Sure, your superior was an asshat at times. But he wasn't a mean man, he didn't bite. He could just be a dick.

But fuck, he could be a dick.

He'd grin at your pouty face. The way you looked up at him through batted lashes, his stupid smirk.. He tilted your chin to him as your lips were lewdly stretched around his cock, softly fucking into the back of your throat to hear you choke.

‘cmon, birdie, you can do better than that,’ his voice was gentle as he poked the back of your throat. ‘lieutenants’ orders,’ he mocked.

He’d slowly lower his hand down your neck to feel your sprinting pulse beneath your soft skin. His fingers were calloused and cold. It made shivers run down your spine.

Your eyes watered as you swallowed around him, as thick as he was, making your jaw ache—as he just chuckled, watching you try to get to the base of his cock. Lieutenants orders.

Or how inconvenient it was for him to fuck you raw and rough the night before, having you on your knees with his hand threaded through your hair as he slammed into you—just for him to grin, that sadistic bastard, as he gave you more laps the next day during warm up.

‘Lieutenants orders,’ he’d mock.

Oh, you wanted to get him back.

He called you down to the private meeting room.

You decided to start a… bratty protest. When you walked in the door, you practically edged him—giving him nothing, not playing along.

Not that you didn’t want it… but his puppy-eyes, his strained-cock, wimping and untouched—it drove you mad.

But he could only get pushed so far.

‘ah, it’s like that,’ he muttered. ‘now why don’t i call captain and have you explain to him why you aren’t listening to your superiors orders?’ His voice was low.

Except, you knew he wouldn’t. For a man like him—he wouldn’t let anyone else ever lay eyes on a body like yours.

A shit-eating grin plastered over his face.

His hand slowly gripped the roots of your hair, dragging you closer. You let him.

‘Lieutenants orders,’ he spat.

His hand pushed you to your knees.

His touch was gentle, his hand going to the back of your head—knuckles pressed against the wood of the meeting room door—hearing it rattle on its hinges as he fucked your throat raw.

You’d never admit it. You’d never tell it to his face, not even for a million dollars—that you loved his title, how he abused it, and the words he’d say—‘Simon says take your shirt off.’ Love-sick idiot.

.

a/n: i literally moved on in kinktober prompts because i had no idea how to write this. the 12th is tomorrow so im just rolling with this.