Chapter Text
“Something wrong?”
You turn up at Cecil’s office, standing in the doorframe.
The director is fumbling with the documents on his desk. He doesn’t usually like unexpected visits at his personal office.
Obviously you won’t tell him that you only wanted to see him.
“No.”
You keep standing, waiting for an invitation. He’s reading some piece of paper, he doesn’t look up.
“Don’t just stand there. Either get out or come in.”
Having gotten his approval, you decide to come in and bother him for a while.
“How’s work?”
“Like always.” He’s bored and tired.
He answers you in a manner that tells you he was thinking, “What kind of a question is that?”.
After a few seconds of silence, you decide that he is trying to politely dismiss your attempts at a conversation. The director has more important work to do.
To be frank, you can’t bear being less important than some documents to read.
“You know, you should be the one asking me these questions. I’m your employee.”
“I’m busy. Go talk to your co-workers,” he says as he rearranges the documents.
You don’t like the implications of that statement, and that he’s shoving your position in your face.
Of course, the high almighty director doesn’t talk to his workers. Except he does.
Still, he’s right. He doesn’t really need to personally check up on you.
“I can’t talk to them. They’re so distant.”
“I’m not your therapist.”
“You are to some others here,”
Sensing a tinge of jealousy in that comment, wondering specifically who you’re jealous of, he turns his head and smirks with his left side. His right is always frowning.
He finally slides the documents away.
“What’s your problem? Tell me.”
Noticing his impatience, you gradually move closer to his desk and sit on it, ass faced towards him. Overly conscious, you try not to slouch too much.
You can risk being closer with the director. You’ve got nothing to lose.
“Lately I feel like I have nothing to hold onto.”
He’s silent and for a moment, you’re scared he won’t give a shit. Out of that fear you don’t speak, instead settle with scratching your fingers.
He observes you for a few moments.
“And you decided you want my company?” He scoffs at that last word.
You don’t respond. The question is already answered when you don’t.
He sighs and you look back, searching for disappointment on his face.
Anything but reciprocation.
His nose scrunches up a little, and you turn towards him, hopping off the table and leaning on it to face him.
Having not noticed the still full cup of hot coffee on his table, you knock it over and it spills on his legs.
He curses under his breath and you pull back immediately. His ever tidy pants are damp. With coffee.
“What are you doing?”
He sounds more confused than angry.
“Sorry, I’ll go get something,”
You run outside the office, sprint to the bathroom for some tissues and come back. You wish you could just stay there and let yourself drown in shame.
You go back to see that someone’s already cleaned the mess and gone.
But you notice that he’s shooed off the people who tried to treat his burns.
Maybe so that you could do it. Or maybe you’re looking into it too much.
The burn is not too serious. But he’s the precious director, and you wouldn’t want people to talk behind your back, say how you spilled coffee in your boss’ office and got him burned.
You crouch down and wipe gently on his pants, he’s refused to take them off, “it doesn’t hurt.”
“Sorry.”
“That first one was enough,” he complains.
Once that’s done, you stand up to leave.
“Wait,” he says.
You turn.
“Shut the door.”
You do as you’re told.
“Lock it.”
You hesitate.
“Calm down, I’m not gonna fire you.”
You almost apologize for the third time but stop yourself.
“...What was it you first came in here for?”.
You hate asking for things. You hate using your words. All you can do is walk back towards him, to the smell of coffee and your stupid mistake. You try to look desirable enough.
He doesn’t seem to mind, though.
“We all make mistakes.”
That’s all the comfort he can offer in words, apparently.
“Come here.”
You follow.
“Here,” he pats on his lap.
“I just burned-”
He furrows his eyebrows. “It was barely hot.”
You comply and take your place in his lap.
He doesn’t touch you, just lets you settle.
“Whether it be spilled hot coffee, or hundreds of dead people, we all make mistakes. I do as well.”
He seems to be searching with his eyes for something to keep busy with on the desk.
You gulp heavy and shift slightly, squished between Cecil and the desk, trying not to put too much weight on him.
“If you wanted my company you could’ve just said so,”
You’re still silent. You can’t just say so.
Why is he being so kind now?
You try to show with your body language what you can’t say with words. Put your hand up on his suit, let your eyes linger on his crimson, uncreased tie.
His tie clip is perfectly adjusted and parallel. You tug on it.
“How come you allow yourself to make mistakes? You’re our director.”
“I try not to. I’m human, in case you’ve forgotten.” He points towards his scarred cheek.
You tug on his other cheek, the unscarred one, “not entirely.”
He smiles.
“So unserious,” you say.
You shift in his lap to face him directly.
“...Do you feel sorry for me?”
“No,”
He looks genuinely offended at your self-deprecating comment.
His hand trails up your leg and settles on your waist.
“I don’t get with people I feel sorry for.”
Get with?
“Do you… want to?
Did I misread?”
“No,” you melt. He didn’t misread.
He squeezes your waist. He’s glad.
“What’s wrong with you?”
He asks, but already knows.
Instead of answering the question, you shift closer to him in his embrace to plant a kiss on his right cheek.
He responds with a kiss on your lips.
Then another, starved.
