Chapter Text
The sun’s rays are almost oppressively bright as you step back into the grand hall of the Galerie de la Lune. You squint against the discomfort as your eyes adjust, then send your best dagger-filled stare up to Philippe, who’s tailed you at an all-too-friendly distance. He either doesn’t notice your act of defiance, though, or doesn’t care: the expression on his face stays the same as he looks straight ahead, his light eyes glinting where they catch the sun filtering down through the glass dome overhead. The afternoon crowd, thick and amiably loud—you’re still a bit unaccustomed to living in such a big city, and any of the strip malls back home would be dead at this hour—mills about, giving a wide berth to you and your temporary bodyguard-slash-babysitter. His stature alone is enough to intimidate almost anyone, you figure.
“Can I head back to the hotel now?” you try, knowing already what the answer will be. To illustrate your own foresight, you’re already making an obvious show of scanning the other storefronts. Behind you both is the latest, though you've lost count exactly. This one had been dimly lit on the inside, and someone had clearly gone overboard with cologne; the stench of it will probably be in your hair and clinging to your clothes for the rest of the day.
“That’s a negative, kid,” he answers, turning his head this way and that. “You’re lucky I'm still lettin’ you pick the shops at this rate.”
You purse your lips, not necessarily unhappy, but, well...There are worse things, certainly, than being forced to go shopping with your own private security. Then again, you note with some measure of disdain, he's really only here to secure you, make sure you don’t go running off and ignoring his boss's little demands and favors to run around all day in the ever-increasing wild zones, or lounging about on the roof of the hotel with the girls and Naveen waiting on your next promotional match. Philippe is also here, you suppose, to vet whichever clothes you finally select.
The other side of it, though, is that whatever you decide on today will be fully paid for by the Rust Syndicate’s very own Corbeau. And he wouldn’t even count it towards the colossal interest payment that got you into this arrangement in the first place! You roll your eyes there in the shopping center, your thoughts dripping with sarcasm.
What a gracious boss we have! Couldn't ask for better.
You want to send similar bad vibes Taunie’s way, but her naivety is nothing if not charming—and she always means well, besides. Hard to stay mad at a woman like that, and at least you got to do an additional good deed by convincing the boss that Lida shouldn’t have anything to do with all this mess. You’d ensure their safety by doing what you do best: keeping your nose down and getting shit done.
Out of all the things Corbeau had asked you to do in the last two weeks, however, today is decidedly different.
You aren't interested in high fashion, don't have the eye for what would look good on you—but you can spot a perfectly fine fit when you see one. Spending so much time with Naveen, too, since you arrived nearly six months ago has helped hone your skills of noticing quality fabrics and stitching, or what's in or out of vogue. Really, if Corbeau had been paying as close attention as he claimed, he would've sent Naveen right along with you and Philippe today.
Look, Corbeau had said over the phone a few weeks, we’re always watching you. You’re smart enough to know what that means, right?
You shiver, in spite of the afternoon heat. Ugh, why did he have to talk to you like that?
The image, then, flashes across your mind of the way the boss had glanced at you that day outside of Quasartico. I’m not sure how I ended up protecting a scoundrel who won’t even repay a debt, he’d said, and you’d almost laughed in his face. Scoundrel? How old is this guy?
But then he’d gotten so serious. That makes two against one. I never said I’d play nice!
Heat rises to your face at the memory, the spark in his eyes, the passion in his otherwise flat, carefully contained voice. How he didn’t shy away from fighting dirty. And the ferocity he’d shown while he battled alongside you, and how proud you’d felt through that spike in adrenaline when you’d proven to him you weren’t some kid who needs protecting, that maybe he’d been careless in roping in a trainer as strong as you into his schemes. The night you face him in your promotional—and you know it will be coming soon—can’t get here fast enough.
You think about the grin he’d given you after you’d chased off that mob. Maybe it’d been closer to an outright sneer, but the joy of it reached his sharp, exquisite eyes. And then he’d wiped all trace of it clean off his face, like he couldn’t risk being seen too happy for more than a fleeting moment.
You purse your lips again, banishing all of the images as you pick a direction and walk. It’s his fault in the first place that you’re here today, and you conjure a memory instead that makes your heart beat in a different way, ire bubbling up in your chest.
“You can’t keep showing up to jobs looking like that,” he’d said just last night. When you arrived he’d been sitting at his desk and making little notations on a slip of paper—even the pen gripped between his pale fingers was stylish—and hadn’t even so much as glanced up at you.
“Excuse me?” you’d bit back, pursing your lips. “What's that supposed to mean?”
Behind him, Philippe had stifled a laugh. The boss simply put down the pen and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in front of his face, his elbows comfortably on the armrests at his sides.
He gave your body a long, obvious once-over before settling his gaze upon yours. You fought a shiver; this man had all the intensity of a predator watching from the tall grass, communicating so much only through his eyes. And right now, he seemed to loathe your entire being for merely daring to exist in his presence.
“You’ve been in Lumiose for how long? Four months? Five? And you still waltz around like a tourist. If you’re working for me, you'll dress the part.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, unafraid. “Six. And ‘if’ is a real funny word, given I don’t have much of a choice but to work for you. And!" You point your index finger at him, risking the disrespect without a care. "You can’t seriously be telling me to put on one of those tacky outfits you've got your little underlings walking around in!”
The twitch of his eyebrow was barely perceptible, but there. Behind him, Philippe gave a cough that sounded suspiciously close to another laugh. Corbeau shot him a brief sidelong glare, then flicked his gaze back to you. Then he’d sighed, hefting himself out of his chair to round the desk—you swallowed, knowing your inability to quit talking back had only heightened his attention upon you. And even though you stood eye to eye, the way he carried himself more than made up for his lack of height. Here was a man who’d earned his confidence twice over, easily.
“Tacky, are they?” He'd stopped just in front of you, perfectly centered. Then he reached out a hand and took a pinch of your lavender sweater at the shoulder between his thumb and forefinger. And though his expression did not change, he gave a low hum of disapproval. When he pulled back his hand, he used the same fingers to touch at the rim of his glasses, pushing them better into place upon the bridge of his slender nose.
Then he eyed you up and down again—markedly slower than the first time, and standing so close you felt closer to naked than fully dressed. You half wished you'd have caught his eyes lingering on your chest: the sweater was relatively tight and made your tits look particularly good, but he was already moving on in his ocular patdown. Your lower half was covered by black short-shorts and trendy tights, fleece-lined. Nights in the city had been shockingly chilly, after all. Your same old sneakers sat laced upon your feet, high tops, but there was nothing offensive about them or any part of your outfit. Surely! ...Right?
“I don't know why I expected anything different,” he said, his inflection giving nothing away of what he might’ve been feeling. “Cheap make, minimal effort in coordinating any of it with cohesion. And these shorts...”
You'd reddened, half already out of embarrassment and half from what he'd done in just the next moment: he crouched onto his haunches, squinting directly at your crotch. Or hips. Or—shorts. Of course he’d been inspecting the shorts. You stood straight, your arms rigid at your sides.
