Chapter Text
With all the paperwork and planning and recruit supervising you've had to do lately, you don't notice it at first. You guess, as he is your second in command, Floch's constant presence in your office is completely normal. Most of the time you don't even see what he's doing, nose buried in the reports, pen scribbling away. You hear him pace sometimes, in front of the bookcase sitting against the wall opposite from your desk, picking up books and leafing through them with only mild interest, before putting them back.
"Have you read all these?"
You lift your head to find him looking down at an ODM gear manual, turning it to check out a sketch spanning on two pages.
"About half or so, why?" You frown, returning to the sentence you were interrupted from, pen hovering the paper for a second before you remember what you were about to write.
"Just asking." He shrugs, falling in the sole armchair in the room, an old, massive thing made of oak wood and green canvas that requires two grown men to carry up the stairs. He's clearly attempting to make conversation, but your attention is divided between him and the papers.
"If you are bored, you are free to go." You tell him; he's sitting with his thighs open, elbow on the chair's arm propping up his head, looking at you. There's no reason for him to linger around, the report is almost done and that is it for the day.
"Nah, I'm fine."
You suppose he doesn't have anything else to do; he doesn't get along much with the rest of the Corps, and it's too early to go to bed. If he's comfortable with the silence, you guess there's no harm in letting him stay.
And since you don't tell him to go away, naturally, he starts doing it more often, curling in on himself in the olive green armchair with a random book, different every evening. That's how you know he's just pretending to read; that, and the fact that sometimes you can feel eyes on you, following your movements as your pen glides over paper.
Still, you don't say anything. Not when it becomes a daily occurrence, not when the stares get longer and more insistent, not when you go to sleep before him and let him lock up, not when things on your desk aren't where you left them the night before, when you return in the morning.
Not when a vial of perfume you kept in the top drawer of your desk goes missing.
You find proof of it about a week after the fact; you knew one hundred percent it was him snooping around and going through your stuff, but so far you haven't been able to catch him. With no evidence, you refrain yourself from accusing him of anything.
Luck smiles down on you one night, just as you are done with an impressive stack of papers, neatly signed and stamped now. It took longer than usual and he's nearly dozing off in the chair, a book open and face down on his chest. He jumps when you call his name and it crashes to the floor with a loud thud; the bridge of his nose reddens as he mutters something unacademic under his breath.
"Be a dear and take these to the Commander's office for me."
He puts the book back on the shelf and walks closer to your desk, reaching for the stack of papers right in front of you; it hits you almost instantly, a familiar scent you can't place, for a brief moment.
"What's that?"
He freezes, papers in hand, turning around slowly.
"What's what, Ma'am?"
"That smell."
He pales visibly under his freckles as you get up and circle around your desk, advancing on him. The papers are plucked from his hands and put back on solid wood; he's hunching his shoulders, looking oh so guilty, any lie that might have come out of his mouth now obsolete. He knows it too, but still tries to act innocent, batting his long eyelashes.
"What smell?"
A grin broadens your lips.
"Don't play dumb, Floch, it doesn't suit you."
He jumps when your fingers curl around his forearm, bringing his hand closer to your face; it's there, on the inside of his wrist, a faded but recognizable scent.
"You stole my perfume."
It's not a question, it's a statement, spoken quietly; he avoids your eyes, but one glance lower shows him biting his lip, cheeks growing warmer and redder. His pulse is quick underneath your fingers and you find it hard to let go, despite all the sirens going off in your head that tell you, in multiple voices, don't. He's your subordinate.
"Why? What were you doing with it?"
He risks one glance at you, hazel eyes filled with humiliation and just a hint of something else that blows his pupils wide; your lips curl up, in an it's okay, you can tell me manner, encouraging him. Setting up that irresistible trap.
"I was using it to.. umm.."
"Come on." You coo at him when he stammers, palm sliding up until it's holding his wrist, thumb stroking the inside, where the scent still rested. It's unusual for him to be so flustered, so it must be something bad. "Be honest. Honesty is your best feature, after all."
That and those fucking doe eyes that stare at you with so much fervor, broad, sweet-looking lips trembling as they attempt to form his next words.
"I was using it je- jerk off."
A shiver runs through you, his face positively crimson at this point. Fucking exquisite, you must say.
"Is that so?" You purr, letting go of his wrist; he sits there dumbfounded, unsure if he's in trouble or not, shuffling his feet. Your mind goes through a thousand possibilities to punish him and gets stuck on the most depraved one. "Bring it back." You order him, raising an eyebrow when he doesn't budge.
"Yes, Ma'am."
The door closes behind him and for a second you're worried he's run for the hills, or to the Commander's office telling them everything. But he returns five minutes after, with the vial in his hand; there's visibly less perfume in it than it was a week ago. Extensive use, huh? You can't help but grin, imagining it, that cute nose scrunched up as he pleasures himself with your name on his lips; he tries to put the vial on the desk but you stop him, putting one hand up.
"Show me."
His eyebrows furrow, a little confused.
"Ma'am?"
"Show me how you were using it."
The tips of his ears are now the same color as his hair; you back up and sit in the armchair he's been occupying less than ten minutes earlier, crossing your legs and resting your arms on the sides. He's unmoving, not believing his ears nor his luck.
"Come on, what are you waiting for?"
