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Edward cannot stand John Irving. He is good at his job, but he's got the personality of cardboard to his superiors and he's unbearably rude to his subordinates. John seems to go back and forth on whether or not he has ambition, oscillating between steamroller of effort and dissociation during important meetings, and has only risen this far through his uncanny ability to complete tasks on time. Being good at one's job can only get you so far, though, and John lacks charisma and charm. His promotions in the future will be few.
John's presence in the workplace is mostly quiet; he's not a trembling dog, but even on his best days he seems anxious, like he's never 100% sure he's supposed to be where he is. He flexes his hands, taps his fingers on his desk, and picks at his fingernails. He's roused out of his head-down focus on his work only when someone in a team he's responsible for managing makes a mistake. Edward first saw John fly off the hook at a coworker while they were making a presentation two years ago. John insulted the man in front of everyone and walked out of the meeting, almost colliding with Edward, who he refused to acknowledge.
What an ass.
Edward said nothing at the time, of course. He doesn't much care what John does to the team members he's responsible for. If Edward gets one of his unlucky drones in the future, it will just make him look better.
John's tall and gangly, and on days he wears short sleeves Edward marvels at how easy it would be to grab him by the arm and fling him to the ground. Today is a short sleeve day. It doesn't suit him at all. He spends approximately thirty seconds imagining John getting grabbed and shoved against a wall and receiving several blunt force blows to the head. Edward has always had these flights of fantasy at work. It calms him down. Lowers his blood pressure a little. John's not the only one around the office Edward imagines getting roughed up to calm his nerves—just yesterday he'd imagined Mr. Jopson taking a club to Crozier's head to calm himself before an all-staff meeting. It helps. Whatever gets him through the day. It doesn't mean anything and he doesn't treat anyone different just because he images their tongue getting stapled every once in a while.
Then John ruins everything by getting a paper cut.
Edward just happens to be glancing over when it happens. John flinches. His mouth twists, looking cross. He's always so bloody cross. He lifts the finger to his mouth and sucks on the tip. It's revolting, to see his lips curl around his fingertip, then to shove his finger in further, held still by his teeth, his tongue swirling against the tiny bleeding cut.
Obscene. Unprofessional, undignified. Edward turns away, red as a beet. He's shocked at his own reaction, has to stifle a bump of arousal that he's humiliated to be feeling.
He spends the rest of the week doing his best to completely ignore John, not allowing a single violent fantasy (back to imagining Jopson being hit by a car in the car park). Still feeling a lick of embarassment every time he's in the same room as John, he's grateful when the weekend arrives.
And that truly would have been the end of it if it hadn't been for the copy room incident.
Monday arrives. He's settled and girded. Edward won't be taken by surprise by John's lewd behavior again.
Nine thirty in the morning. The office is filled with a dozen people, none of which know how to use a copy machine without breaking it. It is broken, as it is every other week, typical for whenever Edward is burdened with making copies for the entire office when an email would do. He's is sent down a floor, the lower levels teeming with lesser employees and even hourly staff, who all tend to give him and the other managers a wide berth, to use their machine. It's in a tiny room, basically a closet, with a single halogen tube light which buzzes loud and unpredictably. He hates this room, but it is the only place in the building which one could go inside, close the door, and be alone. So, conversely, he also loves it.
At least, most days he loves it.
Imagine his surprise to open the door and find John Irving standing there. In the dark. Short sleeve day. At least he has the sense not to wear a tie with it, like some caricature of an office nerd, instead opting for a casual unbuttoned collar. Kind of lazy for a Monday. Edward imagines shoving John against the copy machine, but he keeps his imaginings brief. He's already cross that his precious isolation room has been invaded and he doesn't want to draw it out. Edward hesitates only a moment before stepping in, flipping the light switch on. He doesn't make eye contact, doesn't want to start a conversation, just wants to get his copies made and to get away from him. He does have work to do.
John reaches past him and pulls the door shut.
The smell of liquor wafts into Edward as the small room forces them into close proximity.
"Are you drunk?"
"S'nothing," John says. There's a pile of manila folders on the copy machine, some pretense of work. John rubs his eyes with his hand like the light hurts them. His fingers of both hands are bandaged in white and Band-Aid tan.