“Turn around,” he said flatly, and you blanched.
“Ex-cuse—”
But when you looked down, you found him sitting casually with his elbows on his knees, the tail of his impossibly stylish sport coat fanning out on the floor beneath him. And staring at you. Hard. You pursed your lips to keep from biting at them instead, your heartbeat a frenzy in your chest as you understood something important in that instant: you’d exhausted all of the patience for defiance he'd allow for the day.
Well, there wasn’t any harm in testing that limit to its fullest extent, was there? Already staring at each other, you lifted your chin to officially look down your nose at him and said,
“Yes, sir.”
You wish you could’ve seen the look on his face, but you'd caught only a glimpse of that twitch in his brow—you were starting to think that was one of his only tells before he snapped, which you'd seen plenty of times by now—and a split-second of his eyes widening before you did as commanded and turned. You faced the marble doors through which you’d come, bracing for some sort of touch that never came.
And were you relieved at that, or disappointed?
“Faux leather?” His voice was threateningly low, as if you'd committed a grave offense. “In my office?”
You were ready to yell about how these were the most expensive things you own—they were ¥10,000...! But he’s one step ahead of you, as always, already saying,
“And don’t get me started on the department-store satchel on your hip. Your Pokémon deserve a better place to rest than that. I’ve concluded that your assessment of the Rust Syndicate’s uniforms as tacky comes from how intimately acquainted you are with the term.”
You started to whip back around, primed to say something like I'll intimately acquaint that pretty face with an empty Pokéball, when he sucked at his teeth, freezing you in place. You heard the slight rustle of his clothes as he stood—and damn him, he was in better shape than you, even for an older guy: your knees popped like mad the first time Philippe had tried to show you the syndicate's silly little team pose.
Corbeau said with nonchalance, “I didn’t say you could turn back around. In fact, don’t. Philippe will arrive at Hotel Z to escort you to suitable shops in the morning. He’ll ensure you pick out something more appropriate for your day to day work with us, since you so clearly don’t want one of our embarrassing suits.” The sound of his shoes on the cold stone floor could be heard as he walked leisurely back to his desk. “Oh, and don’t worry. I’ll foot this bill as a personal favor. I do love helping those in need, of course. Dismissed.”
Another sound snaps you out of the memory. You blink, finding yourself at the Lune with Philippe at your side, just as discussed. Even thinking about what Corbeau said last night, the ways he’d said it, irked you into hell and back. And the sheer audacity of a man to just saunter up to you and inspect you like a piece of meat...!
But the noise had been Philippe giving a very pointed clearing of his throat in your direction. “We’ve been in this shop already today. Did you see something that caught your eye after all?”
You glance up and see that, indeed, you’d simply wandered over to a store at random while lost in thought. Thoughts about Corbeau. You don’t necessarily care for shopping—if you did, he probably wouldn't have gotten the chance to be such a stuck-up bitch about your clothes—but if he’s paying, shouldn’t you go all out? Shouldn’t you make the most of it? Philippe had even offered, early this very morning when he arrived to collect you, to carry all of the bags for you. It sure beat recycling the same few outfits every week, and with how much you and Team MZ spend on coffee and keeping a steady stock of restoratives for the royale, well, you couldn’t pretend like you weren’t strapped for cash more often than not.
“Yeah,” you said, stuffing down your pride. You'd come to Lumiose with little else anyway, in desperate need of a fresh start. Who were you to complain about how things had unfolded when you hadn’t even a solid plan the day you stepped off that train? You let the anger from last night—certainly not that other, more alarming feeling that was dangerously close to arousal—ferry you through.
You stock up, mostly, on basics, Naveen’s expertise echoing in your mind all the while. Each of the three pairs of jeans, all in different washes, get their denim stretched between your fingers to test the quality of the make. And, thinking of Corbeau’s disdain for your favorite cozy little sexy sweater, you single out some plain but stylishly cut ones that feel softer against your fingertips, the material resistant to pilling and snagged threads, according to the clerk.
The shirts come next, and you decide in the same manner as all the rest; T-shirts, mostly, just the kind that cost ¥20,000 instead of ¥2,000...! The only exception is a blouse that particularly catches your eye, modeled on the mannequin with white lace wrapped around the neck, collarbones, and shoulders before spilling over into an elegant, draped collar, the fit tight across the breast and cinched at the waist. It's styled with a pair of slacks you don’t really care for, though, giving it more of an old lady vibe...but you think you could draw down the age by pairing it with a short skirt, some thigh highs, some little flats or even a cute heel or...
Huh, you think as you search the rack behind the mannequin for the blouse in your size. Maybe I've got more of a knack for this than I thought.
It takes another two stores before you find the perfect skirt: black, highwaisted with crisscrossing ribbon across the back before the material juts out in small pleats. It accentuates the hips on the model in the photo, and though your body might not be so picture perfect, it’s a flattering cut and you know which of your curves are your best friends. If your estimations are right, it’ll cut off two or three inches shy of mid-thigh—perfect for pairing with those plain black long socks you'd gotten for the holidays last year.
Because Philippe won't end the trip until a full wardrobe is at your disposal, you ask a clerk for your size in a pair of designer sneakers that look laughably similar to the ones you’d worn last night anyway. You wonder if Corbeau will even notice the difference, but of course he would.
It’s nearing sundown by the time you leave, the center bathed in a gentle, golden glow through the vast glass dome overhead. Philippe hails the Rust Syndicate driver who’d dropped you both off earlier this morning, and delivers you straight to the hotel’s doorstep. He even gets both the car door and the main entrance for you, evidence of his commitment to the syndicate’s appearance of professionalism. To make matters worse, he greets AZ warmly and busies himself taking the shopping bags up the elevator and to your room. Then he bids you a good evening and leaves you there, alone for the first time all day.
You breathe out a sigh, your body tired—but, admittedly, pleasantly so. You strip and place your satchel carefully on the bed, ever cautious of the beloved Pokémon inside, then slide into the small adjoining bathroom and run your brush through your hair, watching your reflection idly. Most of the clothes you'd gotten today didn’t do anything to excite you, but a little jolt runs through you when you imagine wearing the blouse-skirt-thigh-high combo. Naveen will be so proud!
When you step out of the shower wrapped in a plush towel with a thin cloud of steam billowing out into the room, you take a moment to admire the view from the window. It isn’t much, with the hotel so tucked away from the bustling main streets, but the last remnants of sunlight bathe the old sandstone-colored buildings surrounding it in an ethereal glow. Even the deep green ivy climbing up the opposite wall seems to be basking in the last dregs of evening, soaking in the warmth against the late-spring chill of night. The whole building is so quiet it can almost be felt, the other members of MZ off in their usual spaces until well after dark.
And then—your phone buzzes once. Twice. Three times. A headache threatens to bloom behind your eyes, tired from the day and constant crowds of a major metropolitan area. The last thing you want to deal with is a phone call, and then your annoyance flares when you pick it up and see not only that there are two missed calls in your notification history, but that they and the current are all from Corbeau.
