leashy_bebes | fic: Untitled [1/1]

Title: Untitled
Pairing: Arthur/Percival
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Arthur is the CEO. He's the boss damn it. He can speak to anyone he chooses. Except, apparently, the really hot new security guard.
Warnings: Unmitigated fluff, modern AU, a suspect cactus.
Originally posted here at

arthurxpercival
Word Count: 600

His name is Percival and he works in security.

The day Arthur first saw him, he almost tripped over his own feet. The first thing he'd done on getting to his office was call up the personnel files of recent recruits and put a name to the face (and the body. The absurdly perfect body). And now Arthur sees him every morning as he strides into the foyer and towards the elevators and it's, a bit pathetically, the best part of his day.

Percival must work the early shift because he's always gone from the security by the time Arthur leaves in the evenings. He's there at lunch though, and Arthur's taken to going out for food rather than having his PA call down to catering. Because by lunchtime Percival has usually stripped off the thick black jumper with SECURITY printed on the chest pocket, which leaves him wearing a crisp white shirt that looks tight across his shoulders, snug around his biceps. It practically makes Arthur's mouth water.

It's ridiculous. Since Uther went into semi-retirement six months ago, Arthur has officially taken on the CEO role he's been performing for several years. He can talk to anyone. He has every right to strike up a conversation with the security staff, and he's sure he could even think of a decent excuse. It's just – he can't. He looks at Percival and all he can think about is being held down and fucked. It's awkward, to say the least, and Arthur's fairly sure he won't survive a conversation with Percival without making some kind of fool of himself.

A few days in, Percival starts giving him a smile and a nod every time he passes the security desk. Arthur tells himself it's simple good sense to smile at the boss. Anyone would do the same. So Arthur just nurses this increasingly desperate lust, burns with it and aches with it and doesn't know what to do with it.

He spends far too long sitting at his imposing desk and thinking about a man ten floors down who's never so much as spoken to him. And by 'thinking' Arthur mostly means 'indulging in wickedly filthy fantasies, many featuring getting bent over this desk right here'. His distraction doesn't go unnoticed of course. Within a couple of weeks Morgana's sending him looks, Gwen looks so sympathetic Arthur frankly wants to puke, while Gwaine thinks the obvious cure is to get him blindingly drunk.

Which is probably why, on the thirteenth of February at almost midnight, Arthur finds himself stumbling out the back of his car while Gwaine eggs him on. He's carrying the most phallic looking cactus he'd been able to find in Tesco's at half past eleven and a horribly gaudy card with a sloppily scribbled note inside: I thought you'd appreciate this more than flowers – well, I hope so anyway. You catch my eye every single day.

Clearly this adds up to the best idea Arthur has ever had.

***

In the morning Arthur wakes up and honestly wails at his ceiling, stopping only because his head is killing him. He's going to resign. No, wait, he's the boss, he can't resign. Sell up then. Move to a mountain and herd yaks. Or maybe just die from a combination of hangover and deep, abiding shame.

But then when he arrives at work, Percival gives him a nod and a smile and as he walks past Arthur overhears him telling one of the secretaries, I dunno, secret admirer, apparently. I think I'm going to call it Cock-tus.

Maybe all is not lost.

If anyone's interested, Cocktus is the one on the far right. [sfw because it's a cactus. Maybe nsfw because they look like cocks.]

Uh. I'm going to go and write something sensible now.

Current Mood: awake
Current Music: Pulp - Cocaine Socialism