"Hell did you do to your hands?" Edward feels like he's malfunctioning. The sight of John's injuries, the smell of his booze, is starting up that little engine in his gut. What the hell is going on?
John leans against the wall, one hand still over his face. "Accident this weekend... look, jus' finish your copies..."
"You're drunk. It's nine in the morning on Monday and you're drunk. You're hiding in here because you're wasted at work." His voice raises with each sentence, incredulous. He's getting angry. Edward's pulse quickens. Seconds ago he felt like making eye contact with John was like forcing the wrong ends of magnets together, but now he can't stop staring at John's face.
"Don't... itsfine. Just need ten minutes." John leans against the wall next to the machine, slotting his narrow frame into the corner of the room, preparing to concede the space to Edward for the few minutes it should take to copy whatever fucking paper needs copying. Edward's never seen John, who typically doesn't hesitate to fly off the handle at a coworker, so non-confrontational. So submissive. "Medication," John adds lamely, an afterthought.
On pure reflex Edward reaches out and catches John's hand. John gasps and flinches at Edward's tight grip. Immediately pulls back. But Edward doesn't let go. He can't explain his state of mind. He's angry but he's also excited. Like he's watching a rugby match. Like he's playing rugby, like he did as a teenager, and that athletic impulse comes back to him in a rush. He just needs to act fast enough, on pure reflex and impulse, and something good will happen. He'll win.
His grip on John's wrist is tight, uncomfortable for both of them. He uses his other hand to squeeze John's fingers.
The sound that pushes itself up John's throat and between his lips is not appropriate for their professional setting. In fact Edward would very much label it Not Safe For Work.
He stares. Disgusted. Aroused.
John sucks in a deep breath, eyes glassy like he's in shock, then breaks the silence with a whispered "fuck..."
The urge to force the noise out of John is too powerful to ignore. Edward squeezes the bandaged fingers again. John whimpers. He keens. He looks like he's experiencing some kind of twisted bliss.
Edward is starting to feel drunk himself. He doesn't say anything, just watches as John submits beneath his hands as if Edward had any kind of strength or authority over him. Well, he does, actually; John's a subordinate, he is supposed to listen to Edward. That's how office rank goes. Which makes this extremely wrong. Edward can get in a lot of trouble for this. For taking advantage. Even though John's the one being drunk off his ass in the lower-decks copy room.
And it's not really taking advantage because Edward's not hard. What kind of a pervert gets hard at work? John is. The corner of the copier is between them, and John's leaned against it, rubbing himself against the plastic, not subtle at all. So that answers that question. John's clearly having some kind of mental break. Edward cannot emphasize enough in his own mind that it is indeed 9 in the fucking morning on a fucking Monday, and John's rutting into the copy machine like he's in heat. Edward's guilt flares, dances like little dark flames inside him. There's no version of this that makes him look good, and he should drop everything and walk out of the room. Now.
But John doesn't seem interested in stopping. He's completely surrendered his injured hand, despite the pain, and at every press of Edward's fingers into whatever wound he's hiding, he matches with a press of his groin to the copier.
"Slut," Edward says quietly. Half about himself.
John shudders. His hand grips back at Edward's, he exhales in a sharp moan.
Didn't last long at all.
The thought of semen, hot and sticky in John's drawers, triggers Edward's flight response. He can't be near whatever the hell this mess is. He drops John's hand, switches the light off and slams the door, abandoning John and his papers in the dark. He goes back upstairs, and when Le Vesconte asks where the copies are Edward says he misheard, thought he said to shred them.
"You fucking prick," Le Vesconte mutters. Edward ignores him. It should have been an email anyway.
When he walks past John's desk an hour later, he's not there. When he asks John's team at lunch, Tom Hartnell says he left, sick. "Threw up in the copy room downstairs."
Behind Hartnell, Magnus Manson mimes throwing back a beverage. They both smirk. No love lost there.