Tapping your fingers against the wooden arm jolts him into action; you're not a patient woman and he knows it very well, from all the years he's served under you. Trembling fingers reach for the medal around his neck, loosening it slowly and setting it aside on your desk carefully, before he slips his jacket down his shoulders. A hum of approval from you makes him gain confidence, looking you straight in the eye with a hint of a cocky grin in the corner of his mouth as he undoes the wrist buttons of his shirt, carefully rolling the sleeves up to his elbows. Training has paid off; his shirt is straining at his biceps and across his chest. He looks good and he's flaunting it now, that he knows you're into it; praise him enough and he can quickly get out of your control. Can't let that happen, you think, as you motion for him to hurry up. A spritz of perfume on the inside of his wrist and deep inhale makes him growl, the sound going straight between your legs as he starts to palm himself through his pants.
"What are you thinking of, when you do it?" You question him, watching his erection grow, filling his pants as he strokes himself, leaning back against your desk. He's flushed even worse, spreading from his cheeks to the exposed collarbones, although most of it is now arousal as he tilts his chin up, attempting to think.
"I think of you splayed over this desk." His voice grows huskier with every stroke and you find it very hard to keep your composure and your face straight, unbothered. "I'd like to see you in matching lingerie. Something small and dainty that I can either slip off quickly or rip off you. Depends on how impatient I'm feeling." His fingers toy with the button on his pants, waiting for permission like a good little soldier; it's granted when you nod and it audibly pops open, allowing him to slip his hand inside, between the pants and the thin fabric of his underwear.
"Ngh.." His thumb strokes the engorged head, bringing his wrist to his nose once more to inhale the scent, let it flow through his system; it's a drug, an aphrodisiac that gets his blood going and unties his tongue, more filthy things spilling out, bolder now than ever. A feat, even for a mouthy little bastard like him. "I love your tits, they're so fucking big and look so damn soft, I'd love to bury my face in them. I want to suck on them and stick my cock between them and cum on them."
He grips the edge of your desk for support as he squeezes himself, pupils fully blown, hazel all swallowed up; you press your thighs closer together, feeling the fabric between your legs start to get wet. There goes your composure, melting at the sight of him, thick, veiny forearm moving up and down as he works himself.
"Take it out."
He obeys, gasping when he cups the underside and strokes it languidly, precum dripping just as lazily from the pink tip and coating him.
"What else?" You push, uncrossing your legs and parting your thighs just a tad, satisfied to hear him moan, eyes transfixed by the movement. He grips himself tighter, pumping his fist at a faster pace.
"I'd like to kn- know what you taste like. When I kiss you and when I eat you out. I'd let you do anything to me. You can sit on my face and suffocate me, you can beat me, choke me, you can step on me, anything you want. Anything for you, anything to please you. Ahh, fuck.." The vial is forgotten on the desk behind him, slick sounds filling the room, and your legs open wider, inviting. He knows, however, he's not supposed to do anything else than what he is told to do; the tormented expression on his face, eyes burning with lust almost makes you feel mercy.
After all, he sounds so damn devoted, your cunt starts to throb.
"That's enough. Come here."
He can barely stand, dragging himself towards the armchair, rock hard and weeping, all for you; you close your thighs around his legs and cross your ankles behind him, trapping him in.
"I'll let you choose how you wanna cum." The hand touching the back of his thigh startles him as he considers his options, tongue darting out to wet his plump lips, looking down at you.
"Anything?"
"Anything." You mouth against his stomach, undoing the last three buttons of his shirt to gain access to his abdomen, warm, soft tongue tracing the hard lines and making him shiver. "You've admitted to stealing my perfume and to the reason why, and you've been such a good boy, demonstrating for me. You deserve a prize."
His breath hitches, your mouth on his skin clearly giving him ideas.
"Can you suck me off?"
The hopeful tone almost makes you laugh as you make your way south without hesitation; any more waiting around and he'll explode untouched, from that same anticipation that makes him shudder right now. His hips buck up when your lips brush against his glans, awarded with a harsh exhale.
"Keep your hands to yourself." You warn him softly when his fingers twitch, reaching to tangle in your hair; he freezes halfway, arm falling back to his side, blushing as if he was caught stealing something else.
The groan that leaves him when your tongue licks a broad stripe along the underside, already slick and salty with precum, makes you giggle, low in your throat. The head breaches your lips, tongue dancing in circles around it; you sink down on him about halfway, covering the rest with your hand. He's been a good boy, but not that good. Maybe another time you'll let him choke you with it, if he proves he deserves it.
Look at you, already planning for next time, like you know there's no way you'll get enough of him and his sweet obedience.
For now, you flatten your tongue to the smooth skin on the underside as you bob your head and hollow out your cheeks, and holy shit, the noises… soft gasps and pants filled with ecstasy coming from above your head, getting more frequent and more desperate by the second. Floral scents invade your nostrils as his hand twitches again, wanting nothing more than to touch you, taken over by an instinct to get more, overpower you, grab your head and shove his cock down your throat. But even like this, pumping in and out of your mouth, one drag of your tongue away from unraveling, he remembers his orders, knows who's above him.
He's on the verge of collapsing, trembling furiously; looking up at him delivers the finishing blow, your eyes half lidded, meeting his, clouded over, everything he's ever wished for, and he spills unapologetically in your mouth, cock twitching as it shoots warm, salty liquid you're quick to swallow, much to his delight.
"Get dressed." You tell him as you let him out of your mouth with a pop, licking off a string of saliva that kept you connected and releasing him from between your legs; his shaky hands barely manage to tuck himself back into his pants and close the button again, leaned on one shoulder against the rows of books he's kept using as cover for so many nights of dreaming about this. He looks absolutely wrecked, disheveled, cheeks still tinged red. Satisfaction looks too damn good on him, you think as you get up and walk over to the desk. Too addictive.
"You're dismissed. And…" He catches the vial you toss at him and looks taken aback for a second, turning it between his fingers. "You can keep that."