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foli-vora · 3 years

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A/N: Yeah. Enjoy lmao. God damn I need to bite that vein -

Summary: title pretty much sums it up, y’know? You fucked up. Again. Colonel Flag has had enough.

Pairing: Rick Flag x f!reader

Word count: 3.7k

Warnings: swearing, SMUT 18+ ONLY - there’s no daddy here, only Colonel Flag. Use of Colonel/sir and soldier, authority kink, slight degradation, dom!Rick, rough unprotected p in v sex, masturbation (m receiving), oral sex (m receiving), attempted boot grinding, orgasm denial, cum shot on the ass, a couple of spanks. If I’ve forgotten anything, please let me know and I’ll add it!

———

You never fucking listen. Why do you never fucking listen? You’re a pain in his fucking ass. Anything could have happened. You could’ve been injured, killed. And then what? He would have to haul your body home, if Waller even allowed it, and then what? He goes about his usual day pretending like he never felt this? Like the last few months weren’t real? Fuck you and your fucking attitude—

“A word.” He grits. “Now.”

Harley winces beside you, face creasing into a scrunch as her lips stop at your ear. “He’s mad-mad.”

You ignore her, eyes glued to Rick’s broad back as he turns and starts to march away. You knew he would be when you made that split second decision to dive for a group of enemies, Rick’s panicked voice all but screaming in your ear to hold position, to just fucking listen.

He’d been quiet with you ever since. He didn’t sit beside you on the jet, didn’t commend your work along with the others, didn’t even look at you.

“Shit.”

You have to jog to catch up to him, his long legs already carrying him down and around the winding corridors of Belle Reeve. He barely spares a glance over his shoulder when he hears your booted feet stumble behind him, and then he stops, all but ripping open his office door and gesturing for you to enter.

You eye the Colonel Flag stamped across the glass in neat gold lettering before stopping in the middle of the space, curiosity overriding your system. You’d never seen his office. You didn’t even know that he had one, but now that you think of it, of course he would. It’s neat, naturally. A place for everything, everything in its place.

Filing cabinets with contents you were sure were labelled and organised to absolute perfection, neatly stacked files on his desk - there’s not a lot of decoration besides a potted plant and a frame. It’s on his desk, facing his empty chair, and it piques your interest immediately, though you dare not move to touch it.

“Sit.”

The bite of a retort sits on your tongue. You’re not a fucking dog—but then his eyes are on you, swirling and burning with pure rage, practically daring you to open your mouth, and wisely, you decide to bite your tongue.

Slipping silently into the chair facing his desk, your hands fold in your lap, and you wet your lips to coat the sweet apology building in your mouth, “Rick—”

“Colonel Flag.”

Oh. Okay. Fuck.

“Colonel,” you correct instantly, swallowing around the sudden nervous lump in your throat.

Did you go too far? Was this something you couldn’t sweet talk your way out of? Did he feel you took advantage of his little soft spot for you? It wasn’t like that. You hoped he didn’t see it like that. Shit. You really fucking liked this guy, and here you were, pulling your classic bullshit moves and breaking something potentially special before it even had a chance to grow into anything.

“I don’t—”

He holds a hand up, palm facing you in a sickening demand for immediate silence and you shrink a little under the heavy waves of authority flowing from him, mouth snapping shut with the click of your teeth.

“I should kick your ass off the team and ship you back to Central City.”

Your face twists immediately, nose curling in disgust at the mention of your home city. He wouldn’t, would he? You’d told him how much you hated it there, once admitted in the careful cover of night that you felt truly, utterly alone there. That stupid red suited Road Runner kept the illegal fun to a minimum, you had no friends, no family. The stupid X-Y-Z-what-the-fuck-ever Task Force was all you had, and though your sentence had been up a few months ago, Waller was more than happy to keep your ass around to use as she pleased.

He watches the way your eyes dull and fall to his desk, a slight twinge of guilt tugging at his chest. Rolling his own eyes, he rubs the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh.

“I won’t,” he mutters, “but I should.”

“I am sorry, Rick. I can make it up to you?” You coo suggestively with a flutter of your lashes, lips twitching into a devious little smirk when his eyes flash to you. You deflate instantly at his snort of harsh amusement.

“Is that how you think this is going to go? You open those legs and I’m meant to forget all the fucking bullshit you put me through?” His eyes narrow and you suddenly feel fucking ridiculous, shoulders curling in as his glare deepens.

Fucking shit. You’d pushed him too far. You should’ve known—even the most tolerant of men had their limits and you had cracked the ever patient Rick Flag. Slight panic flares in your chest, your fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs as you shift under his heavy scrutiny.

“Not much of a punishment for you, is it?”

A frown twitches between your brows and you glance up at him in question, the blunt edge of your nails catching over the rough fabric of your tac pants as you scratch the anxiety from your system.