The next few weeks Edward has no issue pretending like nothing has happened. John seems just as happy to never bring it up, never talk to Edward about anything work related, never look him in the eye. He puts his head down when Edward is around, doesn't complain about his work, and sends his underlings if anything is wrong. Edward hardly notices; he's got so much extra work, so many emergency meetings with Crozier and Fitzjames, running back and forth between the two when they're too worked up to have a conversation with each other, much less send an email or text. Nobody in this office knows how to send a fucking email. Maybe John doesn't even remember, Edward reasons. Maybe he got so wasted it obliterated the scene from his mind. Suits Edward fine. He lets himself get so involved in work he barely notices when John finally stops coming in with bandaged fingers.
One day, John shows up in a long sleeve sweater, a pleasant dark, rich green, expensive fabric. Light green collared shirt collar poking out the top. Kind of clumsy color matching, but it makes Edward do a double-take. Jolts him so much he forgets to imagine John being manhandled to the floor or shoved down a flight of stairs. He is still an anxious dunce, but he seems slightly more… comfortable. Edward scans backward through his memory. John hasn't had a Short Sleeves Day in... a while.
Fuck is happening to him? Did he meet a woman?
No time to ponder it. He has loads of work, picking up the slack for Crozier. To set himself right, he imagines shoving John into a gym locker, clicking the padlock, and leaving him there overnight, then goes back to his work.
It's ten at night when Edward finally leaves the office. Sometimes he gets trapped there, once everyone else leaves. He loves the silence, lets it cosume him so thuroughly that it short-circuits him, and he loses time. It's not so bad—he prefers the office like this. He'd kind of like it if he could work in an abandoned office every day. Dark, quiet, alone.
Embarrassment hits him like a wet napkin to the face. He didn't used to be like this. He used to dream of making his way to Fitzjames' position, of the accolades and awards and the cash, being in the inner circle and swapping war stories. Now he doesn't dream of anything. He needs to get out of here. Needs to call off tomorrow, get some rest away from this godawful place.
He walks in a trance to the elevator and takes it down to the parking garage. The darkness is so soothing, he doesn't remember the few minutes it takes for him to go from desk to car. He's normalized the weird moments of time loss, it's just part of his day to day. Better than being stressed, right? He takes his keys out of his pocket.
Something makes him look up.
There are always some cars parked overnight. No idea whose. There is one at the end of the lot, in shadow. Not unusual.
But then it shakes. It's rocking.
He's still on autopilot, running on empty, that's why his judgement is so poor. He steps closer, keeping the line of empty cars between him and the shaking one.
The driver side window is rolled down. Familiar voices escapes from behind the glass.
"Shut up. Shut up."
John fucking Irving?
"Keep going—"
"Shut up—"
"Then don't stop."
Edward keeps himself low, in the shadows. He can't peel his eyes away. John Irving, in the back seat of someone's car. Fucking someone.
Slut, he thinks. Weak, thin wrists. Fairy. He tells himself to stop, tells himself to walk away. His heart is pounding. He feels the anger—excitement again. Rugby match, impulse, win.
John's struggling, awkward, limbs too long to be comfortable in the back seat. His fucking nice green sweater. Hunched, breathing heavy. The second person says something else and John snaps, angry. "You're a fucking whore."
A laugh. The voice is muffled, but Edward recognizes that laugh. Heard it earlier that day, ages ago. Gray hair, stupid smirk, laughing at a story Fitzjames had told a hundred times. A man who coasts on comraderie being more valuable than intelligence. Le Vesconte says something else, Edward can't hear. His voice is so soft. Breathy. He stutters, gasps. It occurs to Edward belatedly that this is because John Irving's cock is in him, not just in him but pounding him awkwardly, two men over six feet bumping uglies in the car park at work. He feels himself start to blush.
"This is why Fitzjames won't have you."
"Go to hell."
John laughs at that. John's laugh is completely foreign to Edward. He's never heard John be cheerful, and he still hasn't, because the laugh is mocking and cruel. He's laughing at Le Vesconte's anger. Edward hates that laugh just as much as he hates Le Vesconte's.
The two pick up their pace again. John looks like he's not breathing, holding on to the body below him tight, and he comes. Edward recognizes the stutter of his body as he does it. Recognizes what John looks like during orgasm. Just like in the copy room.
Le Vesconte laughs again. "Useless as always. You never last."
Edward thinks of the copy room. John coming while he rubs himself against the machine, only lasted a few minutes. There's a beat, then a sharp slap, skin on skin.
