Just Doing The Best I Can

Shape of You

The bar was a haze of amber light and low, thrumming bass, the kind of place that smelled of old wood, spilled beer, and the faint, acrid bite of expensive cologne. Corbeau had claimed the corner booth, his long fingers curled around a glass of whiskey that cost more than most people's rent, his sharp eyes scanning the room with the detached, calculating air of a predator at rest. Philippe sat beside him, a mountain of a man in a tailored three-piece suit, his gold tie glinting in the dim light, a beer bottle looking comically small in his massive hand. A few Syndicate grunts crowded the table, already rowdy, already pushing shots across the polished wood.

"Boss! Philippe! You gotta do one with us!" one of them slurred, sliding two shot glasses toward the pair.

Corbeau arched a brow, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. "If you insist." He tossed back the shot with the same effortless grace he did everything else, not even a flicker of discomfort crossing his sharp features. Philippe followed suit, the liquor vanishing down his throat without so much as a grimace. The grunts, meanwhile, sputtered and coughed, slamming their glasses down with watery eyes.

"Amateurs," Corbeau murmured, but his attention had already drifted. His gaze settled on a table across the room, where you sat with your friends, nursing a drink and laughing at something one of them said. You were pretty—soft in a way that stood out against the bar's gritty backdrop, with a quiet, calm demeanor that suggested you were more comfortable observing than being observed. Corbeau's eyes narrowed with interest.

"Philippe," he said, voice low and thoughtful, "what do you make of her?"

Philippe followed his boss's gaze, his round silver eyes settling on you. He watched the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the way your smile crinkled the corners of your eyes. "She seems...genuine," he rumbled, his voice a deep, gravelly thing. "Not the type to play games."

Corbeau hummed, swirling his whiskey. "Perfect. I'm in the mood for something uncomplicated tonight." He straightened his tie, sliding out of the booth just as you rose from your table, heading toward the bar.

He intercepted you with the fluid grace of a man who was used to getting what he wanted. "Leaving so soon? I was hoping to buy you a drink."

You startled, blinking up at him, your expression polite but guarded. "Oh, I was just—I was going to order another round for my friends."

"Allow me," Corbeau said, his smile razor-sharp. "I'm Corbeau. And you are?"

You gave him your name, still polite, still courteous, but your eyes kept flicking past him—to the massive figure still seated in the booth, watching the exchange with quiet, stoic intensity. Corbeau noticed, his smile tightening almost imperceptibly.

"My associate, Philippe," he said, gesturing toward the booth. "He's not much for conversation, but he's excellent company."

You barely heard him. Your gaze had locked onto Philippe, and something in your expression shifted—curiosity, maybe, or the spark of genuine interest. "Philippe," you repeated, testing the name on your tongue. "It's nice to meet you."

Philippe inclined his head, a single, slow nod. "Likewise."

Corbeau tried to steer the conversation back, but you kept asking Philippe questions—about his Pokémon, about his work, about the steel-type specialty that you apparently shared. You squeezed into the booth beside Philippe, your shoulder brushing his arm, and Corbeau's expression soured, his whiskey forgotten.

When you asked Philippe to dance, Corbeau actually laughed—a short, incredulous sound. "Philippe doesn't dance. He's more of a...stationary presence." He leaned in, trying to recapture your attention. "But I, on the other hand—"

You were already tugging at Philippe's hand, your fingers small against his massive palm. He stiffened, glancing at Corbeau, who waved him off with a look of resigned irritation. "Go on, then. Don't let me stop you."

You pulled Philippe onto the dance floor, your friends whooping as you passed. The music shifted, something slow and pulsing, and you turned to face him, your body already moving to the beat. Philippe stood frozen, a mountain of awkwardness amidst the writhing crowd, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides.

You took his hands in yours, your smile encouraging. "Just move with me. Don't think about it."

He was stiff at first, his movements jerky and uncertain, but you kept coaxing him, your hips swaying, your fingers laced with his. Slowly, incrementally, he began to relax. His hands gripped yours, his body finding the rhythm, and when you released his hands to throw your arms up in the air, he didn't pull away. His palms slid to your hips, solid and warm, and you felt a thrill shoot up your spine.

The crowd pressed in, pushing you closer, and then released, pulling you apart. You moved together like a tide, your bodies syncing in a way that felt almost magnetic. When you looked up at him, his silver eyes were dark with something that made your breath catch—desire, raw and unguarded, burning beneath his stoic exterior.