“Is it?” He presses, voice curling into a low growl.

It’s immediate, automatic. “No, sir.”

“So what do I do?”

You adjust yourself on the soft padded cushion of the chair, nerves spiking your heart into an unsteady beat. It’s a clear question, but it’s a question that is clearly rhetorical and one that he does not want to be answered.

“You never fucking listen.” He continues, his own seat squeaking quietly as he reclines back into it. He dwarfs it, frame so broad and large in the pathetic excuse for a cheap office desk chair it’s almost laughable. You would laugh, if it wasn’t for the way his eyes narrow in on you with such a heavy air of authority it leaves you startlingly intimidated.

Of course he was intimidating. He was a leader. You’d seen him in action, seen the way he could snap the prison guards to attention and back off from dealing their shitty little remarks to the various members of the squad. You’d seen him interrogate someone in the field, hand curling into the fabric of their shirt and pushing them up against the wall with a ripple of trained muscle.

All you’ve known, though, all you’ve ever received, was Rick and his soft, openly warm gaze, his understanding, and his ever polite requests and instructions, despite you and the squad constantly pushing and pushing his buttons… but you’ve never been on the receiving end of Colonel Flag—

“Even now, you’re not fuckin’ listenin’.”

Your blink snaps your attention back instantly, a wave of shame rolling over your face. He’s definitely pissed. The twang of his accent comes through more when he’s angry. Shit. The apology is almost out, tongue rolling around the words, but once again, a palm raises in your direction and you find them dying out in your mouth.

Get your fucking head together—

“I hate what it fucking does to me.”

Well fuck. If your attention had been wandering before, it was going absolutely nowhere now. Tunnel vision, and he was at the end of it, in all of his broad, angry glory. It was automatic, both your mind and body curling around his suggestive words with a flare of heated interest.

You give it a moment, letting his words settle in the quiet room before blinking softly up at him from beneath your lashes. Your tone was complete innocence, naïve and soft. “What does it do?”

Of course he knows better; sees right through your sweet little act with sharp eagle eyes. You were many things but innocent was nowhere to be found on that extensive list and he absolutely knew it. He knew it better than anyone.

His eyes narrow, jaw tightening under the strain of his irritation as a sarcastic scoff sounds from his mouth. “As if you don’t know.”

You keep his gaze, heart thundering in your chest and beating against your rib cage as the tension in the room reaches a new high, the skin along your shoulders prickling from the authoritative energy rolling from him. You should fuck up more—

He moves. You don’t want to look away from the challenge swirling in his eyes, but your peripheral can’t help but notice when, and to where, his hands falls, strong gun roughened fingers plucking his zipped jacket up and out of the way, baring a delicious little slither of stomach before falling to the button holding his pants together.

Is this another challenge? A test? Where are you meant to look? Where does he want you to look? You swallow, teeth mashing in your determination to keep your gaze steady with his. His fingers are moving, your brain screaming at you to just look, only for a second, just to peak at what he’s doing—

The slow drag of a zipper in the quiet room rips a sharp exhale from your lungs, and you can’t help it, the temptation too fucking strong. Your eyes fall, mesmerised by the way his fingers move and dive beneath the rough material.

You’re not even sure what fucking sound you make when his hand finally frees his cock from the confines of his tac pants. You go to stand, hands landing on the arms of the chair to push your body from the seat, eager to get around the stupid fucking desk and straight into his lap—

“No. Stay there.”

The chair squeaks quietly under your weight when you let yourself fall back into it, a pathetic little whimper of disappointment falling from your throat as a frown works its way between your brows.

“But I—”

“No. You can sit there, shut up and watch.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

His brow arches, jaw tight.

“Yes, sir.” You breathe, sighing softly in relief when he nods once in silent approval.

His hand wraps around his stiff cock, and you can almost feel it along your own palm, velvety skin yielding and sliding over the solid flesh. So fucking thick. A bead of precum oozes from him as he squeezes himself once, and it’s automatic for your tongue to slide along your lips in a daze, eyes flittering over the way his thumb rubs and smears it over the angry red tip, the glisten of it under the bland ceiling light screaming for you to just ignore his previous order and have a little taste. Surely he wouldn’t be that angry with your tongue smoothing over his skin...

You whine quietly as his brows furrow, his thick lashes fluttering along his cheekbones as his hips twitch under his ministrations. He must feel so fucking good right now. You catch the way his fingers tighten, grip twisting as he starts to jerk his cock slowly—just like you know he likes.

It’s too fucking hot in this room.

Thighs pressing tightly together, you shift on the chair, desperate to get some friction going to tame the ache flaring from your clit as you watch him. You make a shallow noise, your own hand twitching to dive into your pants and match the rhythm he was teasing himself with.

“C-can I—”

“No.”

Frustration leaks into your groan of disappointment.

“Problem, soldier?”

