NSFW, THRAGGCIL,pegging, Cecil is ftm
The heavy oak door of the Director's office was locked, the blinds drawn tight to block out the sterile, buzzing lights of the Pentagon corridors. For the first time all week, the endless barrage of global crises had quieted down to a dull murmur, leaving Cecil slumped back in his leather chair, a half-empty glass of whiskey sitting forgotten on the edge of his desk. He had only been looking for a moment of quiet,...a brief reprieve to let his shoulders drop and his mind stop racing. He hadn't expected Thragg to materialize from the shadows of the balcony, smelling of the cold upper atmosphere, but he hadn't turned him away, either.
What started as a quiet, grounding kiss (just Cecil trying to soothe the lingering tension in his own jaw) rapidly shifted into something far thicker, heavier, and dangerously hot to bear.
Before Cecil even fully registered the shift, the Grand Regent was completely melting under his touch like a starved dog. For a man who had spent thousands of years surrounded only by cold duty, absolute conquest, and clinical Viltrumite breeding practices, the concept of genuine intimacy was a total sensory overload. The unhurried warmth of it was stripping away his imperial dignity, piece by piece.
Cecil leaned back against the edge of the heavy desk, pulling the massive Viltrumite down with him. The wood creaked loudly under their combined weight, a sharp groan that cut through the dim, quiet room. Thragg caught himself on his forearms, his massive hands on the edge of the mahogany, trying desperately to anchor himself as Cecil shifted beneath him.
The heat between them was suffocating. Every deep, deliberate movement, the heavy slap of their skin colliding, shattered the momentary silence of the office.
Thragg fought fiercely to hold his breath, his chest locking up tight as he tried to suppress the raw, foreign sensations flooding his system. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscles in his neck strained, his brown eyes blown out and entirely unfocused as he stared down at the Director. He was a conqueror; he wasn't supposed to make noise. He wasn't supposed to be weak. He tried to swallow the sounds rising in his throat, desperate to maintain some semblance of control.
But Cecil wouldn't let him.
Sensing the rigid tension in the Regent's large frame, Cecil reached up, his fingers burying into the thick hair at the back of Thragg's neck to pull him down. He began to spoil him completely, pressing soft, unhurried kisses along Thragg's jaw neck and chest even over the rough edge of his mustache, and straight to his lips. Cecil took his time, pouring an overwhelming, unconditional affection into every touch, a gentle reassurance that Thragg didn't need to conquer anything here. He just had to receive it.
That deliberate tenderness completely shattered Thragg's forced silence.
As Cecil’s lips pressed against his throat, a low, rumbling vibration started deep within the Regent's massive chest. It bloomed into a heavy, involuntary purr. A sound Thragg didn't even know his body was capable of producing. With every subsequent kiss Cecil pressed into his skin, the purr broke apart into thick, breathless groans that echoed softly against the office walls.
Thragg buried his face into the crook of Cecil’s neck, his hot breath hitching unevenly as he finally stopped fighting. His large hands moved from the desk to clumsily, desperately frame Cecil's waist, pulling the smaller man impossibly closer as if trying to physically absorb the affection he had been starved of for millennia. In the quiet wreck of his own composure.
As uncomfortable as the material of their clothes got, it was quickly discarded and thrown to the floor, leaving nothing between them but the suffocating heat of the room. Shifting their weight with a low grunt, Cecil managed to guide Thragg backward until the Grand Regent was the one pinned flat against the heavy mahogany, allowing Cecil to be the one to look down at him: a powerful warlord alien who now looked like nothing more than a breathless, heavily muscled man sprawled across his office desk.
The fake appendage attached to Cecil's waist helped him as he invaded Thragg, the sudden, intense friction causing the Grand Regent to hiss sharply, his back arching off the wood before he looked up at Stedman with a heavy, ragged pant.
Despite how hard the Regent tried to play quiethis fingers digging deep grooves into the edges of the desk to keep himself anchored, Cecil's deep, unrelenting movements were making him speak. The sheer, overwhelming force of the intimacy tore through Thragg's rigid conditioning, forcing a primal, desperate language from his throat. They were fractured syllables, breathless stammers, and low, needy commands that he wasn't aware he could even mutter after thousands of years of being built strictly as the unyielding, unfeeling Grand Regent of the Viltrum Empire.
Looking down, Cecil could see the absolute ruin of the warlord’s composure. Thragg's brown eyes were completely blown out, tracking every shift of Cecil's jaw, his massive thighs trembling slightly where they were pinned against the desk. Every time Cecil leaned down to press a slick, heavy kiss to his mouth, Thragg would swallow the gesture hungrily, his hips stuttering upward in an instinctual, unpracticed attempt to meet the rhythm, utterly helpless to the affection destroying his defenses from the inside out.
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