You huff a sigh, plopping down onto the bed and sprawling out, your towel falling open at the front and your hair splayed out behind you. You tap the screen to accept the call in audio only, still massively uncomfortable with this city's apparent obsession with video chats.
“This'd better be important,” you say in place of any polite greeting.
“Huh. And a good evening to you, too,” he returns, sounding unbothered—but you're sure you’ll get under his skin in only a matter of time, should the call last long enough. “Y’know, it’s customary across the world to at least say hello. I might even have cracked a smile at a fuck you.”
That annoyance in you lifts, just a bit. Fine, fine, you’d admit that his sense of humor—driest you’ve ever heard—is right up your alley. If you were going to be forced into unpaid labor, it might as well be for the guy who could not only handle being spoken back to, but dish it right back in turn.
“Sure you would,” you say, giving it your best deadpan. “But three calls? Don’t you people know how to send a text? God!”
There’s a long pause on the other end. “Is that a more convenient way to reach you?”
A small laugh, only marginally bitter, escapes you to hear that. Resisting the urge to make a dig about his age—he can’t be fifty, not yet, but he’s certainly not closer to thirty, either. Probably points at his phone's keyboard with a single index finger and taps each letter one by one. Instead you just say, “Significantly. And I’d be way less annoyed by it, too, if you even care.”
He hums, considering. “Noted. I can’t have you thinking I'm entirely heartless, after all. Anyway, you're needed in my office. I’m sure I don’t need to spell out exactly why.”
“You—” Biting down the urge to scream in frustration, you hold the phone away from your ear and pinch at the bridge of your nose, taking in a slow, steadying breath. “You did this the last time, too, ya know. Let me get settled in at the hotel before calling me up and telling me to hightail it back over to you for some job that’ll take up half the night!”
“And?”
“And I have a life I’d like to live, thank you! If you wanted to see me, I could’ve just gone back with Philippe.”
“He's been given the night off,” Corbeau says, sounding almost bored. “Told him to consider it a reward after putting up with you all day.”
“You—!”
"Well, I did say that I wasn’t entirely heartless, which leaves some room for me to be just that. So, I’ll see you soon.”
Click.
You stare at the words Call Ended until the screen re-locks.
“Can you believe this guy?!” you shout there alone in your hotel room—but then rather immediately come to your senses. With a sigh, you run your hands down your face and make a mental note to apologize to AZ for your outburst, which he surely heard from only one floor down, on your way out to the syndicate’s headquarters.
You haul yourself up, grumbling about how you’re totally flaking on this and absolutely under no circumstances are going to that damn office, even while you hang up the still-damp towel and brush out your hair again. While you dig through the bags for the only outfit you'd really vibed with that day and start putting it on piece by piece, you curse Corbeau’s name and wonder why he can’t even just give you the instructions over the phone instead of making you do all of this extra running around. With the main ensemble on, you snap a pic in the mirror for the MZ group chat and send it over, asking for advice on which earrings to pair with it, hoping one of them have the time to reply in between their busy schedules.
Giving yourself another stern look in the mirror, you realize you’d been right, and a small feeling of satisfaction washes over you. Your waist looks positively snatched, and the flare of the skirt makes your body look curvier than ever. The quality of the fabric is instantly noticeable as being high-end, too, and you click your tongue in annoyance. The fact that Corbeau funded all of this and even demanded it in the first place...You aren’t sure if you should be grateful or humiliated, or some messed up mix of both.
Well, you think wryly, I'm sure I'll pick up on the vibe the moment the grunts shut the door behind me.
Lida is the first to respond, asking after the occasion. You tap out, More mafia shit. I’ll explain later, and she instantly replies with an emoji with wide eyes and a flushed face. Then Naveen chimes in with a suggestion of something simple in design but striking in contrast, to which Lida and subsequently Taunie, always off doing some mystery job for Quasartico, react with a thumbs up.
Send more pics later! Taunie insists, and you can’t help but smile down at your phone. Your time in this too-big city would be a lot lonelier if not for her and the others.
You decide on earrings and tug on your thigh highs, grateful for the slightly sticky lining at the tops that help secure them in place. After sliding the new shoes onto your feet and lacing them—and running a stick of deodorant along both of your inner thighs to protect against chafing—you take a final look in the bathroom mirror: Your hair is half-up, not too formal but not too casual, either, and your collarbones and shoulders look especially pronounced against the lace of the shirt. The bra you chose, too, has some light padding that really lets your tits shine where their topmost curves peek through the lace.
Wait—why are you thinking about how great your boobs look? You purse your lips and fight a scowl at your own reflection, then grab your satchel and head for the elevator. Only after it’s taking you on its slow ride through the city streets do you realize that you didn’t buy a new bag, escaping both yours and Philippe’s minds, and you wonder what the boss will have to say about that.
The cab ride takes longer than usual, night having fallen and it being Friday. God, you lost track of time too easily these days with everything going on. You sit and respond to the few messages in the group chat, and give your mother a vague update—mostly that you’re still alive and well, leaving out the details like I’m meeting up with the boss of a crime gang that honestly seems more like a community-service-based organization operating under the guise of loan sharks? You wouldn’t want to worry your poor mom more than you already are, with how suddenly you’d packed up and left for Lumiose in the first place. After assuring her that your friends do, in fact, have your location, you close the chat and try to calm your growing nerves.
It’s the worst part, easily, of these visits to the Rust Syndicate’s building. Rarely does anything ever intimidate you, and now with a team of Pokémon on a winning streak in the royale in your satchel, that’s truer than it’s ever been. But since that damned phone call the other week that kicked off this whole new stupid chapter in your stay in Lumiose, you can’t shake the nerves that accompany every trip here.
When you get close enough that walking the rest of the way would beat the traffic, you pay the driver your fare and hop out onto the street. You round the main courtyard that composes the circular wild zone in the area and greet the guards on duty tonight—one of them is part of the duo whose asses you and Lida beat, before Philippe came out and really gave you a shakedown, and they flash a smile at you as they nod to indicate you can pass.
Ugh. That stupid anxiety welling in your gut nags you just a bit more, but you stuff it down as you head through the high walls and into the zen garden. The quiet here, despite part of the main city strip being a few dozen steps away, is always mesmerizing. The next grunt holds open the door for you, and inside, only a handful are present...six at the most, not at all the no-nonsense vibe that’d awaited you every other time you’d visited so far. None of them are standing at attention, either, all busy with something or other, walking here or there. Puzzled, you purse your lips and stand there long enough that the woman at the desk in the corner calls you over.
She explains that you can go on in—the boss is waiting, but that most of the other grunts are off running some food truck event in the Rouge Sector. So there’s only a few of them left for the night, she goes on, and even adds in a dig that they can’t all be here to welcome you every damn time you show up. Then she smiles and waves you away.
Fuck it, you think, striding confidently to the elevator and tapping the button for the highest floor. It's a direct trip to Corbeau’s office, and quick, too. When the bell dings and the elegant doors slide open, you find him sitting in his chair per usual, writing something in a thick book per usual. And also per usual, he doesn’t even look up when you enter.
