Work Text:
“Jesse,” Emily Pope says, stepping through the door to your office. “You asked to see me?”
You turn your head from where you stand behind the desk, cigarette in hand, contemplating the bright white void of the window.
“That’s right, Dr. Pope. Please come in.”
Emily turns and quietly closes the double door behind her. She’s looking better than ever, short new haircut swishing lightly around her ears, black suit freshly starched. Moves with a new confidence, too. Comfortable in her role as head of Research. You feel the tug of Trench’s cigarette in your hand and think how unexpectedly leadership can change people.
But she’s still carrying that omnipresent clipboard. Some things never change.
You notice she’s also still wearing an HRA.
You cock an eyebrow. “Still worried about the Hiss? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you didn’t trust me as an exterminator.”
Her eyes crinkle slightly with a subtle smile. “You know I have utmost faith in your protection of the Bureau, Jesse. But if a resurgence were to occur, Research would likely be the epicenter. Even half a month after reported encounters, I’m advising my most essential personnel to continue wearing them when it doesn’t interfere with activities. Plus, we’re still gathering data on the effect of the HRAs on non-Hiss astral entities, and it seems they could offer protection from any number of intrusive patterns we’ve struggled with for years. The House can be a dangerous place.”
You feel a grumble deep in the House, affirming her statement. You don’t have to tell me twice.
“But I’m rambling. So, what was it you wanted to discuss?” Emily is hovering by the chair opposite yours, waiting to be invited to sit.
You don’t grant her the luxury, instead stepping closer to her around the desk.
“Actually, you’re right on subject. As you mentioned, it’s been two weeks since the last Hiss cluster was eradicated.” You take a final drag and then casually reach behind you to stub out your cigarette in the ashtray. (You’d almost regretted cleansing that one; the maze had been “awesome,” but what with the Bureau’s general no smoking policies there just weren’t that many ashtrays around.) “Do you remember what that means?”
A slow, tentative smile begins to creep across Emily’s face. “If I recall correctly . . . that represented a certain deadline we agreed upon.”
“We? Agreed?”
“Oh, all right, I insisted upon.” She’s fully beaming now, a bright unconcealed excitement you haven’t seen since that conversation two month ago where, truth be told, you had both agreed it was necessary to your work to put certain things on hold until you had a reasonable certainty the Hiss weren’t going to pop up at a moment’s notice. The Director needed to maintain her readiness in an ongoing emergency, and, as Emily had regretfully insisted, readiness included being fully clothed.
You’re standing close to her now, and she hasn’t moved away. You reach forward, and she doesn’t protest as you carefully take the clipboard from her hand and set it down on the desk behind you.
“Of all the places in the House,” you murmur, “I’d say the Director’s office is probably the safest from intrusive patterns. The bad kind at least.” You glance down at her HRA, and what’s beneath it. “Think you could take this thing off for a few minutes?”
She actually giggles as you hook a finger over the top of the HRA and pull her even slightly closer.
“Or maybe I could help.”
In the middle of you undoing the clasps at her shoulders, she surges forward and kisses you.
It’s your turn to smile, under the desperate pressure of her lips. She’s missed this as much as you have.
“Easy, Em.”
“Jesse,” she breathes. “Director Faden.”
“Oh?” That’s a new one.
You make short work removing the device, this time unceremoniously tossing the thing to the floor. Budget can file a complaint, if they’d dare.
As soon as she’s free her lips are back on you and your hand is at her collar, pulling her in. You’d forgotten how fucking intoxicating it is just being this close to her. You told her once she was more addictive than mold, and you meant it as a compliment.
Being Director comes with more perks than leftover cigarettes and budgetary flexibility -- among these, communing with the House has never been easier. It takes barely an impulse, even distracted, to coax a section of the carpeted floor to rise up at an angle behind Emily’s knees. She gasps, startled, and grabs for your lapels to steady herself when you push her back onto it.
“Relax,” you tell her. “I’ve got you.”
She pulls you down, and you do your very best to melt into each other. Her hipbones are hard as concrete under your hands, and she moans into your mouth as you press against them. It's almost funny how eagerly her legs slide open to wrap around you, hampered by her tight, professional slacks. As your teeth push a bruise into her neck (below the collar line, of course), you work a hand between you to undo them.
