interrupted by Philippe spinning him and lifting him, setting him bodily on the console table in the hall. He looms close, gray eyes staring into yellow.
"You're mine. I'm going to decide what happens tonight."
It's a press against Corbeau's usual control. Philippe wasn't a submissive exclusively - and while he did love nothing better than to follow Corbeau's directions (even if they were whimpered out with Philippe's fingers tormenting an orgasm out of him), tonight he wanted Corbeau to give himself to his most trusted companion. He watches as his Boss - his beloved - bites his lip.
"…Alright. I'm all yours."
That's all Philippe needed to hear. He pushes Corbeau back further, spreading his legs and nipping at his throat, hands sliding to first undo Corbeau's buttons at his waistband. Their kiss is hungry, Philippe pressing in close with a goal of overwhelming Corbeau into aroused pliancy, lifting him enough to shuck him out of both his underwear and tuxedo pants in one movement, the clothes hanging at the shoes Corbeau is fighting to toe off. He slides hands between his legs, fingers ghosting over his throbbing clit and down between his slick folds, growling low in his throat with approval at how sopping wet he already finds him.
"Already know how you should be, huh? Spread open for me, already wet…"
"Philippe-" Corbeau protests, feeling the heat spilling across his face as he reddens, hand attempting to slide around his lover's wrist. "-That's…"
He trails off when Philippe twists his fingers up and over his dick, the callused pad of his finger firmly pressing upon the bundle of nerves to elicit a desperate moan. He pulls away then, and helps Corbeau finally out of his shoes, then moves to loosen his tie and peel him out of the last of his clothing, leaving him naked and still perched upon the table. Philippe steps back, eyes roving over him, drinking him in.
"I do love being the only person who gets to enjoy you like this, 'Beau. Laid bare for me. Wet for me."
He doesn't bother undressing. Philippe kneels, and pulls Corbeau to the edge of the table to give himself a workable angle to bury his face in his lover's folds, tongue lathing up and over his slick hole and throbbing dick in smooth, firm motions, suckling at his glans before plunging downwards, drilling his hole with his tongue in long, broad licks, lapping at his wetness as if it was nectar. Corbeau moans, tossing his head back, legs falling more open to allow him better access.
He's not sure how many times Philippe takes him tantalizingly close to the edge before pulling away to suck hickeys and nip at the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, leaving a constellation of bruises that he knows he'll feel if he presses his legs together come tomorrow. It's overwhelming: Philippe is making no bones about who he belongs to, who gets to mark him like this, and that no other could compare to what they already have. He doesn't need to voice it: Corbeau knows him as a man of deed and action, and his current actions make that more than clear.
"Philippe, I-"
"Yes, mon amor?"
He says it so casually, as if he hasn't brought up a hand to insistently press fingers into him, making Corbeau's hips rise to meet his touch, desperate for more sensation, more contact more anything that let him feel Philippe.
"I want- no, I… I need you. I need you in me. Please. Please."
"I am in you, mon oiseau. I'm going to ask you to be more specific."
Corbeau almost curses. His hips buck involuntarily, desperate to feel his fingers fucking into him. Philippe's hand moves to his hip, pinning him in place, preventing him from riding his hand to the orgasm he's been desperate for.
"Philippe-"
"No, 'Beau. Tell me what you want."
His breath hitches.
"…Make me yours again, Philippe. Please?"
Philippe's eyes darken with arousal, and he scoops Corbeau to his chest, carrying him to his bed like a prize hard won. He then lies Corbeau down and stands over him, casually undressing like he has all the time in the world, watching him twitch and bite his lip and ache for him. Drinking in all his little involuntary twitches and the desperate little rise of his hips towards him. And then in one swift movement, he's down upon him, weight pressing him into the sheets as he lines up his cock, the sensation contrast of his piercings cooler than his flesh dragging out another moan.
Corbeau comes the minute Philippe is fully hilted in him. It's too much and not enough all at once, and even though he's been edged and pushed to this limit, taken to the brink of orgasm until there had been a puddle beneath him on his table, he still needs more from Philippe, and thankfully - blessedly - he's getting it. Philippe is not gentle in his ministrations: he's fucking Corbeau like the younger man has wronged him, drawing nearly all the way out before slamming home again at a brutal pace. It's delicious. It's perfect.
"Mine. You - you got that?"
Philippe is barely keeping it together. Corbeau's close once again, and he's determined for it to be together. The tell tale flutter is enough to take Philippe into the haphazard, half-aborted strokes of a man about to spill. And when he does, he pushes as deep as he can, lifting Corbeau's hips and holding him so that none may spill out, groaning through his orgasm as he simultaneously cants his hips while trying to pull out as little as is humanly possible.
For several minutes, the only sounds in the room is their ragged breathing, Corbeau lazily clinging to Philippe's chest as best he can. It's him who breaks the silence:
"I'll have to take you with me as my bodyguard on work dates more often if it means you're fucking me like that."
That pulls a laugh from Philippe, and he curses gently, rolling to press him into the bed once more.
"That just sounds like I didn't fuck you hard enough the first time."
Corbeau laughs a little, though the tell tale little press upwards against him is invitation enough for Philippe's fingers to once again slip down, gently pinching his aching little dick between thumb and forefinger, gratified by the little thrill that runs through him at the sensation of feeling him leaking a combination of his own slick and Philippe's cum.
"Feel like I could definitely make more of a mess of you, 'Beau."
Corbeau bites his lip, though the coyness does not last past Philippe working his cock, soon giving him the little whines and whimpers he wants from him as he jerks him off, wringing an orgasm that squeezes out a little more cum from him as he clenches, dripping down his ass. All the while Philippe watches, letting himself come to full hardness once more.
He moves over him again, this time hooking a leg upwards, practically folding Corbeau in two in a way they both know will give Philippe full access to bury himself as deep as he can get, without spreading Corbeau wider than his hips could handle.
"Look so pretty like this Boss. All marked up from me."
He lays the length of his cock over Corbeau's aching cock, the slightly cooler studs immediately demanding attention as his weight presses down, pulling curses from Corbeau as he involuntarily rolls upwards, desperate for more attention than he's getting.
"Philippe-"
"Yes, my love?"
Corbeau's silent a moment, laid low by his statement of love just long enough for Philippe to keep grinding over him.
"Fuck me. Now."
"With pleasure, Boss."
He slams in hard enough to squeeze the air from Corbeau's lungs, and the pace he sets is brutal. The sounds Corbeau makes would no doubt embarrass him if he had the presence of mind to do anything but try not to drool as Philippe fucks him roughly enough that his hips are almost leaving bruises. His fingertips definitely are, as he grips him in place, holding him down while he fucks him.
Soon, Corbeau shakes through another orgasm as Philippe slams home, coming inside him once more, this time slumping to one side with his arm over his waist. Corbeau lies limply against him, silently thanking whatever higher power was out there that he was lucky enough to have Philippe.