Edward thinks it must be over, but then John's hunkering even further down, and he realizes he's going to finish Le Vesconte off with his mouth. He gets a brief flash of John from weeks ago, sticking his paper-cut finger between his lips. Edward feels dizzy, and realizes he's hard as a rock in his trousers.
"Does—oh god—does your wife know you have lips like a whorehouse slut—fuck—fuck. Don't bite."
Edward turns his back. He walks as quickly and quietly as he can to his own car. He opens the door, sits down. Imagines a moment just laying down in the back seat, putting his shirt over his head to blot out light and sound and waiting until he hears them drive off. He doesn't. Too risky. He slams the door closed, starts the engine, and doesn't look their way as he pulls out of the parking garage.
Up to his ears in work. But he's just out of a conference call with the Franklins, Fitzjames, Crozier, and he thinks he realizes before the rest that the work he's been doing is worthless. Everything that's fallen through Crozier's inebriated fingers and Edward caught, and put in extra hours, literally slaved away for that man, is worthless. It takes them another thwenty-eight minutes to realize the project will need to be scrapped, and he spends those minutes in complete silence. He feels a deep hole inside him open, and there he puts his anger until it turns into nothing. He feels nothing about it, nothing at all.
His days are suddenly relaxed. Lazy. He doesn't need to finish his work on their numbers this week. Just waits around for another assignment. John Irving's work is done too. They're both in limbo. No estimates. Scrapped and started over, might as well wait for the end of the quarter. Pointless. It's all so pointless. Who even benefits from their work? He can't think of anyone who gains from their company existing, except the assholes at the top, the Franklins, the Barrows, the Rosses. He feels like putting his head down and taking a nap. He feels like setting his desk on fire.
The rest of the week Edward fills his empty time by watching John and Le Vesconte. Henry. Dundy, to Fitzjames only. They don't speak, have no reason to cross paths. Le Vesconte actually has work to do, his branch now hauling ass to finish work for the shareholders meeting that Crozier's fucked up. It's satisfying, seeing him actualy do something, but it's fleeting. Le Vesconte has a habit of disappearing when you'd least expect. He's not at his desk when you think he'll be. He's not around when a fight breaks out below decks, some asshole hourly hires who Le Vesconte is technically responsible for. Edward gets wrong-place-wrong-timed and reamed out by Crozier, obviously not his fault. It's never Edward's fault, but he takes the blame. And nobody asks where the hell Dundy was. Probably off sucking Fitzjame's dick.
John, on the other hand, is lackadaisical, bored. Something about that seems dangerous to Edward. John Irving bored is slightly unpredictable. Keep him busy, keep him working.
He's proved right when John starts drinking on the job again. Edward sees him take a nip from a flask as he walks into the men's room one morning. 10:35 A.M. Edward pretends not to see John at all as he takes his place at a urinal. John pauses like he's really going to start a conversation while another man is pissing, defend his Crozier-like behavior, then gets some sense and leaves.
Next day John's truly drunk. Edward settles in to watch, hopes something terrible happens again. John starts off yelling at Manson, Hartnell, and apparently more guys on the floor below. Then he's back up in their shared office space, looking like he's already feeling sick. Edward considers sending him home, but then he imagines John making a fool of himself. Tripping, passing out even, in front of everyone. He could fall down the stairs. The thought sends a little jolt through him. John crashing downwards, his long limbs splayed out, crumpled in on himself. It's so nice to imagine. The bruises after, his limping.
What if he could witness it for real? He lowers his computer monitor a hint, so he can lean back and still see John over it, out the glass walls of his office. John slumps down on his desk, rubs his face.
Le Vesconte materializes out of thin air. He's hovering over John, looking far too fucking dashing in his dark grey shirt—Cashmere, it must be, it looks soft and insultingly decadent. Stupid, even, it's the fucking office on a Thursday, not the Ritz. He summons John up to the offices a floor above. Fitzjames gone, some work thing. It immediately strikes Edward as suspicious. John listens, his face going on a journey from startled at the sudden appearance, to scared he's being addressed by a superior, to anger at realizing it's this superior in particular. Then he loosens up, stands, and follows Le Vesconte out of the room like it's nothing.