“If it isn’t my favorite workhorse.” Then he sits up and holds out his arm, glancing at the watch on his wrist. “Not exactly right on time.”
“Yeah, well, traffic was a nightmare. You should call me up sometime other than rush hour for a change.” Wait, did he even give you a time in the first place?
He pens a few more lines in the book, then fans at it with his free hand. “Don’t you usually walk?”
You purse your lips, holding back a scoff. “Usually, yes, when I’m not wearing clothes that cost more than my mom made in a year when I was growing up.”
Still he takes his time as he shuts the book and stands, carrying it over to one of the shelves and stooping to place it back where it belongs. You can hear him give a short hum as if he’s unsure, then he draws himself back up and crosses to the opposite end of the room to repeat the process.
You try not to stamp your foot and say something you’d only be embarrassed by. If you say what you want—You’d know that, Corbeau, if you stopped acting childish and just looked at me—then all it’d earn you is some patronizing lecture on patience, complete with that signature smirk of his.
With the book finally put away, he returns to his desk, opting to stand in front of it to face you in your typical spot whenever he has need of you. It’s strange, you think, to see the room without Philippe’s massive frame in the background. There’s plenty else to catch the eye, lots of things so expensive you can’t even fathom the prices, but you’ve had ample time to stare at those while Corbeau drones on about some favor or another in the last few weeks. Right now, you give him your full attention—and you can tell he likes that.
And...do you like that he likes that?
“Yes,” he says then, looking you up and down just as he’d done the night before. “I can see that. I trust Philippe gave you as much respect as he’d’ve given me?”
“Yup,” you answer. “I’ve never known him to be anything other than polite, even when he was trying to run my shit.”
“Run your...?” Corbeau raises a brow.
“Ugh, now I have to translate this into Old Man for you?” You give a little teasing smile and laugh through your nose. “Means when your grunts jumped me out front and Philippe came to finish the job. Beat my ass, so to speak.”
“Ah,” he says, nodding. “Sure. Well, I’m glad to hear it. And I did mean what I said—you are quite the workhorse. I’ve been glad for your efforts as well.”
Your heart softens, just a bit, even if he’s still giving you that stony, impenetrable gaze. “Thanks—I mean, as much as that means. You’re still not really giving me much of a choice in all this.”
He just shrugs, then cocks his head to the side. “It’s a noble thing you’re doing for a friend. Can’t be too upset about it, can we? It’s mutually beneficial, too: this way, I don’t have to deal with Taunie.”
You squint at him, unsure if you should be offended. “What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s so...chipper.” He flashes that brief smirk at you, then flicks his eyes down to the space of bare skin between your skirt and stockings. In fact he did it so fast that you’re not even sure if you imagined it, when—“Trust me when I say you’re much more my type.”
Your stomach lurches in thrilling anxiety, but you do your best to ignore it. All of your focus goes into not turning red in the face. “Look, I really was looking forward to a night in. Just tell me what you need me to do—and can’t you just tell me over the phone next time?”
Corbeau clears his throat, then puts one hand on his hip. “Sure, I’ll get straight to the point: I’d like to inspect today’s purchases.”
“What the—But you’re—That’s...” You clamp shut your mouth, unwilling to stammer anymore. You should’ve suspected some pervert shenanigans: no Philippe, no wall of grunts lined outside the office, the late-ish hour.
Turn around, you recall without wanting to. And oh, god, how hard your heart had beat when he approached you last night and reached out to touch your sweater. And you had been awfully concerned with how good your tits and hips looked in this outfit before you left and—Ugh!
Feigning nonchalance, you tell him, “Well, this is all I brought with me. All the other bags are in my room at the hotel.”
“Of course,” he returns easily. “You were smart enough to not show up in rags for me this time, at least. It will do.”
He motions for you to come closer, and you obey far easier than you would’ve ever assumed. The walk across his office suddenly feels miles long, and when you come to a stop only about two feet before him, your nerves are on fire; you can barely even feel your arms and legs...!
As he gives you another once-over—god you’ll never get tired of that—you struggle to keep from biting your lip. He angles his head this way and that, nodding. Just as he’d done last night he reaches out his hand to test the fabric of the blouse, but this time at your bicep, with your shoulders covered in delicate lace.
“Perfectly acceptable,” he concludes, resuming his stern posture in front of you. “I knew you had taste somewhere in that thick skull of yours. In fact, you’ve selected quite the brands for tonight’s ensemble. I think I’ll simply deduct the grand total from your interest payments.”
Shit—you can’t and won’t argue with that one. Even the insult he’d thrown in sounded rather like a teasing endearment.
“Thank you,” you say, and actually do mean it this time. “Am I dismissed now, or—”
“Not quite. I have one last favor to ask you.”
Groaning inwardly, you avert your gaze down to the floor. “And what’s that, boss?”
“I’d like to touch you.”
Your heart responds instantly, giving a beat that feels more like being hit with a brick and only growing harder and harder with each passing second. You play dumb, almost not believing that Corbeau of all people had said such a thing to simple, unassuming you. And the more you panic internally, the more convinced you become that he can all but smell it on you. “You already did touch me. Just now, idiot.”
“I think we both know what I mean.”
You clear your throat, feeling awkward at how fast this whole situation is turning you on. “Nnnope.”
“Then allow me to be explicit,” he says flatly, an unamused expression on his face as he adjusts his glasses. “I’d like to push you onto my desk and know what you feel like writhing underneath me. And other things, as well, that can be discussed if you’d like—”
"Discuss it, huh...”
He hums again, the sound thoughtful. “I should probably also make it clear that this is something you have the option to decline. You can turn around and walk home for all I care, and I won’t make mention of it ever again. It has no bearing on your debt repayment—”
“Yes!”
The word hangs in the air between the two of you, and his eyes narrow ever so slightly. You hadn’t even been prepared to say it, but with each passing second you feel more and more like you blurted it and made a fool of yourself. You don’t even want him like that, and...and...
You try not to roll your eyes; it would be in self-deprecation, but you don’t want Corbeau to misinterpret things. Of course you want him like that. He’s been living rent-free in your head for days now. You realize with a sudden start that you desperately want to know what this man looks like under his immaculately-styled clothes, all of it even higher end than the shit he’d paid for today. Someone with such fine taste, singling out someone like you?
It’s been too long—only a handful of seconds, but still—and you squeeze shut your eyes to gather the courage to look him in the face again. He's still staring at you hard, and you swallow.
“My answer—is yes,” you say again, trying not to let your mounting excitement and anticipation seep through. The stars are all aligning: you’d shaved not three full days ago, you’re wearing a hot new outfit, you have on perhaps not your sexiest underwear, but it’s all black and not ugly by any stretch of the imagination, and you’re alone in a lavish room with the hottest man you’ve ever met in your life.
And he’s asking to touch you? You nearly fall over at the notion.
“Oh,” he says, his voice somehow deeper than you’ve heard before, “aren’t you an eager thing?”
