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FOTD: Ectopic

Author: Regret
Rating: 18/R
Story: Radial: Unravel
Challenge: FOTD: Ectopic - ectopic \ek-TOP-ik, adjective; Occurring in an abnormal position or place; displaced.
Toppings: Cherry [last time I wrote a sex scene for this was 2010...]
Word Count: 324
Summary: There's being caught in the act, and then there's traumatising your boss...
Notes: I tried to try out Milos's pose on my own chair (albeit one without arms), and it definitely feels like an abnormal position... I feel like I should be apologising to this prompt for how I've misused it.



Squeak. Squeak.

“That’s—ahh—getting irritating now...”

“Lose some weight. That’ll fix it.”

Milos unhooked an arm from around the armrest only long enough to raise one half-hearted middle finger. “Nnn. Fuck you...”

“You’ve got that the wrong way round.” Alex smirked, thrusting hard enough into Milos to elicit another gasping moan.

Bastard. He shot the human a filthy look and wrapped his arm around the matte plastic strut again. God knew he needed the support, these chairs offered none whatsoever—although to be fair that had more to do with the fact his head was halfway down the back and his legs were wrapped around Alex’s waist. So much for swearing never to do this again.

Squeak. A polite cough dragged their attention to their superior, framed by the office doorway. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry sir,” Alex said breezily, adjusting his grip on Milos’s thighs. If he was in any way ashamed about the fact his trousers were halfway down his hips it wasn’t obvious. “Just stress-testing the new chair.”

The poor man clearly didn’t know where to look. His eyes flicked around the room and only settled on the light fittings after they’d landed on Milos’s jeans piled on the desk. Milos knew how he felt. “How, uh, is it?”

“Need to oil the wheels.”

“Right...” He addressed the ceiling rather than the two men staring at him, fiddling with the collar of his shirt. “I’ll leave that to you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Right. Carry on then. Or, uh, I mean—” His eyes landed on them for a second and no more before he turned an interesting shade of red and bolted back into the hallway.

Milos stared at the door, then up at Alex and tried—failed—to suppress the laugh. “I think you broke him.”

“He should learn to knock. Next time—”

“—Never again.” Squeak. Milos moaned and sank further down the seat.

Squeak. Squeak. “Keep telling yourself that.”

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