Edward sucks on his cheek. Bad, bad fucking idea. He could be doing… something. Emails. He's exhausted at the thought. Been staring at open emails for an hour, what moments he wasn't staring at John.
He imagines John being slapped. Imagines Le Vesconte getting his hand slammed in a car door. Imagines—
Wait... Upper-decks? They didn't go to the elevator. Stairs… and John's drunken feet.
He gets up, hopes he looks casual. Doesn't want to show his hope on his face. He makes for the stairway . Opens the door as quiet as possible, waits. No sound whatsoever. He goes quick, up to the next floor. Most of the offices here are empty, almost no one is in today. Even so, Edward cannot find them. He walks the length of the floor twice, listening. Knows he looks the fool, looks the pervert.
No dice.
There has never been a gamble that Edward hasn't lost.
He tries to avoid John Irving, he really does. It's not hard to avoid Dundy, who comes and goes on a whim, like a sea bird, hopping behind Fitzjames and Crozier and snapping up their crumbs with barely-concealed desperation. John Irving is always around, though. He's working later and later.
One night—Edward pretends like he doesn't know it's almost midnight— he gets in the elevator to go down to the carp park.
When the door dings and opens, he looks up to see John Irving's in there.
Just about the stroke of midnight, and this guy's propping himself up in the corner of the elevator like he's worried he's taking up too much space in an empty building. Edward looks up. The red LED arrow is pointing down. He came from the upper floors.
"To the—the garage?" John says. Quiet. Polite.
Edward gets in. He feels high. Turns around and pushes the P button, even tho John's already pushed it. The doors slide closed.
Beset by an undefinieable mania, Edward presses top floor button. He turns as he steps out of the elevator, takes one shaky step as he rotates to face John. Blocks the exit.
"You should let him fuck you," the ghost piloting his body says out loud.
They both freeze. John's looking at him in bewilderment, looking for all the world like a rabbit caught in a snare.
"Get an enema. Prepare properly. I want to see him fuck you."
John's eyes are wide, unbelieving, angry. Fury is building, he knows that expression. He starts to say something that sounds like mind your own business, but Edward commits to hitting this self-destruct button.
"Go ride it back up. To the top floor. All the way. Don't get out and take the other elevator. And think about him fucking you while you do it."
The doors close on John's face, his baby cheeks red with anger.
They don't open again.
Edawrd waits a few moments. He watches the numbers next to the red LED arrow go up. Two floors, three. He can't know for sure John's on it. He hopes he is.
In case he's wrong, he heads back to his car before the elevator gets to the top. John can come back down alone.
Christmas party. It's been months of the three of them staunchly avoiding each other at work. Now they're staunchly avoiding each other at this assinine party. Edward is debating the pros and cons of drinking hard enough that he can't remember any of this awkward night. John's drunk as hell from the first ten minutes, hitting karaoke in a manner lacking shame and self-awareness that stuns Edward. He wouldn't be caught dead with a microphone in his hands. Everyone cheers, loves it. Loves their asshole boss getting wasted and putting on a costume angel halo and singing Madonna. Like a Virgin. It's disgusting. Edward supposes that's the point of Madonna's music, with a stage name like that—let sluts feel like they're worthwhile.
Edward drinks. Moves to the back of the crowd so he can't be singled out, pushed in front of everyone, forced the microphone. Nightmare thought, absolutely mortifying. He's so embarassed for John that he almost feels bad for him. It's Christmas, the man deserves some pity.
John gets off the makeshit maraoke stage, pulls off his halo, and immediately trips. Magnus Manson catches him, and he immediately yells at the poor man. George Hodgson steps in, hand on both men's shoulders, diffusing. Making too much blather for anyone else to get a word in. Eventually John's distracted enough to run off. Scamper, flee, Edward thinks. Out of his damn mind and it's not even 10 P.M. yet. Shameful.
He's not surprised that John moves away from the party and towards the stairwell. What does surprise him is seeing Le Vesconte noticing John leave. He hadn't realized Henry had stayed, thought he left when Fitzjames and Crozier left forty minutes ago. Edward watches as Henry downs his glass, looking after John's fleeing form. No, you won't beat me to the punch today, Edward thinks. Edward follows, of course. He's closer. Slides sideways away from the crowd and through the door John's eased himself through.