Done-deal. You’ll pass out before you get anywhere exciting with him, you’re sure of it. Your eyes actually roll back as you shut them, and then you hear Corbeau let out a little laugh through his nostrils.
“Well, then, since you’re incapable of doing much else at the moment, why don’t we get started where we know you shine? Think you’ve still got wits enough to do what I say right now?”
You nod, blinking your eyes back open and looking over at him. He hasn’t cracked at all—there isn’t even a blush across his face, whereas you’re sure you’re red as a berry.
“That’s my girl.”
Bastard. Stupid hot bastard.
“Trade places with me,” comes his first command, followed by a short sidestep to allow you space. You walk the few paces forward towards his desk, catching a hint of his cologne as he passes by you: a sharp, masculine scent, but muted and nowhere near overbearing. With the room so big and with how he typically stays seated in all your meetings, you haven't had chance before to familiarize yourself with it until now.
When you make to turn to face him, he halts you with nothing but his voice. “Ah-ah, hold it. I didn’t say you could turn around yet. And I quite like you as I have you at present.”
You swallow, heat pooling low in your belly and the space between your legs throbbing once, hard. It takes a concentrated effort to keep your knees from buckling.
“Hands on the desk,” he says then, and you obey, bracing your palms against the sleek wood. “Very good.”
His touch is light at first, right at your waist, his fingertips pressing into the fabric of your blouse before sinking in gently to feel at your curves. They snake around your middle, his thumbs running slowly up and down the small of your back, outlining your spine.
“I knew you were hiding a killer body under here,” he murmurs, his voice so close you can feel his breath in your ear. “And it looks so much more you, dressed so finely.”
Fingertips brush at the bottom curve of your bra through the shirt, then vanish. You feel as he knocks a knuckle against your satchel, and then his touch resurfaces at the tops of your high socks at the front of your thighs.
“These, however,” he says clinically, which is somehow also hot, “aren’t quite up to standard.”
“Uh huh,” you say, because even in such a vulnerable position, you still can’t resist getting under his skin. “I gotta to keep some shred of my own personality, you know.”
“Don’t worry.” He slides his middle and forefingers into the tops of the stockings, his skin warm against yours, even if it’s only his fingertips. He brings them around the circumference of your legs, then drags them up to tease at the curves of your ass. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I like a woman with a bit of audacity to her. It’d be boring for you to show up in something entirely new. And if I’m not mistaken...I believe you wore these the day we met.”
Shit. He’d been paying such close attention to you from the jump.
You give a steady hum, hoping to god you can form coherent sentences. “With all the charity work you’ve had me doing, I’m surprised the whole high-fashion thing isn’t just another front.”
“The evidence of my tastes is all around you,” he whispers into your ear. “I enjoy looking at pretty things.”
There in his impossibly lavish office, he gropes at your ass beneath your skirt with one of his palms, hot and dry. It’s less a moan that leaves you and more a gasp, and then he takes a hand and presses it against your neck, holding it tight. His lower hand takes two fingers and pulls at the thin fabric there—just an unassuming black thong, its stretchy material meant for comfort rather than sex appeal—and rubs at your entrance once, twice, enough for you to grow painfully aware of exactly how wet you are.
Corbeau lets out a sharp hiss. “Oh, you are an eager thing, aren’t you?”
“I—I just...” you try just before your jaw drops: he’s moved his fingers, properly lubricated from your own body, up to your folds, where he trails a slow line back and forth against your clit. Fuck. “You’re just...Really high up the ladder,” you try again, thoughts becoming more and more difficult to articulate with every rapid beat of your heart. “You’ve got pull. I’m just”—he’s pressed just a bit harder at you, making you momentarily see stars—“nobody special. A tourist.”
He sucks his teeth in disapproval, gently squeezing your sensitive nub between his middle and index fingers. “The things you’ve done for this city would put most locals to shame. At the risk of sounding crass...” His thumb sinks into your cunt then, the two long fingers still working slowly at your clit. “I see a lot of myself in you.”
You toss your head back, as much as you can with his fist holding you in place. You can feel your walls clench once as your pussy gives another useless throb in arousal, his thumb just a shred of what you desperately need. He fucks you shallowly, as slow as he’s rubbing against your folds, which stirs a feral feeling in the center of your chest.
“So,” he goes on, “what’ve we learned?”
“Ah, um...” You swallow. The back of your head rests against his shockingly sturdy shoulder, your body arched in a way you didn’t even think you could manage before tonight.
“You should use your words,” he says, and you know he’s smirking there where he stands behind you. You can hear it.
“Fuck.” Gathering yourself enough to speak, you say, “I learned...That you appreciate the work I do for Lumiose.”
“Mm.” Another small pump of his thumb, driving you mad. “And what else?”
“And—that you like to look at pretty things.”
“That’s it,” he purrs. “Not the whole story, though...”
He withdraws his fingers from your sex and pulls at your neck, the signal clear despite the lack of spoken command: he wants you to turn around. And so you obey, rewarded immediately with him taking a step to really close in on your personal space. Something about the way he stands—and the slight angle you’re at, hands braced upon the desk that’s now behind you—but despite him being no taller than you, he’s perfected the art of looming.
When he opens his mouth to speak, you smell a sharp stab of mint and fight not to grin: the fresh wave of arousal rolls through your body to know he’d wanted to be as presentable as possible, all for you.
The hand that’d just been busy between your legs comes up and takes hold of your jaw, and he stares down into your eyes with that startling ferocity you’ve come to expect. You can smell yourself on his fingers, your essence smearing across your face.
“Pretty is preferable, of course," he starts. "But it’s not what I need. No, what I need is something that’s as pretty as it is deadly.” And then he cocks his head; you can feel the tip of his tongue at the lobe of your ear, warm and wet and dizzying. “I could hardly believe it when I heard you’d bested two of my guards and Philippe. There’s value in such a person, to an extent I can’t describe. And battling alongside you...” His teeth gently scrape along the outer shell of your ear. “As much as I love when you do what I tell you, seeing you in action, taking command of your team, working up a sweat...”
In spite of how rapidly all control is leaving your body, you manage a little grin at that. “Who’s the one working up a sweat now, though?”
“Ah,” he breathes, and then the hand on your jaw gives a rough tug to angle your head towards his. His gaze is hooded, but his piercing irises stare straight into your own, his parted lips so close to yours. It would take nothing to push and crash them together, but you dare not move. Not yet, not under the force of his attention. “And that fucking mouth of yours is just the cherry on top.”
You barely register that when he squeezes, it forces the tongue out of your mouth. It happens so fast that it takes a full second for your brain to catch up, and when finally it does, Corbeau has closed that minuscule distance and pressed his own tongue flat against yours. He moans, tugging you closer by your jaw, and an arousal so deep shoots through your core quick enough to make your legs nearly fall out from under you.
