Lurkster Catboy

Ingredients:

Selfcest, blood (just a lil), spanking, crying, hate sex, power struggle, unnegotiated kink, spit as lube, petroleum jelly as lube, egregious misuse of taxpayer funded medical supplies, agressive fingering, anal, dubious consent, clothed sex (mostly lol), degradation/humiliation, aftercare, older man/younger man, boss/employee, begging, brat taming, older cecil tops younger cecil bottoms, surprise mystery cameo, orgasm control if you squint

Word count 4,212

When the dust settled, Cecil saw his own worst fear he didn’t know he had until that exact moment. His own face, twenty years younger, staring back at him. He knew, more on instinct than anything else, that this was going to be hell on earth, assuming both of them survived. The blood red emergency backup lighting did a lot to set the mood.

They were pretty far away from each other, and it was dim and smoky in that hallway, but Cecil believes he saw a glimmer of recognition in that face, followed quickly by desperate denial. And well, if anything, that was confirmation that this guy was, in fact, who he appeared to be.

The lab had said they were an exact genetic match. He doesn’t recall what they said the chances of that occurring randomly were, because frankly, it was a number he had never heard before. Something approaching the number of atoms in the galaxy. Egghead shit, and a pretty good indication that their realities are nearly identical. But of course, Cecil wasn’t going to accept anything on faith. This guy definitely has his genes, but that might be the only thing he has.

Interrogating himself, unsurprisingly, was like trying to pull teeth from an electric eel, and the orange jumpsuit gave a pretty good indication as to which version of himself he was dealing with.

“You guys have fifth amendment rights here, no?”

“Of course, but you’re not under arrest. We’re just trying to get a grip on the situation.”

“So am I free to go?”

Little shit.

“I’m afraid not. We need to figure out exactly who you are before we release you.”

“Ah, so you’re not holding me on suspicion of committing a crime, just suspicion that I might commit one.”

“Seen what you’re wearing lately?”

Ok. That was maybe not the best response. He sighs.

“Listen, you can trust me. I mean, if not yourself, who else, right?”

The little bastard raises an eyebrow at that. He is not buying it, but who can blame him?

“And what if I don’t wanna talk, just leave?”

This is pissing Cecil off a little too much to hide it. His tone drops.

“I’m not sure you wanna do that.”

“You think I want to be locked up in an interrogation room right now?”

He smirks, just barely.

“Seen what I’m wearing lately?”

God, he could just slap that smug look right off that kid’s face.

The older of the two Cecils stands up, chair scraping loudly against the floor.

“You make this easy for me, I’ll return the favor. If you don't, I can't promise anything. At all. I’ll be back in an hour cause believe it or not, I’ve got more important things to do today than you. Think about it.”

On the roof he gets some fresh air and privacy, both desperately needed. His gaze lowers to the vehicles in the parking lot below, a thousand or so strong, looking like little matchbox cars from this vantage. Each one driven by somebody who depends on him, like everyone else on the planet. He observes them dispassionately, like an unimpressed god taking stock of his dissatisfying creation.

He grasps his phone like a gun, knuckles whitening. He already knows who he has to call. He dials. It rings. It rings. It rings. The call connects.

Cecil speaks first.

“I wouldn’t call in the middle of the day like this if it weren’t urgent. There’s something you need to know.”

“Continue.”

Good. He’s listening.

Cecil spills absolutely everything. It takes him damn near ten minutes to get it all out. After he’s finished a tense silence passes. There’s a faint sound on the other end of the line. Cecil presses his ear closer.

It’s laughter. He’s fucking laughing.

“Goddammit Radcliffe this isn’t funny!”

The laughter gets louder and sputters into a cough before it gradually dies down. Cecil can practically see the man wiping tears from his eyes.

“I’m sorry Cecil, but it really, really is.”

“Oh yeah?”

“It’s like my prayers have been answered twenty years later. You finally have to deal with your own bullshit. Hell, I thought you were gonna say you were dying, you sounded so grim.”

“It is grim.”

“Oh I’m sure.”

Cecil can hear his smile.

“You done reveling in my misery yet?”

“Just about. Whaddaya need?”

Cecil sighs.

“I figured… well, you knew me best. You got me to listen.”

“You want me to come down there?”

“No, no. I think you’re just about the last person he wants to see right now.”