He doesn't see John in the hall, but that's okay. He knows exactly where John's headed.
Copy room.
Edward slides into the room, feeling John's presence even as he closes the door, even before he switches on the light.
Half of the hallogen is out, or broken. Sickly depressing green at 50%, it's giving back-alley of a liquor store. Mood lighting. Festive. Romantic.
"Did what you asked," John breathes, before Edward can fully open the door, spreading the smell of booze through the tiny room. "Prepared m'self…"
Edward's shocked. He barely remembers the incident; he tries so hard not to remember anything that happens at work, and it works, sometimes too well. He could have convinced himself he'd imagined the entire incident—he's stll not entirely sure he hasn't. And yet.
"E-enema," John growls, "and a, ummm… silicone plug…" His cheeks are bright bink. He looks angry. He looks hungry.
Beyond high school rugby, now. Edward's in overdrive. His perception of time slams to a halt. Beyond not safe for work. Not safe for career. Not safe for sanity. But the latter Edward knows he's already lost.
A beat. John's pressed his front up against the copy machine again, their positions mirroring the drunken morning incident from a lifetime ago.
"Better finger yourself, then," is not a sentence Edward would think he was capable of thinking of, much less speaking, but he hears it in his own voice, seemingly out of thin air.
John must hear it too. He lets his mouth drop open, the way a horny drunk does, and starts fumbling with his trowsers, yanking them open and pulling down his underwear just enough. His dick is hard and it's got pre dripping from the tip. He ignores it—doesn't even free it proper from the elastic, much less give it a stroke—and shoves a hand behind him. His tongue hangs lower in his stupid slutty mouth, like some kind of low-IQ degenerate, no hesitation, and Edward's own prick jolts at that. He's too distracted byJohn's shameless performance to do anything about it yet. John's mouth snaps shut and he gives a horrible whine, and a sound of erotic, painful effort, and then in his hand appears as if by magic a very large black silicone butt plug.
Trembling fingers place the plug on its base on the copier. Edward doesn't look at it, his own cheeks surely pink now. John's on a roll, won't be stopped by Edward's shock at this spectacle he's making of himself. Got one hand on the copier to steady himself, one hand behind him, he makes another pathetic mewling whine as he sinks into himself.
Off script. There was never a script for something as awful as this, as John Irving in a Christmas sweater, drunkenly fingering his own arsehole in a pathetic show. Not so much Like a Virgin now, John Irving. Edward's never been good at improvisation, but he can go with the flow—different, but just as important, he can meet people where they're at, so averse is he to asking for accomadation, it's all right there on his resume—
There is a sharp crack of skin on skin. Both men freeze for long enough to process; Edward's hand had come out, whipped through the air and landed his palm hard against John's cheek.
John exhales, shaky. He bites his lip and partially holds back words, an unbecoming "mmphhh" escaping him instead. Edward's in shock, staring at his hand as if it had behaved on its own. He's buzzing on adrenaline. He's not in his own body anymore.
He brings up his hands, holds John's face, tender, sweet. John continues his self-ministrations, making little whiny moans as he brushes over his prostate time and time again. He's not going to deny himself this. Edward looks at John's hazy eyes, asserting his dominance. Pathetic eyes. Angry and scared and dulled by countless drinks. Horny. Eyes searching for something, on their own hunt.
"I'm going to slap you again."
Nodding, that mouth coming open again, tongue licking lips, eager. Wants it now.
Holding John's head, the next slap is harsher, more solid, less room for John to escape the momentum. He gasps, tips hard against the copier, and the impact makes his whole body tilt.
The door opens. Both of them turn, guilt scrawled all over their faces.
It is, in all its predictability, Henry Le Vesconte.
Gears churn in his brain and he does several split-second calculations. Chances of survival. He is, for the most part, safe, if he keeps his mouth shut. He's fully dressed. He's higher rank, technically, even if he's not friends with upper management. He's not doing anything explicitly sexual. In fact he was in the process of hurting John. Punishing him. Face in hands, and it's pretty clear he's just slapped the man quite hard. Discipline. Push the blame. I was so angry at John's conduct. I snapped, a lapse in judgement, to see him degrade himself and, frankly, the company… He could get away with this. He just needs to shut up.
