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There’s a little secret Jean-Luc has. It’s something he hopes no one in the harbour finds out about, but as he walks up to Mr. Claire’s office his heart flutters.
He has to stop in front of the door for a second. Breathe in, breathe out. A funny thing, he has been there for what feels like many evenings, every one of them should feel unremarkable by now, but the anticipation hits him like a train every time.
Measurehead knocks.
“Please do come in”, the voice calls out cheerful and impersonal, and as Measurehead enters he feels like he could do his little breathing exercise again.
Under the warm yellow light, framed by red curtains, in the grand chair of his, Evrart Claire looks positively royal.
You see, Measurehead is not a f****t. He is a manly man. But there’s nothing wrong with admiring someone as masculine and respectable as his boss. It’s a thing all men do, sometimes. Nothing unusual.
It seems Mr. Claire admires him too, because he looks at Measurehead *very attentively* at the moment. Like, head-to-toe kind of attention.
“Ah, Jean-Luc himself. What a pleasure.”
It’s definitely a *purr*.
Measurehead prawls to Evrart’s desk. Jaguar-like, he hopes. Evrart’s unyielding gaze is like an oil on his skin. He rolls his shoulders lazily, Evrart’s eyes catching the movement. It’s fucking thrilling, to be looked upon like that, his flawless form being acknowledged like that. It makes him feel powerful.
Measurehead rounds the deck and perches on the edge of it. Evrart has to lean back to be able to take his height in fully. He looks pleased. Relaxed, if not for his hands, palms down the desktop, fingers rapping impatiently. There’s crinkles around his eyes and his teeth are bared in a smile.
If Measurehead is a jaguar coiled tight before the jump, then Evrart is a lion basking in the sun, graciously allowing to be ambushed.
Measurehead snaps first. He reaches for Evrart’s tie, catching the burgundy silk between his fingers. Evrart’s smile grows wider, a victorious glint to it.
It’s always the hardest part, this. The awkward span of time between coming in and getting *the thing* going. The initiating. But before Measurehead has any chance to cringe, Evrart takes pity and pats his laps.
“Come ‘ere, darling”.
It’s a fucking relief, to get on Evrart’s laps finally, the tie crushed in his fist. Evrart’s big steady hands snaking around his waist and Measurehead finds himself breathing heavily.
They kiss then, finally, teeth clicking from the impact, and Measurehead bites down a moan. The tie is tugged away in no time and Measurehead fumbles with Evrart’s shirt buttons frantically. One by one they’re undone and Mr Claire’s thick, milky body is uncovered.
It’s a feast for the eyes and Measurehead is hungry.
He can’t hold himself anymore and puts his arms to work, then, fingers splayed on a soft belly, marvelling, mapping, *owning*. He kneads Evrart’s gorgeous muffin tops and it feels like heaven. Evrart’s breathing is uneven, he’s clutching at Measurehead’s waist like it’s holding him alive. Measurehead’s kisses his neck while his palms slid lower, and lower. The buckle of the belt is cold and hard as he unclasp it, the fabric of the pants is coarse as he unzips the fly. And there, underneath…
Measurehead dives in and circles Mr Claires’s huge stiff dick.
The desperate sound Evrart makes is music to his ears. He is wriggling like an enormous maybug grub and it fills Measurehead with delight. He would do anything for this man, he realises.
He pulls back and slids on the floor, knees hit the wooden surface, hard. The pain is forgotten quickly because of the way Evrart’s pupils dilate. Mr Claire is holding himself very still as if not believing his eyes.
Measurehead has never sucked a dick in his life. He has never thought there would come a moment like this, but here he is, on his knees, his gorgeous boss spread in front of him like a fucking prize and Measurehead wouldn’t dream to be anywhere else.
The first lick is fully experimenting. Measurehead does not likes the taste, but the way Evrart jolts over him and puts one of his soft, caring hands on Measurehead nape fills him with something close to rapture.
Measurehead closes his eyes and sucks Evrart in.
It gets easier after a while. The rhythm and scents of musk and sweat is lulling, the palm on his nape is warm, and Evrart’s fingers make small circling motions. And if Measurehead’s jaw starts hurting a little, well, he is a man who can stand a challenge.
Evrart keeps bubbling small nothings, and although Measurehead is too busy to focus, he catches “gorgeous” and “darling” and “oh how perfect you are”, but he completely misses the warning, even the way his hand tightens.
Well, Measurehead certainly does not like the taste.
The End.