You smiled, slow and knowing, and Philippe's grip tightened.

*

The door to Philippe's apartment slammed open, and he strode through with you wrapped around him, your legs locked around his thick waist, your arms draped over his shoulders. His mouth was on yours, hot and demanding, and you kissed him back with equal fervor, your fingers tangling in the short spikes of his mohawk.

He navigated the dark apartment with ease, kicking the bedroom door open and toppling onto the bed with you beneath him. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, but he didn't give you time to recover—his lips were already trailing down your jaw, your throat, his teeth grazing your collarbone as his hips ground against yours. You could feel the thick, heavy bulge of him through his trousers, pressing insistently against your clothed sex, and you moaned, arching into him.

Clothes came off in a frenzy—his jacket, your blouse, his tie, your skirt—until you were both nearly bare, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Philippe paused, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. 

"Are you sure about this?"

You cupped his face, your thumb stroking the coarse hair of his mutton chops, and pulled him down into a kiss that was softer than anything that had come before. "C’mon, big guy. I wanna see what you’re made of."

The sex was rough, passionate, exactly what you'd both been craving. Philippe fucked like he did everything else—with intensity, with focus, with a single-minded devotion that left you gasping and trembling beneath him. He pinned your wrists above your head, his hips driving into you with a rhythm that was punishing and perfect, his mouth hot on your throat, your breasts, your lips. The bed groaned beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall, and you cried out, your nails raking down his broad back.

He flipped you onto your stomach, hauled your hips up, and took you from behind, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. You buried your face in the pillows, muffling your screams, your body shuddering with every thrust. When he leaned down to press a kiss to the nape of your neck—soft, and soothing—you nearly sobbed.

You came together, his roar of release swallowed by your own broken cry, and then you collapsed into the sheets, sweat-slicked and trembling. He gathered you against his chest, his massive arms enveloping you, and pressed a kiss to your temple.

In the morning, when you said goodbye, his bedsheets smelled like you—like perfume and sex and something sweetly, achingly new. Philippe stared at the empty bed, his silver eyes remembering the curve of your shoulder, the soft part of your lips, and he felt something shift in his chest.

*

The Rust Syndicate headquarters hummed with the quiet efficiency of men who knew their place in the food chain. Corbeau sat at his desk, sharp and severe in his purple-black suit, thin-rimmed glasses perched on his nose as he reviewed the morning's reports. Philippe stood nearby, a mountain of tailored black and gold, his presence as steady and immovable as the steel-types he commanded.

Corbeau glanced at the clock, then at his right-hand man. "There's a new café on Vert Avenue. Thought we might try it for lunch." He didn't look up from his papers, already expecting the usual grunt of agreement.

"Can't."

The single word made Corbeau pause. He looked up, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. "The usual spot, then. Their tartines are acceptable."

"Not today"

This time, Corbeau set down his pen entirely. He swiveled in his chair, fixing Philippe with a look that had made lesser men confess to crimes they hadn't committed. Philippe met it with the same impassive expression he wore to board meetings, funerals, and gunfights alike.

"You have plans," Corbeau said. It wasn't a question.

"Something like that." Philippe's silver eyes betrayed nothing, but there was a certain set to his jaw—a barely perceptible smugness that Corbeau, who had known him for years, caught immediately.

The pieces clicked together with almost audible precision. Corbeau's severe features shifted, the cold menace giving way to genuine surprise. "You have a date."

Philippe said nothing, which was confirmation enough.

"Well, well." Corbeau leaned back, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I was beginning to worry you'd die a bachelor, Philippe. Who's the lucky woman who finally caught your eye?"

Philippe's gaze slid toward his boss, and the smirk that ghosted across his lips was unmistakable now. "You might not want to know."

"Nonsense. I insist."

A beat of silence. Then, with the deliberate calm of a man who knew exactly what he was doing: "The girl from the bar."

Corbeau's smile froze, then slowly, incrementally, collapsed into something deeply unamused. His eye twitched. "The girl from the—" He stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. "The one I approached? The one you were supposed to wingman for? That girl?"

Philippe nodded once.

Corbeau's composure cracked. "I called dibs! There's a code, Philippe! A code!" He paced behind his desk, gesturing wildly, the picture of refined indignation. "I saw her first. I initiated conversation. I—" He stopped, pointing an accusatory finger. "You stole her from me!"

"She wasn't interested in you, boss," Philippe said flatly.

"She might have been!"