Radcliffe chuckles softly.

“You’re the expert.”

Cecil can’t stop the corner of his mouth from raising.

“No, I just… How do I make him listen?”

“Just tell him the truth. That’s what I did with you.”

“And what’s the truth?”

Radcliffe falls silent for a minute. A gentle breeze picks up on the rooftop and tosses stray strands of Cecil’s hair. On the other end of the line he hears a sigh. Shuffling. What he assumes to be the sound of a pen clicking.

“He’s probably not going home anytime soon, but I don’t think that’s a huge concern for him. He’s got a specialized skill set and qualifications but virtually no options… You should have him work for you.”

Cecil scoffs.

“I’m serious. He needs to do something that matters or he’ll get destructive. Why do you think I kept you so busy all the time?”

Cecil was afraid he would regret this call. The medicine is definitely bitter but it’s still medicine.

“I don’t think he’ll be too thrilled to go back to the GDA.”

“He’ll come around. You did, after all.”

Radcliffe the ever faithful. Cecil hums before replying.

“Priority number one will still be getting him back home.”

“How come?”

“I don’t like the idea that I’m taking him away from people who need him.”

“People here need him too.”

“You know what I mean.”

“There’s plenty of others who could fill his shoes. Their world will keep spinning without him.”

Those words out of this man’s mouth feel… oddly callous. Cecil knows they aren’t directed at him exactly, per se, but he can’t help but take them somewhat personally, even despite their obvious truth.

“So that’s how you really feel, huh?”

“Like I said, I tell you the truth.”

Radcliffe was right. It was the right thing to do, offering agent Stedman his old job back. It was also just so, so wrong. Kid clearly knew he didn’t have many options outside of the GDA, and he resented it. He followed orders, yeah, but never without an eyeroll, or backtalk, or some smartass comment.

And people liked younger Cecil. Because he wasn’t their boss presumably. Everybody hates their boss, even when he’s a decades older version of you, apparently. Especially then. The fact his younger self is so popular should not make Cecil nearly as angry as it does.

And it’s not like he wasn’t cocky at that age too. He’d known he was attractive, and he wasn’t above checking himself out in the mirror every once in a while. Everybody does it, right? Who isn’t curious about how they look from behind?

Well he kinda has to admit that means agent Stedman is sexy, huh? And he knows how he’d look naked-

Ok, stop, stop, stop.

Uncomfortable implications and vivid mental images aside, it was maybe a little obvious he was harder on the kid than he was on everybody else. How could he not be though? Cecil knows for a damn fact that Stedman should know better. And then the kid really fucked it up. Blew up an entire deal they were working out because he “doesn’t negotiate with terrorists” despite the fact he practically is one.

So now they sit across from each other, in the director’s office, both absolutely incandescent and barely hiding it. The director speaks first.

“So you don’t wanna work with criminals, huh? I got some news for you about what you are.”

“I had my reasons. You of all people should know that.”

“Everyone who commits a crime thinks they’re justified. That’s why they do it.”

“Just call me a hypocrite already so I can leave.”

Cecil laughs, needle sharp and dripping with venom. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You know what your problem is? You never learned your fuckin’ lesson. Never got over yourself. When my agents fuck up, it reflects badly on me. But especially when you do it.”

“You’re scared of me, aren’t you?”

Burning blue eyes meet their twins. Stedman stands slowly from his chair and leans across the desk, so close his breath ghosts over Cecil’s face.

“I’m not an inferior version of you. When I go back home, I won’t be anything like you, cause you’re fucking pathetic.”

“Then I guess you’re never going home.”

“Give me one good reason not to kill you.”

It happens instantaneously. Reflexively. Instinctually. One moment Cecil grabs his stapler, and the next, Stedman lays sprawled across the floor, blood seeping from the fresh wound on his forehead. He brings his fingers to the dribbling gash. They come away red, and the shock on his face twists into contempt.

Cecil drops the stapler and it lands on the carpet with a thud. He closes the distance between them and kneels down with a grunt, gripping the collar of Stedman’s shirt with every ounce of strength he has. A sound like a thwarted attempt at speech escapes the younger man's throat.

“Don’t you ever… threaten me.”

The room is lethally silent save for their huffing breaths.

“If this happens again… you’ll wish I had killed you. Understand?”