A whine leaves your throat, high-pitched and desperate, and you feel him smirk against your face while he lazily drags his tongue along your own. He closes off this first kiss—and what a first kiss it is—by taking your lower lip between his teeth and sucking at it greedily. His free hand gives a forceful yank at the space where your shirt is tucked into the high waist of your skirt, and suddenly he’s groping at your bare ribs, your tits through the bra.
He shifts, and that’s when you feel it: the erection, rock-hard, at the space where his legs meet beneath his slacks. He’s grinding it against your hip, subtly but noticeably, while he tongues at your mouth and bites your lips. His hold on your chin is uncomfortably tight, blending the lines between pleasure and pain. Your own hips start to sway, your sex in need of pressure once more. He starts to trail his mouth up your jawline, then down the parts of your neck uncovered by the lace collar, kissing as he goes. When he stops here or there to suck at your pulse, it’s hard; you’ll be covered in hickeys at this rate.
“Touch yourself,” comes his next command, one which you have absolutely no qualms about obeying.
You angle yourself slightly and flip up your skirt—now properly hiked up over your hips—and do as you’re told. But though the relief is instant, of course fingering your own clit while a dangerous—if kindhearted—man bites at your neck only takes your excitement to new heights. You’re so dizzy with pleasure it’s almost as if you’re standing at the top of some great precipice, waiting for the drop. And the drop, for reasons you barely comprehend, will be the best damn thing you’ve ever felt.
Corbeau pulls the shirt up as far as it’ll go, then immediately closes in on your collarbones. He licks and kisses and sucks at them with marked greed, his mouth making lewd sounds as he goes further and further down. He plants a particularly sweet kiss just at the swell of one breast just before pulling down your bra to expose both nipples.
Those, too, he claims as his own. You toss back your head again, sick with pleasure, your hand’s ministrations between your legs growing frantic. He's good with his tongue, that's for sure; you never considered your nipples to be particularly sensitive, but everything he does to them sends tiny, rippling shocks of pleasure through you. Watching him there with his brows furrowed in concentration is a view you'll never forget.
“You’re gonna come, aren’t you?” he asks around one of the hardened buds of your tits.
“Mm-hmm..”
He grabs you by the wrist and yanks the hand up and away from your center. “Oh, but I didn’t say that was allowed just yet, did I?”
Your eyes snap open and you glance down, finding him already staring up at you with a smirk playing across his lips. His tongue lolls back out to drag along the underside of your nipple before he draws himself up to full height, staring at you with his head cocked to one side.
“I’ll get you there eventually, don’t you worry,” he says, voice dripping with false sweetness. “But first...Strip.”
“Huh?” You narrow your eyes at him. “Look, I’m not gonna give you a show or anything!”
“Never asked for one. I simply want you out of these fancy clothes I bought you. Although”—here he brings up a hand to his chin, musing as he takes in the whole of your body—“the stockings can stay. They’ll be a good look when you’re on your knees for me momentarily.”
It’s a perfect opportunity to push at his buttons, see just how riled you can make him; you seize it right away. “Oh yeah? You think that’s where I’m gonna be?”
He pretends to give it some thought, all pretense. “Yes, actually. I’m rather certain of it.”
“And how are you gonna make me do that?”
To your horror, he actually rolls his eyes. Your hands grip the edge of the desk for dear life in the face of such steep embarrassment, but why the hell does that only turn you on even more?
“You have better comebacks than that," he scolds, "surely. But—since you asked...”
He grips your jaw again in the same way as before, squeezing to force the tongue from between your teeth. Then he angles his head and parts his lips, a fat glob of saliva falling from his mouth and dangling precariously over your own. Your heart is racing; it’s somehow the most disgusting thing you’ve ever seen yet simultaneously the hottest. Your mind is a racing blur of Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.
When he purses his lips and launches it onto the flat of your tongue, your pussy throbs so hard it aches. He looks exceptionally proud of himself, smug unlike anything you've ever seen.
“You just let me spit in your pretty mouth without so much as a word of protest,” he says with no small amount of pride. “So, yes, I think you’ll take off your clothes, get on your knees, and choke on something else next.”
Blushing hard, you do what’s been asked, trying not to feel awkward at how methodically you’re stripping while he simply stands there and watches. It’s strange, too, to fight the pleasant tingling in your limbs and remaining coordinated enough to not fall flat on your stupid face right in front of him.
A flash of movement catches your eye: you glance over to see him pulling a single cigarette from a carton that’d been in one of his pockets. He replaces it and then puts the cigarette in his mouth, lighting it shortly thereafter with an ornate metal lighter. The smell of the burning paper and subsequently the tobacco hits your nose, neither pleasant nor terrible, and after his first drag he simply holds it at his side, watching. His free hand sits in his pocket, the tail of his sport coat draped up and over his wrist.
“Very good,” he says when you’ve dropped your thong onto the pile of the rest of your clothes. He gives your body an appraising look, hovering at your hips and cunt and thighs. “Yes, definitely the right call to keep on the stockings. Now, be even better for me and get on your knees.”
As you sink down, he works his belt and the button and fly of his slacks one-handed. You stare at his delicate fingers, half mesmerized by how gracefully they’re moving, until he frees the object that will surely be the centerpiece of all of your fantasies for the next god-knows-how-long. His cock is so fucking hard, slightly reddened at the head where it’s also beading with a thick drop of precum. You glance up from your spot on the floor and swear you’re going to get caught up if he keeps looking at you like this.
You suck in a hissing breath, then put on your best game face. That is, narrowing your eyes just so and drawing up one corner of your mouth in a flirty little smile. Then you slowly shut your eyes and bring out your tongue, pressing it against the underside of the head and draw it upwards, purposefully snagging the beading cum as you pull your head back. Opening your eyes slowly you can see the desired effect, a string of it connecting the two of you, before you sever it by licking your lips.
“How bad do you want it?” you ask, doing your best to mimic the fake sweet tone he’d hit you with earlier. You push out your chest and arch your back, your hands together on the floor at your knees. You know you look good.
He runs the fingers of one hand through your hair, stopping to hold your ear between his thumb and forefinger. When you look up at him again, he’s lifted his chin and furrowed his brows while he stares you down. His cock twitches once.
“Bad,” he admits through clenched teeth. “Since I first saw you, weeks ago. Knew you’d look right at home on your knees for me.”
“Oh, well, so eager, aren’t you?” You purse your lips, more a pout. “That sucks for you. Because I think you should just touch yourself.”
There’s that twitch of his brow, although this time his mouth also contorts into a sneer. He takes a long, purposeful drag of his cigarette, the tip glowing orange. Then he holds it out atop your head and flicks, a cascade of ashes raining down onto your hair.
You balk, eyes wide, only managing to stammer out, “You—!”
“One more word out of line,” he says darkly, “and I come down your throat and leave you high and dry. Or rather, dripping and empty. And I so wanted you to be a good girl and come for me later.”
“That’s not fair,” you whine. Your pout now is certainly not for show.
He takes a third drag of the cigarette, after which he rids the excess ashes in what must be a tray behind your head on the desk. “Well, you know the solution. Next time you can think before you speak.”