"Well, she asked me to dance."

"Well, she would have asked me if you’d play wingman correctly!" Corbeau ran a hand through his wavy hair, struggling to regain his usual controlled demeanor. "I cannot believe this. My own right hand. Betrayed for a pretty face and—" He paused, a new thought striking him. "Wait. That night. Did she—did you—"

"She stayed over."

Corbeau's mouth opened, then closed. His expression shifted from outrage to something approaching grudging respect, tinged with intense, unholy curiosity. He leaned forward, voice dropping. "How was it?"

Philippe took his time, straightening a stack of papers on the desk, adjusting his gold tie. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and deliberate. "Let's just say she can handle herself."

Corbeau's eyes widened behind his glasses. A beat of silence. Then, louder than strictly necessary: "I KNEW IT! I knew she had that look! The quiet ones always—" He caught himself, clearing his throat, and smoothed down his jacket with practiced dignity. "Well. Enjoy your lunch, Philippe. But if I hear of any...unprofessional conduct during work hours, there will be consequences."

Philippe was already heading for the door. "Noted."

"And Philippe?" Corbeau called after him, voice carrying a razor edge beneath its pleasant tone. "No funny business."

The door clicked shut. Corbeau stared at it for a long moment, then sank back into his chair, muttering to himself. "That dog. It should have been me."

*

The farmer's market sprawled across Jaune Plaza in a riot of color and sound—stalls draped in canvas awnings, crates overflowing with fresh produce, the air thick with the scent of baking bread and sun-warmed berries. Philippe met you outside the Syndicate headquarters.

"Where to?" he asked, falling into step beside you.

You grinned up at him. "Farmer's market. I've been craving fresh berries all week."

You wove through the stalls together, Philippe a solid, steady presence at your side, his large hand resting at the small of your back. The market was alive with sound and scent—vendors calling out their wares, children darting between legs, the sizzle of fresh crepes on hot griddles, the sweet perfume of ripe peaches and strawberries.

You stopped first at a cheese vendor, where an older woman with flour-dusted hands offered you samples on wooden sticks: sharp cheddar aged in a cave near Cyllage City, creamy brie that melted on your tongue, and a tangy goat cheese rolled in herbs and edible flowers. Philippe watched you savor each bite with an expression that was almost indulgent, and when you held up a piece of the herbed goat cheese to his lips, he leaned down and accepted it without hesitation.

"It’s good," he rumbled, and you beamed.

The next stall sold fresh bread, loaves of sourdough and rye and baguettes still warm from the oven, their crusts crackling as the baker sliced off samples. You bought a round of honey-drizzled focaccia, tearing off pieces and sharing them as you walked, your fingers growing sticky and sweet. Philippe produced a handkerchief from his breast pocket—actual cloth, monogrammed—and handed it to you with such solemn dignity that you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.

At the jam vendor, you sampled spoonfuls of apricot, fig, and a dark berry preserve that tasted like summer condensed into syrup. You bought a small jar of the berry, tucking it into your bag, and Philippe carried it for you without being asked.

For lunch proper, you stopped at a stall run by a husband and wife from Akala Island in Alola, their grill sending up plumes of fragrant smoke. You ordered two plates of grilled fish tacos with mango salsa and a side of roasted sweet potatoes, and you found a spot at one of the communal tables set up near the fountain. The food was messy and bright and perfect, the salsa dripping down your fingers, and Philippe ate with the same methodical precision he brought to everything—though you caught him watching you lick sauce from your thumb with an intensity that made your cheeks flush.

Afterward, wandering toward the far end of the market where the imported goods were displayed, you stopped dead in your tracks. A small stall, unassuming, with a hand-painted sign reading "Johto Imports" in curling letters. And there, arranged in neat rows, were Rage Candy Bars—their familiar red-and-gold wrappers gleaming in the afternoon sun.

You made a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a whimper.

"They're so expensive," you murmured, already reaching for your wallet, already calculating if you could justify the splurge.

Philippe's hand on your arm stopped you. He pulled out a sleek black credit card and handed it to the vendor without ceremony. "We’ll take two.” 

You walked away munching on the candy bars, the rich chocolate melting on your tongue, and Philippe watched you with an expression that was almost soft.

Later, seated at a small outdoor table with drinks sweating in the summer heat, you talked for what felt like hours—about the sweetness of the berries you'd sampled, the sour bite of the pickled vegetables from the stall near the fountain, about your family and his, about everything and nothing. Philippe was a man of few words, but he listened with an intensity that made you feel like the only person in the world.

