Work Text:
Poe used to think that the most uncomfortable place he’d ever endured was any of Fitsgerald’s many offices.
They all have different themes, even if slight. Different colour schemes, different emotions they want to pull at. Different reasons for them existing in the first place, from planning the next steps of a tech company unremarkable in every way but their market dominance and bottom line, to the next person Fitzgerald wants taken out of his way in a less orthodox, court-friendly way.
Though without fail, they are all so well lit. They may as well be outside under a clear-skied sun. Maybe even brighter than that, as if Fitzgerald had constructed and perfected his own star inside each one. And in each one, whether it’s by himself or with a group talking plans out with the Guild boss himself, it always feels like Poe’s every inch is under scrutiny with nowhere to hide.
Now, hunched down and sitting on his own feet in the darkness below the office’s desk, hidden from everyone but the single person he’d want to hide from, he’s never felt so splayed open.
“It won’t be more than a day now,” the apparent scout says, voice carefully neutral as he reports to Fitzgerald. “They’ll either come out now and face us or starve in there.”
“It’s been 8 days already.”
Poe can feel the reply in his chest, his throat, his—
His jaw aches with the soft weight against his tongue, gently keeping his mouth pried open. Fitzgerald begins speaking again and Poe swears he could swallow down those words along with the half hard cock laying in his mouth.
“8 days.” Fitzgerald laughs. Poe squirms in place, not knowing which is worse: the want to grip at Fitzgerald’s still clothed knees and thighs, or the want to push down instead and collect the slick dripping down his naked thighs to the carpet beneath. “What’s a few more?”
“Sir, we can finish in the agreed upon time—”
“Do you think I can’t afford it?”
Poe sinks further down onto his boss’ cock, tears pricking at his eyes. His clit aches, hard and cold in the darkness under Fitzgerald’s desk. He has to be careful not to choke now. It’s far too quiet.
A hand strokes through his thick hair, petting his head with little massages. Unlike Poe, Fitzgerald’s voice never betrays him. “Your people are far too tired to be worth my money. Take a day or two to recoup, and then continue. I’ve seen what Tasha’s group can do. I’d prefer her top services.”
The quiet stretches on as Poe takes a tentative swallow around the thickness just breaching his throat. It stings at the same time as it has his crotch throb.
“I’ll let her know.”
The only other reply is the retreating steps and office door softly opening and closing. Fitzgerald gives a small chuckle. His cock gives a jerk on Poe’s tongue. And then his hand turns rough in Poe’s hair, sloppily prying the man off.
Poe can’t hold back the cough that rips through his throat, but he tries to hide it at least behind his hand. Fitzgerald looms above him nevertheless, now leaning back in his chair to take in Poe’s debauched appearance. His messed up hair, tear stained face, naked apart from the shirt barely clinging to his lanky frame.
The cough leaves him but he doesn’t move from behind his hand despite how little cover it affords him.
“I think…” Poe tries, feeling his face burn under Fitzgerald’s intense gaze, “we could try my ability. If you believe it would be wise, of course, sir.” He can’t bring himself to keep looking up at his boss, anticipating steely disapproval. Instead, he leans forward back towards his most recent job.
He struggles neither with the salty taste that takes over his tongue, nor when the tip hits the back of his throat before breaching further. Poe welcomes the intrusion like he does every time; with teary eyes and a sense of if I can just do this…
When his nose meets neatly trimmed pubic hair, he can feel the slightest, quivering strain in Fitzgerald’s lower stomach. Muscles tightening and breathing temporarily turning to shudders.
And, like what happens every time, Fitzgerald overcomes it. He is a man who can afford many things, but losing composure has never been one of them.
“Your wrist is doing better already?”
Poe’s breathing stutters. His cunt aches. His wrist stings. It’s been… doing better lately, he thinks. This time, when Fitzgerald starts tugging at his hair, he pulls himself off with a heavy sigh.
“Edgar.”
He presses his thighs together. Maybe to hide, maybe because it brings the smallest bit of relieving friction against his hard clit.
“It could be better,” he confesses.
Fitzgerald hums. His hand smoothes over Poe’s — Edgar’s — thick hair, and then trails down to his shoulder.
“Let me have a look,” Fitzgerald says. When Egar does just that, Fitzgerald smiles and takes the hand in his, bringing it to his lips. A kiss lingering over Edgar’s knuckles. And then the fine leather of a dress shoe pressing up against his cunt.
“Francis,” Edgar moans weakly, hand and thighs shivering.
“I think you’ll be of more use here.” Another kiss. Francis looks down at Edgar, his eyes crinkling at the corner. The shoe subtly rolls up, catching the tip of Edgar’s clit. “At least until your wrist heals.”
This time, Edgar is the one to move, leaning up cautiously before Francis meets him halfway, and then stops. Hovering inches apart. That hand in Edgar’s hair again, now gentle and soothing, and waiting for Poe to make the next move. And he does, taking his boyfriend’s wet cock in his good hand and catching him in a kiss far softer than it has any right to be.