Not keen on wasting any more time, you open your mouth wide and take his length inch by inch. Though it hasn’t been too long since you’ve done this, you certainly hadn’t since you arrived in Lumiose; hopefully your recent lack of practice won’t be too obvious.
But Corbeau is vocal: he moans, and even if it isn’t loud in volume, it’s the passion behind the sound that really makes your heart race. You pull him as far to the back of your throat as you’re able, the tip of him poking at your anatomy almost uncomfortably, before you draw back and start blowing him properly. With each pump of your head you’re rewarded with his little grunts and smaller praises, encouraging, his free hand squeezing your ear painfully tight.
“That’s it, shit,” he breathes. He’s started to move his hips, lessening your workload. “You’re gorgeous with my cock in your mouth.”
It makes you glance up at him, and god, you could die a satisfied woman then and there. He’s tucking the cigarette between his teeth and moving to grip your skull with both of his hands, staring down at you with his eyes narrowed in ecstasy. You couldn’t care less of the tobacco stench lingering on his fingertips as they cross over your face in a frenzy, raking through your hair and grabbing a fistful. The one that’d been holding your ear slides down the side of your head and cups the underside of your jaw, all of the leverage now his to fuck your mouth as he sees fit.
Your hands fly up to grip at his thighs, still covered by his flawless slacks with the pressed seam down the middles. You hold onto the fabric for dear life, doing your best to remember to take in shallow little breaths each time he pulls back. But his thrusts gain speed, and he’s managing to get so deep into your throat that tears well in your eyes, spilling over down your cheeks. You gag, but you’re way past the point of being embarrassed around him; it only serves to turn you on even more, your inner thighs coated with your own essence where you kneel before the boss of the Rust Syndicate.
He pulls out so suddenly that it takes you a moment to process the change. He lifts your chin and cradles your face with surprising gentleness, and then wipes the tears from it with both of his thumbs, swiping a swift trail from the bridge of your nose all the way to your ears.
You’re definitely in danger of getting in too deep now.
“Up,” he says, giving two stern taps to the side of your face.
Wobbling slightly, you rise to your feet. Given the location, and his apparent penchant for domming, and that he was carefully testing your own capacity for subbing, you made to twist around. Surely he’d be the type to bend you over, his hand on your neck like before, pinning you to his desk and hitting it from the back. But then he says,
“No,” and almost too quickly. Fleetingly you wonder if you can catch him giving himself away in these little things, just like that twitch of his brow. He rests one of his hands on your shoulder, his eyes lingering on one of the bruises blooming across it. “Plenty of time for backshots some other day. I want to see the look on your face when I’m inside you for the first time.”
Addiction is the word that comes to mind, even past the smaller surprise that he apparently knows what a backshot is. You’ll never be able to live without this again, the thrill that shoots through you, the way he stares at you like you’re the last woman on earth. You’re not quite sure how you were living without it up until now, actually. You sit, then, on the edge of the desk, perching there and doing your best to appear patient despite your rapid heartbeat and the sickening anticipation coursing through you.
“Lie back.” He takes a slow drag of the cigarette, nearly burnt out now.
You glance back over your shoulder at the few items still scattered across his desk. “But your things—”
He sucks his teeth and leans past you, one arm outstretched, and swipes everything sitting there off onto the floor. Pens, the short stack of papers, a single, smaller ledger than the one he’d been writing in when you arrived, and something that makes a heavy clunk as it hits the tile, probably a paperweight. Foregoing his neat and tidy aesthetic just to have you exactly how he wants you is making your head spin again.
“Lie. Back.”
You won't push the envelope by making him tell you yet again, opting to save that for this apparent some other day he’d just mentioned. As you brace back on one elbow and feel for the surface below you, he takes your knees and lifts, positioning himself directly in front of you, resting his hot, hard length right against your plump folds. It’s picture perfect, really, him so sharply dressed and you in nothing but your thigh-highs and tennis shoes, the full size of his cock on display. Soon it’ll be that far inside of you.
He hooks an arm around one of your legs, his other hand grabbing his cock at the base. The desk is startlingly cool beneath the expanse of your bare back, and glides with little friction beneath your sweat-slick skin when he tugs you closer.
The head of him sits just at your entrance, penetrating it only barely. You take in a slow breath through your nose and shut your eyes, ready to lean back and enjoy the ride, but Corbeau clears his throat to get your attention.
“Eyes on me,” he says, and the reward for your instant obedience is a smooth, encouraging murmur: “Oh, isn't that my good girl?”
He enters you with what you’re sure now is very calculated slowness. It’s excruciating, how good he is at all this, drawing things out just to drive you insane. How he hasn’t unraveled yet you’ll never know, especially maintaining the intense eye contact, but you focus instead on the way the head of his dick stretches your slick opening, your walls clenching around him as he pushes deeper and deeper, the both of you savoring every inch.
“You take my cock so well,” he says just as he bottoms out inside of you, so damn deep that you can feel the fabric of his pants against the backs of your thighs. His eyes are narrowed in pleasure so obvious it makes you throb again.
You can’t take another second of waiting. You roll your own hips, mimicking a man’s thrusts, just to get him moving inside of you. His jaw tightens and he lets out a groan, the cigarette bouncing once where it sits in his mouth.
“Uh huh,” you purr right back, “where’s all that stoicism gone?” You bite at your lip, exhaling a shaking breath through your nose. Fuck, he’s filling you up perfectly. “You gonna tell me how this pussy feels?”
He brings down his hands hard onto your waist, squeezing too tight. There isn’t any time—or need—to feel the pain, because the atmosphere shifts so severely that it’s all you can notice. Somehow he’s bringing even more intensity than before, a moment of darkness flashing across his expression. He finds purchase on your hips, using them to pull you down onto each of his forward thrusts, so deep that it aches.
“That was my line, brat.” But in spite of such a scathing tone, his pace quickens, his cock ramming into you harder and harder with every pump. A wince crosses his features, one eye nearly shutting in ecstasy as he tries to keep both of them level on your own. “But—I’ll play along, just this once: you feel”—there’s a tremor along the underside of his cock, and his words are clipped short with a short groan—“fucking incredible. I love a woman who—knows what she wants. Who knows how to take it like you do. You didn’t even put up a fight, or ask me to wait, or to slow down, none of it.
“In other words...” He takes the final hit of the cigarette and pulls it from his mouth, snuffing it out somewhere outside of your periphery. One of his hands flies up to hold onto your thighs, fingers dipping beneath your stockings again as he leans in as far as your positioning allows. The cool, silken texture of his tie falls against your ribs, his coat draped over either side of you, a warm comfort. Then he brings down the heel of the other hand and presses it firmly against your clit, the pressure enough to make you lightheaded. “You’re a filthy fucking slut, and I want you all to myself.”