His legs shift underneath you and one of them is pushed up your slit. You squeeze your legs and the pressure on your core hits you like butterflies. You arch your back so slightly.
He hums into your kiss.
His hands go to lift up your skirt and pull your underwear to the side. You grind on his clothed thigh, stained in coffee. He tuts at this.
“It was already wet,” you giggle in between kisses.
The fabric hurts under your clit, but it hurts so good. He places his hands like an anchor on your hips, pulling you down on him. “Freak,” he whispers.
You pull away from his thigh and replace yourself to sit on his clothed cock. It’s already half-hard.
His face switches expressions.
“Are you…”
You grind on his cock and can feel his dampened underwear under his smooth, silky pants.
He doesn’t bother to ask any more questions. He unbuckles his belt to take his cock out. His slightly lowered pants reveal his legs, spotted with moles all over.
You lift yourself up to line him up to your entrance. A good few efforts go to taking him in.
His eyes close shut as your tight hole wraps him. “Hah,” he whines, then chuckles, at the absurdity of this situation he seems to find.
Slick, wet slapping sounds and the sound of the director’s chair creaking fill the room.
One hand leaves your waist and he puts his thumb on your clit, rubbing it as you bounce on his cock.
You throw your hands on his shoulders, gripping hard. He smiles, relieved at the fact that he can still make someone feel good.
After a while, he falters.
“Get up.”
You do as he says, still confused.
“Turn around.
Hands on the table.”
You immediately comply. He’s glad you seem so eager.
“Sorry, my legs can’t carry all that.”
He uses his free hands to pull up your shirt and throw it somewhere across the room.
He starts planting kisses on your shoulders, “you good?” he mewls under his breath. You nod, softened up at this gesture.
There’s the sound of him taking his jacket off and placing it over his chair.
He sinks you down onto his cock again and his still clothed chest presses against your bare back. You arch your back to let him reach deeper.
“So, pretty,” he hums, interlocking his fingers in your hair.
You sob as he tugs on it.
All you can think of while he slams into you is how it’s possible that people are not hearing.
You turn your head on the desk, there’s the documents he was working on before.
The file of another stupid superhero.
You’re the one he’s fucking right now.
Not focusing on the way he’s pounding your hips hard, you grab the closest bundle of documents in your range.
Leaning forward, your hips hit the desk and it hurts. You push back aggressively and he groans.
“New agent?”
“Why do you care,” he sighs.
He’s frustrated you can still care about other things. He grabs your waist with both hands and digs his fingers into you.
While shuffling through the papers, you mindlessly cut the space between your left hand fingers. A sharp “ow” leaves your mouth.
Before you can suck on it, he notices and grabs your wrist, turns your palm around and does it for you.
As he leans down to do it, his cock twitches, still inside you. His mouth envelops the cut and leaves your finger with a kiss.
He huffs, “was it that important?”
“It is,”
A breath similar to a giggle escapes him.
A sound is heard, and his hand flies up, presumably to his earpiece.
“I’m a little busy,” he huffs, “what is it?”
His rhythm slows.
“Be there in 5,”
Not 10, but 5.
But not 2 either. Must not be an emergency.
He’s stopped. You try to push up against him using your hands, but he holds your hips in place.
“Work is more important than me, huh?” you eye him, trying to hold his interest.
You know work is more important than you. He’s the damn director.
He quickly pulls out of you, making you whine, and turns you around, laying you flat on your back on his desk.
You finally get a view of him, his damp hair and messed up shirt collar. His tie is loose, it's come unclipped.
Without warning, he pushes his fingers in your slit. Your warmth takes him in.
His thumb moves to circle your clit while he slams his hand in and out of you.
Your walls wrap around him, the familiarity and the dirt of his hands. His rushed movements leave you feeling all the needier, you reach out to grab his wrists, to encourage him to go faster.
His one hand goes up to his earpiece again, letting go of your wrist, one still occupied.
“I said I’m busy,” he growls. He looks at you, annoyed at whoever that poor worker is on the other end.
His hand movements don’t falter. His thighs are still pushed against yours, they keep yours warm. His cock is slightly nudged against your hole, desperate to go back in its warm spot. But he has enough self control.
“How many? Shit.”
You look up in his eyes and he looks back.
“Alright, I’m coming.”
These words betray the curling of his fingers in your hole.
His self control is apparently not enough to not satisfy you, at the very least.
Your walls wrap around him, memorizing his every knuckle, crease, every movement and every attack against your g-spot. Your knees twitch. You drown in his presence.
“Yes, I said I’m- on my way.”
In the middle of his sentence, your orgasm hits you like a truck, squirming, riding out the sensations on his hand still in you. Your hips buck towards him desperately, towards his cock nestled against your hole and it twitches.
For a moment, he seems uninterested in what's going on outside, only looking in your half-lidded eyes.
When you’re out your daze, he’s still massaging you gently.
You hook your legs around his hips to trap him.
He smiles. Removes your legs without any struggle.
Before leaving, he wipes your paper cut and wraps it with a bandaid from one of his desk drawers.
“Don’t go anywhere, we’re not finished.”
“You’re irresponsible,” you shout as he closes the door.