For some reason, he choses the flames of hell instead.
"John got an enema for you, Henry."
It is, after all, beyond the rugby and the vouerism in the garage and the sneaking after them to the upper floors. They are all three trailing shit around as they walk in these circles. Most damningly, none of them seem to care.
So that is how he finds himself in the below decks copy room, half-hallogen light egging them on, one half of the bread of a John Irving sandwhich.
It's how he finds himself in a front row seat to watch as Le Vesconte sinks himself wholly into John Irving's ass, quick and to the hilt with no preparation. He sees John's face look, for the first time, beautiful, as he scrunches his eyes together, a painful grimace as he's filled to the brim, another embarassing whine coming out of his whore's lips as he ruts his ass further toward Henry, wanting more than the man can give. Regretting his preparations, perhaps, if it made it that easy.
Edward grabs Le Vesconte's hand away from John's dick, giving instructions. They're subordinates. They are beneath him, they must listen.
"Don't touch him. If he doesn't come from your cock, he doesn't come. He's proven he can't handle it."
"Knew your hair trigger would get you in trouble, Irving," Le Vesconte rasps into John's ear.
John whines and nods.
Edward hates the smug tone. He takes Le Vesctone's hand and brings it to his crotch, and Henry dutifully pulls at Edward's button and zipper until he can snake his hand down. He's giving John a chance to adjust, not that he needs it. Edward wishes Henry would just fuck him, hard, whether or not John was ready for anything.
Henry seems to know what he's doing, at least. He grips Edward's dick tight, just shy of a perfect grip, and pulls it just a hint, in tandem with his first thrust into John.
John cries out, of course, being the embarassing drunken slut of the three. He still hasn't gone for his own dick, and Edward gets the sense he won't.
"Saw you two in Henry's car," Edward breathes as the hand on his dick moves just enough. It's good. It's very good. But the real pleasure is, has always been, watching their faces. Watching them. "Saw John make you his fucking bitch."
Le Vesconte's got the decency to look pissed, and the degeneracy to snake his other arm up from John's chest to John's throat. "Didn't—didn't last long, did you John?"
"No," John pants, "No I didn't!"
"I knew you needed to be the one getting fucked," Edward says, "See if Henry's any good. Since I didn't catch you in time, when you snuck upstairs."
"You're disgusting, Little. Fucking—fucking insect." Le Vesconte moans as he speeds up his thrusts into John. "Didn't miss much. He—he blew his load in a minute."
John's cock swings between his legs, leaking onto the linoleum below them.
"Useless, all that and can barely last," Le Vesconte goes on, holding on to John even tighter, squeezing Edward's cock in a way just practiced enough that Edward thinks he must have done this kind of thing before. "Probably can't even please—his fucking wife—"
"Ex—" John chokes out.
"Ex-wife, that's—"
"Ex-husband," John sobs, his own hand going up to Le Vesconte's at his throat, imploring him to squeeze tighter.
It's getting pathetic. Edward wants him—both of them—to shut up. He knows talking won't do it, so he grabs the man's hair, pulls it back. Le Vesconte gasps, finally stuttering enough to break his rhythm pounding John's ass and squeezing Edward's cock, even if just for a moment. It is satisfying. Edward makes a tight fist in Le Vesconte's hair and pulls him forward, crushes their faces together. Awkward, shoving John's to the side. Kisses hard. Doesn't let up his grip.
He's kissed back with equal spite and malice, and it tastes good.
The pressure on Edward's dick lets up, and he's abandoned to the cold copyroom air. Le Vesconte is pressing his weight fully onto John, who falls forward onto Edward, who is trapped between the two and the copy machine. He has one fist tight in at Le Vesconte's scalp while Le Vesconte's got John in a vice grip, by the throat and hip. Pistons in to him, fast and hard as he can, making them all shake with his jackhammer rhythm.
He takes the time to savor John's pitiable face, red and bulging as Le Cesconte squeezes his neck just shy of two hard, shaking with each thrust.
It's over too soon. Le Vesconte's finishing, thrusts stuttering to a halt before pounding in one last time. He lets out a breath he'd been holding for too long, pure ecstacy.