It’s all more than you can take. You finally shut your eyes again, your head rolling back on the desk as he fucks you hard. His belt, from where it hangs loosely at one side of his waist, clangs noisily against the lip of the desk, and you know for a fact that his pants are soaked from where his clothed hips slam into your bare ones. And even though you’re aware of your moaning getting louder and his own matching in volume, you forget all about the Rust grunts working on the floors just below the double doors across the room; nothing else matters except for him and you and the fact that he’s powerful and rich and a bit mean in spite of the whole heart of gold thing, and that he wanted you and took you and wants more, too.
“Don’t get used to the flattery,” he warns—but his weakening voice comes through clenched teeth. “I’ve a mind—to put you in your place, but...tonight...”
You’re close, so close to coming, but his rhythm is just the slightest bit out of sync with your own, the small circular motions of his palm not as precise as you need them to be. Without thinking, you slide your fingers beneath his hand, effectively bullying him out of the space. You touch yourself the way you do when you’re alone, feeling him move in and out of you and smelling his cologne and feeling the heat of his body hovering over yours, hoping he’s watching every bit of what he's doing to you and committing it all to memory.
There’s something cold and hard bumping against your tits, and when you crack open an eye you see that the designer glasses have fallen from his face, dangling from the cord around his neck. But you also see that he doesn’t seem to give a single shit about it, because his teeth are bared and his brows are furrowed and his piercing eyes are still boring straight into yours.
You breathe, “You’re gonna—make me...”
“Yes,” he hisses out. His hold on your leg is so damn tight, “that’s it. I wanna feel you coming all over this cock.”
You spill clean off the edge, ecstasy breaking over you as your orgasm radiates from your sex all the way to the crown of your head in an instant. All feeling leaves your limbs, your fingertips and toes going cold, the nerves at your clit using all of your body's bandwidth and then some. Your pussy throbs from deep inside, the walls clenching all around Corbeau’s diamond-hard dick; you pull up your legs and wrap them around his waist, tangling in his coat, drawing him closer to you and bucking your hips into his to force him to fuck you as hard as you need.
“Oh, god,” he moans, “I can fucking feel you—shit, baby, I’m right there...”
You can feel him, too, your walls squeezing him so tight that you can feel the unmistakable pulse through his member. He drops his jaw just before burying his face in the crook of your neck, his hips giving a few more thrusts before snapping once erratically, deeper this time than all of the rest. He goes almost eerily still then, save for the throb in his cock, the force of his essence pumping from him and into your body. Small half-whines escape him, the nail in the coffin that is the evidence of his pleasure.
You blink, little dark spots dotting your vision and slowly fading back to normal. You try to breathe evenly, but his weight atop you is making that a slight challenge. The sweat on his forehead is cooling against your cheekbone, hair sticking to his temples. He takes one long, deep breath and braces on his hands to right himself again, the tremble in his frame barely perceptible.
Before he stands, though, he shuts his eyes, cups your face, and kisses you sweetly on the mouth. No tonguing, no spitting, no shit-talking. You sigh into the contact, reaching up to touch at his hand upon your face, feeling the bony rise and fall of each of his knuckles. Too soon he pulls back and clears his throat. You sit up, finally able to catch your breath.
“Apologies,” he murmurs, situating his softening cock back into his pants. After refastening his belt and fixing his tie, he pulls up his glasses and holds them to the light in search of smudges. “Terribly rude to kiss someone so soon after smoking. I’m afraid I couldn’t resist. Next time I’ll be more—”
You’ve cut him off, having pushed off the desk to your feet to plant a kiss on his cheek.
“—conscientious,” he finishes. “Not that it seems you have any sense of propriety on the matter.”
He’s smirking as he says it, though, apparently comfortable that you won’t take offense at his banter now. To keep from being too obscene, you bend at the knees to gather your underwear and clothes. There is a bit of shyness creeping through you, despite that his cum is currently dripping out of you (and not to mention the obvious patch of your wetness staining his pants) when you think of standing back up and redressing.
“Allow me.”
You blink up at Corbeau, who’s holding out one arm, the only evidence that anything just occurred being his slightly askew hair. You hope, if he’s going to keep surprising you, that it'll at least keep being for the better. You pass the little bundle of clothes over to him—save for your thong, which you quickly slip into as you rise. He circles you, sliding the bra up your arms and straightening the straps around your shoulders. As he gives the elastic a tug to clasp it at your back, his fingers warm against your cooled skin, you think back to the first time you’d been escorted into his office, the knot of fear like a stone in the pit of your stomach. Even though he’s still making you work essentially for free, at least the tasks aren’t of the Breaking Kneecaps variety.
You wonder, as he slips the wrinkled blouse over your head and waits for you to pull your arms through, if his next job for you might be rescuing a Skitty from a tree somewhere. Maybe, now that he's inducted you into whatever it was you just did with him, he'd start to trust you with many more unseemly things. He fastens the buttons at the back of the lace collar, picking out a few strands of hair and smoothing it out behind you. He hands you the skirt, waiting as you step into it and pull it up to your waist, where he takes the fabric from you and tucks the blouse into its band before zipping it closed and fixing the crisscrossing ribbon.
Giving a low hum, he sidesteps back into view, looking you slowly up and down the way you’ve come to crave. Appraising his work, and appraising what’s his—you shiver, grateful for all of the little chaos and dumb choices that led you straight into the Rust Syndicate’s office. He squats down onto his knees, just as he’d done last night, then reaches out to fix your stockings that’ve ridden down your thighs.
“There, now.” He stands, absentmindedly pushing his glasses. “Perfect: pretty, and deadly. Just how I like you. You’re dismissed, by the way. Free to enjoy your night off before I put you back to work again tomorrow.”
The pout comes without you really needing to force it. “How am I supposed to show you how deadly I am if I never have the time to get my next challenger’s ticket?”
He shrugs, then pretends to examine some spot on one of his fingernails. “It’s not my problem if you can’t figure out how to manage your schedule. Maybe spending a little less time waiting in line at the cafe with your friends would be a good place to start.”
You stick out your tongue, immaturity be damned—not to mention the fact that you're now more excited than ever to face him head-on in battle. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. I'm sure I won't need to remind you to dress appropriately when representing the organization." Smirking, he rounds his desk and gathers the things that he'd pushed onto the floor. When he frowns, you follow his gaze: he'd burnt out his cigarette on the marbled tabletop. Evidently, the thing that'd fallen to the floor with a heavy clunk had been the ashtray. You peek around the desk and see a splash of grey from where the remnants had scattered, and pity whichever of the grunts he'll call in to clean it up.
...Before he can tell you to do it, you flash a grin his way. He plops into the oversized chair, crossing his legs as you say, "Well, hit me tomorrow. And it better be a text this time. If it's a call, I can't guarantee I'll answer. Maybe I'll even get sick of being so annoyed and block whoever it is that keeps doing it."
He sucks at his teeth, glaring at you in a way that feels somehow goodnatured. "Yes, we'll see about that." He sighs as he cocks his head to the side, glancing around the many fine things placed with care all around his office, and lastly at the shallow pile of ash at the side of the desk. Then his eyes fall back to you, as they always end up doing. "It's like I said before, I suppose: evidence of my tastes is really all around me. I'll see you tomorrow, you insufferable brat."