When he called a taxi to head back to work, he paused, one hand on the open door. "Need a lift?"

You slid into the backseat beside Philippe, the leather warm from the afternoon sun, the taxi idling at the curb as the driver stepped out to take a quick call. The door clicked shut, and suddenly the world outside the tinted windows fell away—the market noise, the chatter of pedestrians, the distant hum of the city—all of it muted, distant, irrelevant.

The silence between you was electric. Philippe sat motionless, his bulk filling his half of the seat, his silver eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch. The memory of the night before hung in the air—his hands on your hips, his mouth on your throat, the way he'd growled your name against your skin. You could feel the heat radiating off him, could smell the faint trace of his cologne mingling with the summer warmth.

You leaned over, your heart hammering, and pressed your lips to his—soft, tentative, a question.

Philippe answered by cupping the back of your head with one large hand and pulling you closer, deepening the kiss into something far less innocent. His tongue slid against yours, hot and demanding, and you gasped into his mouth as his free hand found your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh with just enough pressure to make you ache. You shifted, pressing closer, your hands fisting in the lapels of his suit jacket as the kiss grew hungrier, messier, all teeth and tongue and desperate wanting.

The driver's door swung open.

You broke apart, flushed and panting, your lips swollen and your heart racing. Philippe's hand was still on your hip, his eyes dark and hooded, his composure barely intact. The driver slid behind the wheel, oblivious, and glanced at you both in the rearview mirror.

"Where to?"

Philippe's silver eyes met yours, dark with intent. He gave the driver his apartment address.

*

The door slammed behind you. Philippe had you pressed against it before you could catch your breath, his mouth hot on your neck, his hips grinding against yours as he fumbled one-handed for his keys. You laughed, giddy and breathless, and the sound only seemed to spur him on.

The lock clicked, and the door swung open. You stumbled backward into the apartment, Philippe catching you before you could fall, and then you were kissing again, tearing at each other's clothes, leaving a trail of fabric in your wake as you backed toward the bedroom.

You broke away, grinning, and darted down the hall. And Philippe gave chase, a purposeful stride that made your heart race. You reached the bedroom first, but only just as he closed the door behind him with a click that felt like a promise.

This time, he took his time.

He laid you out on the bed and worshipped every inch of you with hands and mouth and tongue, learning the places that made you gasp, the spots that made you arch off the mattress. He edged you until you were trembling, until you were begging, until his name was the only word you could remember.

When you finally straddled him, sinking down onto his thick length with a moan that echoed off the walls, he watched your breasts bounce with every roll of your hips, his hands coming up to cup and knead them, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you groaned. He pulled you down, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss, and thrust up into you with a force that made you see stars.

The rhythm built—rough, relentless, exactly what you craved. Philippe pulled you off of him and manhandled you onto your back, dragging you to the edge of the bed. He hooked your legs over his broad shoulders, the new angle letting him sink even deeper, and began thrusting. The sounds you made were filthy, desperate, and he drank them in like wine.

"Philippe—" you gasped, somewhere between a moan and a laugh, "your lunch break—ended a half hour ago—"

He didn't answer. Instead, he doubled his efforts, pounding into you with renewed vigor, one hand snaking down to circle your clit until you shattered around him, a scream tearing from your throat as you squirted, soaking the sheets beneath you. He followed moments later, a guttural groan rumbling from his chest as he spilled inside you.

In the living room, buried in the pocket of his discarded pants, his phone buzzed. And buzzed. And buzzed.

*

Afterward, you lay tangled together in the wreckage of his sheets, your head on his chest, his arm wrapped securely around your waist. You both were sweaty and hot, the room seemingly not cold enough at the moment, but neither of you cared.

"You're going to be so late," you mumbled against his skin.

"Worth it."

"Your boss going to kill you."

"Probably."

You laughed, burrowing closer. Philippe pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and for a long moment, the world outside didn't exist.

*

Back at the Rust Syndicate headquarters, Corbeau stared at his phone. Seventeen texts. Four missed calls. Zero responses.

He set the phone down with the careful, deliberate precision of a man restraining himself from hurling it across the room.

"I knew it," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I knew it. He's with her right now. They're—" He gestured vaguely, helplessly, at the empty office. "And I'm here. Alone. Doing paperwork."

He slumped back in his chair, staring at the ceiling with the expression of a man who had been bested by fate itself.