The 80s CEO guy from "Future Stock" and Fry make out in between business endeavors. Slash.
Cartoons » Futurama » Corporate Merger
Author: Misty Waters
Rated: M - English - Romance/Humor - Reviews: 2 - Published: 06-25-10 - Updated: 06-25-10 id:6082906
The coffee burned through the thin paper cup because he'd forgotten to slip the thicker cardboard part over it. He was rushing up the stairs two at a time because he'd already wasted precious time searching for a coffee shop that sold what he knew his boss wanted: poured in a cheap paper cup, none of that fancy polymer stuff, and the coffee itself the good old turpentine kind, just like the old days. Fry even tasted it to make sure, and while it wasn't exactly right, he hoped it was good enough. But he didn't think to stop to take a sip, so he spilled some down his front before he got a good mouthful.
Sheepishly shoving his tie to the side in an effort to hide the searing hot stain with his free hand, he hurried into the newly redesigned office; redesigned from god only knew what.
Ever since That Guy (Fry hadn't bothered to ask for his name, just as That Guy never bothered to give it) took over the company, Fry had been busy doing things for him. Actually, if he took the second to think about it, when he wasn't being trained to spew corporate bullshit, he was just the same as he was before, a delivery boy.
Except that now he only had one person to deliver to, and this person actually thanked him. Just as he was doing now, and it made him feel useful and important. As if the suit alone wasn't enough to make him feel like a somebody.
But as his hand left the already cold cup now in his boss' hand, he jerked forward and almost lost his footing in the bargain. He didn't have to look down to see That Guy tugging his tie, he could feel the sharp tightness at his nape.
His new boss' cologne stung with a sharpness tinged with nostalgia, as he'd smelled it before. The big shots who ordered spinach and chicken pizzas near midnight and never tipped, the guys from corporate who came in occasionally to shuffle through papers, the odd man out in the bus.
This was the kind of guy that Fry used to sneer at, back when they were a crucial part of the ecosystem. Sure, the situation was different now that he was getting money from one of those jerks, but he felt something else entirely as the guy's eyes pierced into his and he tossed his Java across the room like garbage. But there was a grin on his face, so he wasn't unhappy with the coffee.
Being pulled across the guy's chest, Fry instinctively reached out to brace himself, and put his hand on the guy's thigh, thinking he'd get the arm rest. But That Guy's expression didn't change, so Fry didn't take his hand off, and he somehow he was ok with that. His heart was pounding too loudly for him to hear himself think, and now he could smell not only that cheap cologne, but the archaic gel in his hair, too. There was not a living soul on this planet that used that particular brand anymore.
"You're doing a really great job around here, my man," that living fossil finally said, and those words, such rare words of approval, swept through the delivery boy and almost made him too lightheaded to stand. Good thing he had tough muscle and polyester blend to grip.
"You really think so?" he asked, already wondering if the compliment was bullshit. But did it matter?
It obviously didn't, because his boss answered by yanking him to his mouth and kissing him. Fry couldn't keep up with That Guy's tongue, as aggressive as his portfolio, but it was alright. His boss tasted like cigarettes and a flavor of gum he hadn't tasted in over a thousand years.
Just as his arm started to buckle under the strain, his boss generously urged him onto his lap, never taking his lips too far from his protégé's the whole time. He noticed for the first time how hard he was, because of what it slammed against as he squirmed on the man's lap. The brief moment That Guy took his lips off Fry's, the redhead used to offer a grunting sigh, to be answered with an even harder, fiercer kiss.
At first Fry kept his hands on That Guy's thighs, and didn't even deign to grip too tightly. But when his boss started scraping his hands through the other's hair, Fry thought it was only fair if he got to as well. But he barely touched one strand of that immaculate 'do and That Guy pulled away. His face was flush and his eyes bright and eager as he chided Fry.
"Not the hair, Phil," he said in that CEO voice, once again sending shivers through Fry's body with just his words. He ground himself against his boss' crotch in response to hearing this guy use his first name like that. He didn't know why it turned him on, or if it should, or if that was acceptable, but of course that didn't matter. He just wanted to hear it again.
As if feeling guilty for reproaching Fry, That Guy smirked and pulled Fry closer to nibble his neck. Fry carefully rested his hands on his boss' shoulders, squeezing and tugging as the other man's tongue slid this way and that, and his teeth teased and nudged. He wrapped his arms around Fry's hips and pulled him against himself and started rocking his pelvis up and down.
He kept shushing Fry, whose moans were getting decidedly louder and sharper, but That Guy could hardly keep quiet himself. Checking his watch, he realized they'd been at it for nearly ten minutes. With Fry now kissing his neck and rubbing against him, That Guy swiveled in his chair to check his planner on the table. He had a meeting in fifteen.
For once in his life, he actually considered canceling.
But he didn't get that real ruby on his ring from canceling meetings, dammit. So with his finest executive skill, That Guy claimed one last, ferocious kiss from Fry and pulled him off. It was like trying to pull gum off the bottom of his shoe, but he did it.
He showered Fry with corporate double speak and motivational quotes as he took the time to straighten out his clothes and his hair, while Fry very reluctantly followed suit. It was as if nothing happened, which appeared to rather disappoint Fry, but That Guy wasn't concerned. He had a full hour open after dinner.
But he couldn't resist a parting shot; every big shot 80s guy has to make a good exit, after all. Right at the door, as Fry shuffled along, downcast and biting his lip with frustration, the exec pushed him into the wall and pressed up against him. He slid his hand down the sleek, Italian made suit between Fry's legs and took a grip to be proud of.
"You know that Safety Dance song?" he teased Fry's ear, and his protégé whispered some sounds back.
"It's about sex," he growled softly, pulling his hand back up through the folds of Fry's pants, and back to his own side and left.
Fry stood there a few minutes, leaned against the wall, sweating, panting, aching with a serious hardon, unable to think of a thing. Then, when he found his breath, he frowned and remarked, "No way!"
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