She draws back for a moment. “Wait.”
Your heart plummets, old familiar doubts flooding in to replace it. Was it not enough time? Too much?
But then she presses her mouth to your ear and whispers the filthiest suggestions you’d ever imagine she could string together.
***
A few minutes and you’re dragging your short nails through Emily’s hair, unwilling to tear your eyes from the sight of her head between your legs but finding it nearly impossible to keep from throwing your head back against the Director’s chair, as her tongue presses hard and flat below your clit. You’re doing your absolute best not to moan.
Despite your best efforts she remains fully clothed, sleeves rolled up neatly, while your slacks lie pooled around one ankle and your bare chest gleams under the window’s harsh light. There’s something paradoxical about your location -- indubitably a position of power -- and your state -- utterly overcome. You’re guessing Emily feels it too, from the way she’s been taking her time, licking you slow and thorough enough to melt all over your chair even before pushing her slim, manicured fingers into you.
“Fuuuck --” it’s the least embarrassing sound you can make, and you can’t stay silent.
Emily turns her head up, rotating her skull catlike against your fingers. “Is my work satisfactory, Director?”
Praise-hungry little . . . You’re not looking, but you just know she’s smirking as she continues to curl her fingers against the roof of your cunt, never quite hard enough.
“Fuck, yes,” you splutter, not even attempting professionalism. “You’re doing great, good job. Just please don’t stop.”
She renews her attentions with purpose.
You don’t know how much I’ve missed this. You.
She’d gone down on you before in the handful of desperate, hurried exchanges back at the start of your term as Director, but this time is different. You should’ve know letting her fuck you in your own office would feel like this -- like your very own Panopticon, barely euclidian enough to contain objects of such power. You’d swear you can feel the House watching. And it feels almost as eager as you are.
Emily pumps her fingers sharp and deep into you, accompanied by a hard suck, and this time you actually cry out, hand tugging at her hair, whether asking for more or less pressure you can’t even tell. She’s relentless, and after a few more strokes you’re on the edge, gasping as your energy peters out and the descent begins.
As if she can tell, she suddenly pulls away again and surges up from her knees, connecting her drenched mouth with yours while keeping her fingers hooked in you. Her palm presses hard against your clit, and you clutch at her involuntarily as you peak with unmatched intensity. Deep inside you, deep beneath you, you feel something shifting like great gears breaking rust, a turntable spinning uncontrolled, concrete meeting steel. You hang on and pray that whatever you’re causing, it’s nothing the House can’t handle. Hell, you aren’t so sure so sure you can handle it yourself.
Emily holds you as you come down, slowing her motions and taking almost too long to pull her hand out. You’re afraid to look her in the eyes somehow, but she grabs your chin and forces you to meet her gaze. She grins like a lunatic and kisses you, hard and quick. Then she steps back and reaches for the buttons of her dress shirt.
Before she can undo even one, the silence of the office shatters into a loud, familiar ringing. You both freeze and dart your gazes to the red phone on your desk. You smile sheepishly and peel your back off the chair to pick it up.
“Um, yes?” trying to sound as composed as possible.
Marshall’s no-nonsense tone greets you immediately. “Director, you’ve got to get down here! Something big shifted under Central Research at the old control point, must’ve opened up a sealed pocket somewhere, and there’s half a dozen Distorted picking us off left and right. They almost got Arish. Where ARE you??”
Emily’s jaw has dropped fully open at the overheard conversation. She looks like she wants to smack you, or possibly herself, but instead she shakes her head at you in utter bemusement and goes to retrieve her HRA.
“Do you -- ”
“I don’t need help putting it back on, Jesse, no,” she snaps, not unkindly. “You look like it’ll be all you can do to get yourself in working order.” She picks up her clipboard and heads for the door. “Next time? Warn me.”
You grin. “Next time?”
She pauses, halfway out. Despite the distant screeches and gunfire sneaking in through the open door, she winks. Then she’s gone.
You groan and haul yourself out of the chair, taking a moment between pulling up your underwear and pants to light a cigarette.
You sigh at the walls. “Hope you enjoyed that.”