Stedman swallows and his Adam's apple bobs against Cecil’s knuckles. Something twinges in his gut in a way it just shouldn’t and he’s about to let go when-

He feels it. His eyes widen, breath stills. There's no denying. He doesn’t need to look down.

Cecil hoists him to his feet and hurls him over the desk onto his stomach. Folders fly, pens clatter. His weathered hands clamp around the younger’s wrists, pinning him down. There’s no doubt in Cecil’s mind that he’s the physically weaker of the two. The little bastard could fight back and win, no question, he’s just choosing not to. Every second that passes reinforces the fact that this is some kind of depraved game of chicken. They both have the other exactly where they would never admit they want them.

“This what you want? Huh?”

Silence. Cecil reinforces his question with a thrust and gets nothing but a grunt in response.

“Huh?!”

Stedman’s voice is strained but cocky as ever.

“You don’t have the balls.”

Cecil pauses. His grip on Stedman’s wrists softens and his hands fall away. The younger man turns his head ever so slightly, as if to look back, to question the loss of contact.

Then he feels firm hands clasp onto his hips, seizing his waistband and yanking. Hard. Cecil didn’t even bother with the belt, fingernails catching on flesh. Stedman yelps, arms flailing out to steady himself against the sudden force and cool breeze on his most sensitive parts. His palms slap against the desk and he grips the far edge.

“Don’t have the balls, huh?”

A palm strikes pale flesh, a brutal slap reverberating throughout the room. Stedman keens forward and hisses, hard wood digging into his hips enough to bruise. The prickling afterburn goes straight to his cock and he throbs.

Metal clinks. A buckle. The zip of leather pulling through belt loops.

Before he can reply Stedman receives another blow. The leather slices through the air and cracks like a whip. He can’t help the pitiful sound that escapes his throat. Every muscle in his body is locked in place, anticipating the next blow.

“Don’t wanna mess up your pretty little hands?” He chokes out.

“Nah, I just know this hurts more.”

Cecil takes a second to admire the pinkening mounds of flesh, resting his palm against a supple thigh and slotting his thumb into that sacred boundary between ass and leg. Then he gets to work making them red. It’s as if every human thought has been poured out of Stedman’s mind. This moment and place are singular in the universe. There was no before, and there is no after, no reality outside the graciously sound-proofed walls of this office.

There is no physical sensation other than the searing burns from the belt strikes, the hard edge of the desk digging into his desperately gripping palms and jerking hips, his pounding pulse, the waves of pleasure wracking him at every impact making him damn near convulse, the ache between his legs, or the stinging tears now welling in his eyes. He lowers his forehead to the cool surface below in some desperate search for relief, and winces at the sting when it meets his fresh cut.

There is no sound except the merciless whips of the belt, Stedman’s choked whimpers, grunts of exertion from the man above him, creaking protests from the desk and rattling of various stationery, or the animalistic panting of them both.

Cecil pauses for the simple fact his arm is tired. Bad idea. As he attempts to catch his breath the reality of the situation crashes into him, shattering the veneer of lewd thrill, of catharsis, of meting out punishment to someone who had been nothing but asking for it. He’d had thoughts, of course, but until now he’d managed to keep them on the dark periphery of his mind, safely tamed and docile. Every strike was payback for the humiliation of revealing how much he wanted to strike him in the first place.

And Cecil knows, because he’d have done it too, has done it too, that Stedman’s satisfaction is deeper than physical. Half the pleasure was knowing his provocation was successful. That he had gotten Cecil to debase himself so completely, to abandon any pretension or collected exterior.

Was this wrong? Probably, leaning towards definitely. That question doesn’t matter.

Do either of them care that it is?

Does it even matter now? If you’ve crossed the second to last line does it matter when you cross the last one?

Could this actually be good? Could this be how they fix things between them? Just how much of this tension was caused by their inability to admit that they wanted this? By their mutual shame at wanting this in the first place?

All very pertinent questions, for another time, because the important task at hand is currently bent over a desk, and in all likelihood not feeling incredibly patient or conversational right now.