The squeaks of the copy machine's plastic and metal parts shaking infuriates Edward, but he's never let fury stop him from an orgasm. Edward lets up his grip, shoves a hand down to pull himself off. John's miserable body squished against them makes it hard, but he's close, and it only takes a few strokes before he smears cum between his own shirt and John's Christmas sweater.
John's dick remains hard and untouched, the floor beneath them slick with his pre-come. Inadequate, Edward thinks. It's not just about size, after all. Everything about John is inadequate.
Pries himself out of the jumble, knocks the butt plug off the copier and it rolls underneath. Neither man says a thing to him, both of them still breathing hard, drunker than Edward, disheveled and messy. Le Vesconte's eyes glare daggers, but his fingers are playing in John's hair, stroking with tenderness, in contrast with the hateful mess they'd made of each other.
It's nothing to Edward. His mind, post-orgasm, post-violent-high, is only occupied with getting his jizz out of his shirt. He walks out, closing the door on their depravity.
They're off for Christmas. A week. Edward doesn't entirely recall what he did. Stay home, drink, watch telly. Call his mum. Doesn't really want to make the 45 minute drive, says she understands.
When they return, they say nothing. John shows no sign of anything particularly wrong with him. At least for that first week, he shows up sober. The words ex-husband drift through Edward's mind, and he looks at John's hand, and tries to remember if he ever remembers a wedding ring being there. Then he wonders if John even remembers the night, he was so wasted.
Friday morning meeting, all upper and middle management. Edward and John sit next to each other, and it's nothing. It is literally meaningless. Being there at all is meaningless. There's no awkward glances, no hidden blushes.
Le Vesconte grins as Fitzjames tells his story. One they've all heard before.
Edward hates the fucking lot of them.
Next week, no John. To his surprise, no Le Vesconte either. Edward's in a meeting with Fitzjames (distracted, unhappy), Crozier (dour, self-medicating), and Gore (beautifully, sunny). Edward hesitatnly asks of Le Vesconte, why he's not present.
"Week off." Crozier grumbles, squeezing his eyes shut against the morning light, coffee mug clutched in both hands. "No, two?"
"Two weeks?" Edward is incredulous. "We've got like… six new projects launching."
Fitzjames does one of his little flourishes, a performative gesture that grates on Edward, like he's a model or something. Tilt of the head, glance to the side. Uncertain, peeved, aware he's emoting but adding a little cutesy flourish to make it seem scripted, less candid. All that, to finally say "He's getting married."
Spits his drink, coughs a bit. "What?"
Crozier rolls his eyes. "Not the point of the meeting, gentlemen…"
"To who?" Edward blurts. Not that he's curious. What kind of person would—
The performative discomfort again, and Edward's starting to think it's not so performative. "I don't know," is all Fitzjames says.
Crozier, louder, wanting off this topic."Can we please focus on work—"
There's a knock on the door. Des Voeux. Edward Doesn't know why he's not included in these things, they're always outsourcing bunches of tasks his way. It would be more efficient if he was present in the first place. It takes Edward several seconds to process what the man's holding.
"Found this below decks, copy room." Smug fucking smirk. "Since you're head of HR," nod to Fitzjames. "Thought you out to know."
The black silicone butt plug. For a split second, everyone freezes. Gore's eyebrows go through the roof; he looks to Fitzjames for direction.
Rugby. Impulse. Slamming John's fingers in a car door. Adrenaline flairs. Edward's mouth goes without the rest of him. Reflex. Act fast to win. "So that's what he was doing. Christ."
"You know about this?" Crozier's looking at him, his turn to be incredulous.
Dangerous, but the hook is good. Divert. "Irving, he was drunk at the Christmas party—"
"I saw that," Des Vouex offers, still holding up the ominous black egg by the base, like it's a trophy.
"Acting weird. Went downstairs I think. Was glad he left, making passes—"
"Christ in a handbasket," Fitzjames mutters. "Put that damn thing in a paper bag, Chaz, and leave it in the HR bin in my office."
Des Vouex gives a gleeful nod and disappears. Edward watches him through the glass wall until he's out of sight.
"I think it's time we did a bit of cleaning up around here."