#{i'm cackling}

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I love being a complete menace to Corbleau--I mean, CORBEAU...

Premise: You call Corbeau "pookie" and he about loses it. Doesn't help that Philippe finds it amusing, too.

*chuckles* I'm in danger. XD

Update:

@ena-the-eepy has DONE IT AGAIN with her silly comic of this fic XDDD

**********************************************************************

Corbeau’s office is unusually tense today—even for Corbeau. He stood behind his desk, fingers digging into the edges of a file folder as he glared at the report spread out in front of him like it personally offended him.

Philippe stood just off to the side near his boss, hands behind his back, face neutral, but his eyes glinted with quiet anticipation. He knew you were about to cause chaos because you were sitting on the corner of the desk, sipping a soda and swinging your legs like you were watching a show.

Corbeau snapped the file shut with a sharp crack.

“This is incompetent.”

He slams it open again.

“This is sloppily written.”

Flip.

“Half the intel is missing.”

Flip.

“This is an embarrassment to the Syndicate.”

Flip—

RIP.

He tore a page in half.

Philippe winced. A small, subtle wince. The universal sign for: Oh boy, he’s losing it.

Corbeau pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing through his teeth.

“Ignore the fact that they spelled my name wrong—twice—once as Corbleau, what is this?” He points violently at a picture.

You leaned over, squinting.

“…That’s a doodle of you riding Scolipede, wielding a sword, with the words—” you squinted a little, “—‘For…our…short king’?”

“The disrespect,” you heard Phillipe say, but you could hear the smile in his tone.

Corbeau slammed the folder shut again, a vein popping out on his forehead.

You smiled.

“Awww…pookie.”

A dangerous silence follows.

Philippe blinked once. Very slowly.

Corbeau lifted his head with the slow, simmering intensity of a man testing his last thread of patience.

“…Don’t.”

A pause.

A very dangerous pause.

“Don’t ‘pookie’ me.”

You shrugged, kicking your legs. “But you’re so cute when you’re angry.” You threw a cheeky wink at him. “Pookie.”

“STOP CALLING ME—” His voice cracked on the word. Just a little. Enough to send Philippe looking down at the floor, coughing into his fist to hide a laugh.

Corbeau whipped his head toward the Steele user with a fierce glare.

“Not. A. Word,” he seethed.

Philippe lifted his hands in surrender, but his shoulders shook.

Corbeau inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring, before pointing a finger at you, trembling with restraint.

“You. Are. A menace.”

You slowly slid off his desk to stand, before turning your body to face his desk and leaned over so your upper body laid on the desk's surface. Chin in hand, you smiled sweetly.

“Why so angry, pookie,” you said, before bringing the soda straw to your lips and took a noisy sip.

Corbeau’s eye twitched, but he was quick to calm himself. A last tactic to salvage the situation.

“I am the leader of the Rust Syndicate,” he declared, “and I will not be referred to as—”

“Pookie?”

He slammed both hands on the desk—not near you—but on the part FAR away from you, because even in his wrath he’d never risk scaring, or hurting, you.

Philippe covers his mouth with the back of his hand, shoulders trembling.

“I have killed for less,” Corbeau continued, voice trembling—not with rage, but with the overwhelming desire to NOT strangle you and instead… do something else entirely.

You reached out to pat his arm.

“It’s okay, pookie—"

You yelped as he suddenly grabbed your wrist—not rough, but very, very firm—and pulled you off the desk with the exasperation of a man who has reached the end of his sanity.

“That’s it,” he muttered. “Get up.”

Still stunned by the gesture, words failed you as you obeyed.

He leaned over until his lips brushed your ear. “We're going somewhere quiet,” he growled, “where I can teach you a lesson in vocabulary.”

Your face flushed as an excited shiver down your spine.

Philippe, now grinning openly, bowed slightly at Corbeau and gave you a cheerful wave as you were dragged toward the elevator door.

“Have fun, kids.”

“PHILIPPE!”

“Yes, pookie?”

Corbeau stopped mid-step like his brain blue-screened.

You snorted, before giggling.

Corbeau’s eye twitched. And then, he muttered under his breath, “I need new employees.”