Cecil absentmindedly glances down at his handiwork just in time to watch a clear droplet of fluid fall from between Stedman’s legs and land on the carpet with an almost inaudible pat. It beads on the synthetic blue fibers for a few seconds before dissipating, leaving a dark ghost of a stain. He understands, wordlessly. Instinctually. This moment will replay in his mind for the rest of his life. It is singular. It is perfect. The entire world just rotated 360 degrees on the head of a pin.

Miracles are real, because Cecil is hard.

Harder than he’s been in years, at least.

Stedman is going to take what he gets, and if he’s unsatisfied he can complain to HR about it.

Cecil unceremoniously pries him open, eliciting a sharp hiss with his rough handling of the sensitive area. He gently slides the tip of his thumb up and down the slot between the muscles, teasing. He’s rewarded with the barest arching of Stedman’s back. The motion is tense, slow, and choppy, as if he’s fighting his own body, desperately holding onto his last shred of dignity and futilely pretending he’s not the desperate, depraved slut they both know he is.

It’s softer than silk, like he knew it would be. Not his first adventure in this territory, so to speak. It looks like some kind of fucked up archery target, Cecil muses. From outside in, rings of red, pink, white, then pink again. At least he knows where to aim, he thinks as he begins working up saliva with his tongue.

Slowly he lowers his head down, grey strands ghosting over blooming skin, and he spits. Stedman softly gasps and jumps forward, the treads of his shoes slipping against the low pile carpet. Cecil catches the wetness with the pad of his thumb before it can drip down too far and massages, dipping deeper into the heat with every pass. He applies more saliva as needed and flexes the digit until he can comfortably slip inside past the second knuckle.

"So you're above followin’ my orders, but not above gettin’ bent over my desk and havin’ your ass whooped, huh?"

Cecil taunts as he undoes the fly of his slacks and tugs the front of his waistband down until he springs free.

The younger’s reply is choked, crackled at the edges with salty tears and molasses-sweet humiliation.

"You're the sick one.”

Still defiant. Still begging for discipline. Cecil chuckles, low and cruel, the laugh of a hunter watching his prey desperately flailing to escape. Something cold licks up Stedman’s spine, and something hot curls in his belly.

“Oh, I’m sick alright.”

Cecil withdraws his thumb roughly only to line himself up and thrust before Stedman can gather his wits enough to brace. It breaks him and he moans, arching into it hard, incapable of holding himself stiff and fighting against the pleasure anymore. Cecil meets too much resistance, only getting the head and first inch or so of shaft in. Should’ve seen that coming. The second he withdraws, Stedman protests, his voice a breathless plea.

“Wha- nonono-”

“Shut up. Needya wetter.”

He milks the glands under his tongue for all they’re worth and he’s barely rewarded for his efforts. Stedman’s comfort and enjoyment isn’t exactly his top priority, but saliva dries alarmingly quickly and Cecil isn’t keen on taking frequent maintenance breaks, not when he’s already struggling to keep production up with demand. This isn’t going to happen unless he-

The first aid kit. He’s going to need it after this anyways to attend to Stedman’s wound. Perfect.

“Don’t move.”

Cecil knows he’s going to stay put, he just enjoys telling him what to do. Especially when he obeys.

Walking around and rifling through cabinets with a full-on bobbing erection is a supremely awkward feeling, one that he gracefully only has to tolerate for a few moments before he finds what he’s looking for.

He tosses the translucent plastic case on the end of the desk, cracking it open and - with his clean hand - rifles through the compartments until… There they are. Little individual foil packets. His saviors. He slips on a nitrile glove, rips open a packet and applies the jelly to his hand, electing to use his ring and middle fingers this time, determined to do a better job.

First he slicks the entrance, then he forces his way inside, ungloved hand clamped in a vice grip on the younger man’s hip. Cecil hopes it hurts. He hopes it bruises. Stedman keens and whimpers, whispering curses and arching mindlessly into the touch, even as Cecil brutally plunges deeper, curling and flexing his digits, spreading them apart and scissoring him open with all the patience and delicacy of a rutting bull. He always did like it rough, anyway.

The older man smirks and chuckles under his breath, both satisfied with his work and musing that now he’s gotten to experience exactly what some - well, let’s be honest, most - of his flings and hookups and longer term partners got to enjoy. He won’t lie, he sees the appeal.

He drills as deep as the anatomy of his hand will allow, flesh pressed so firmly against flesh it might meld together if not for the thin membrane of the glove. He rips the contact away as cruelly as he brought it down, then grabs another packet, rips the foil with his teeth, and works the jelly up and down his shaft. Not strictly necessary, but he takes the precaution as he isn’t sure he has the patience for any more interruptions today.

Again he aligns himself, this time gliding down his full glistening length until skin meets skin. He loses himself for a moment, pressing into the tight, slick heat with all his strength, white hot bliss shooting up his cock so brutally his head spins. Stedman draws in a sharp, hissing breath, bringing Cecil back down to earth. He eases up, still throbbing. As his mental faculties return something occurs to him.

Stedman isn’t broken enough. Not yet, not to his liking. Cecil rips off the nitrile glove and tosses it away. He settles his hands on Stedman’s hips, rubbing gentle circles with his thumbs. Then he enacts his plan.

“Remind me again what you came to my office for?”

“Whu- what?”

“Well, when you want things, you have to ask for them, right?”

Stedman pauses, piecing things together in his, at the moment, barely operational brain.

“Oh, fuck off.”

“If you say so.”

Cecil begins to pull out.

“Ah - No!”

He stops.

“So you don’t want me to fuck off?”

Stedman buries his head in his arms and groans.

“Well what do you want then?”

“Goddammit…”

“What was that?”

His voice is barely audible, just above a whisper, muffled.

“Fuck me…”

“Gonna have to be louder than that.”

Stedman’s arms fly open and his head rockets up.

“FUCK ME GODDAMMIT!”

Cecil’s grip tightens and he leans down slowly to Stedman’s ear. He speaks softly.

“You wanna try that again? Nicely this time?”

Stedman chokes back a groan, stomach no doubt turning. He wheezes a few strained breaths through his nose, then slows them, steadying himself.

“Please fuck me.”

Cecil lets out a low, satisfied hum.

“That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”

He snaps his hips forward, and skin slaps obscenely against skin. Having satisfied his sadistic appetite for now, Cecil begins building a rhythm. Slow for the sake of his joints, but still relentless, never failing to bury himself as far as he’ll go. He pulls up the back of Stedman’s shirt and takes a moment to savor the sight of taut, glistening muscles flexing and straining beneath him before it occurs to him.

With how vocal Stedman is being, is he enjoying himself more than Cecil is? Before he can catch it, the thought crosses his mind that he’ll have to get even with him if that’s the case.

Well, shit, is it really misconduct to demand sexual favors from your employee if the sick bastard would enjoy that? It’s his fault any of this is happening in the first place.

He is asking for it after all…

Cecil can’t help the wicked grin that spreads across his face. Surely he of all people is allowed at least a few indiscretions.

After a little deliberation, he decides to seize his last opportunity to make his point clear. He gradually slows, then stills, catching his breath enough to speak evenly, measured.

“You have to do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes sir.”

Were this anybody else, this would read as a lack of enthusiasm, but this is himself he’s talking to. The instantaneous acquiescence betrays a feverish desperation.

Cecil's cock throbs in response. How blanked must Stedman's mind be, how tightly wound the coil? He hesitates. It should be simple. Give him what he wants, clean up, kick him out. How easy it must be to not ask questions as a reflex. How did they get here? Is he getting this too easily? Has he stepped into some obvious trap he was blind to? What does this mean? How do they move forward after this?

All questions, no answers. Cecil huffs a quiet laugh. He knows one answer. He bends down to whisper in Stedman’s ear, delicate strands quivering under the breath from his parted lips.

“I’m all you have. You’re all I have. What you just said? Heard it all before. That’s the first time I believed it.” He finds the crook between neck and shoulder and plants a kiss there.

Hand in hand they dance the lovers dance. If the other is lying neither of them care. It’s real enough.

After they finish and regain their composure, Cecil fishes some butterfly closures out of the kit and snaps on clean, unviolated gloves. It’s the most delicate he’s been with his favorite agent all night.

“You clipped your head on the corner of an open cabinet door, got it?”

He receives no response but doesn’t suspect he wasn’t listened to. Sharp eyes continue watching deft fingers. Getting no reply still bothers him though.

"I hope you don't put out every time you get smacked around. We're gonna have some serious issues keeping you on if that's the case.”

“I’m not the one smacking around my employees. You make a habit of that?”

“Yeah actually, I do.”