“No, sir.”

“Didn’t think so.”

And so the torture, your punishment, really begins.

You just fucking sit there, palms sweaty, skin prickling with the need to just get the fuck up and dive for him. The only time your eyes leave his hand working his cock is when he makes those breathless exhales, the ones that melt so fucking nicely into your ears when he’s moving on top of you, a stutter of a groan caught in his throat. You admire the way his eyes close, cheeks flushing with a sweep of lost in pleasure pink, before they’re back to the main show, his grip tightening and pace picking up the longer you watch him jerk off.

Fire makes a home in your core, pussy slick and throbbing to the lewd slap of his hand and shifting only makes the need for friction worse, the pressure of your thigh rubbing tightly against the other doing nothing to tame the need for fingers, for him, for fucking anything.

“You need to start listening to orders.”

You swallow, mouth dry and eyes wide as they fly up to meet his. Your chest heaves, fingers digging into the arms of the chair as you nod quickly. “I-I know, Colonel.”

His next drawl has you arching. “You gonna start bein’ good for me?”

“Yes, sir. I swear—”

“Come and get it.”

Your legs threaten to give out with how quickly you throw yourself out of the chair. You’re in front of him before you can even inhale, knees clashing against the clean polished floor. You practically dive for him, hands already moving for their target and tongue running across your lips in preparation—

“Wait.”

It’s instant. You freeze, eyes leaving his weeping cock and flicking up to meet his in silent question.

“No hands.”

You lock your fingers together behind your back and wait for another nod of approval before dropping your gaze back to his cock, watching the way his own hand wraps around the base and holds it out for you. Needing no other invitation, you dive forward and take him into your mouth, going straight for the kill and forcing your throat to relax to take him as deep as you could as soon as the salty flesh meets your tongue.

His hips jolt in surprise, flying up and forcing his cock just that little bit further and you moan from the fullness, the discomfort of it, toes curling in your boots when a hand lands on the back of your neck and squeezes in quiet warning.

“Fuck. Easy, soldier.”

You pull back and inhale a lungful of air, muttering a soft ‘Sorry, sir’ before moving back, your tongue winding and smoothing over the head of his cock with a hum of satisfaction. You start to bob your head, the slick feel of him moving against your lips shooting straight down to your core, your pussy clenching as he groans quietly above you, the hand at your neck softening to a gentle rub as you work him over.

You’d stay on your knees for days, weeks, for this man.

You shift on your knees, hips lifting enough for you to discreetly move and press the heel of your boot softly into your covered pussy, stomach twisting in relief when you finally get a little bit of friction against your clit. You keep your pace, bobbing your head and taking him a little deeper each time while your hips start a small movement of their own, the fire moving and curling along the bottom of your spine.

It only lasts a fucking second.

Colonel Flag doesn’t miss a goddamn thing.

His hand shoves your face away, his cock slipping from your mouth as a string of saliva clings desperately to the end of him and you whine softly, eyes soft and lips already forming their apology as he glares down at you.

“Just when I thought you were doing so fuckin’ well. On your feet. Now.”

“I’m sor—”

“Now, soldier.”

You stumble to your feet after he stands, disappointment and shame flooding you as he towers over you. You swear he’s not normally this tall. Or maybe it was because of the way you purposely made yourself that bit smaller under his authoritative energy, shoulders curling in and head hanging in respect.

A hand curls around your shoulder, and then you’re being shoved face first over the desk, your hands flying to rest on the cool surface as his hands tear and pull at your pants. While he rips at the button holding your pants together, your eyes fall to the frame, a twinge of curiosity returning and poking through the anticipation throbbing through you.

It’s Rick, dressed casually and bathed in thick afternoon sunlight, with his thick arm wrapped around a woman, soft face wrinkled with age and body fucking tiny compared to the monstrous tower of him beside her. It’s a brief respite from the soul consuming fire Rick was downright slaughtering you with; but a softer, gentler warmth flares in your chest and you can’t help the twitch of a smile, eyes flicking over the pair of them embraced for the photo. Your fingers are gentle as you flip the frame picture-down—you had your suspicions about the mystery woman, small traits and similarities shared by the pair, and you highly doubt you’d be able to enjoy the ferocity of Colonel Flag with his mother watching.

You hear a soft huff of a chuckle and then the burn of fabric as your pants are ripped down past your ass and left to hang around your knees.

Fingers dive between your thighs and he hisses sharply as your arousal easily soaks his digits. “Fuck—”

A boot kicks your ankles and you quickly part your legs as best you could before you feel the press of his cock at your pussy, sliding back and forth through your slick folds and pausing teasingly at your entrance with each slow withdrawal.

“What do you say, soldier?”

“Please, Colonel—”

Your bite into the skin of your hand when he fills you with a single, solid thrust, your front slamming into the desk with the intensity of it. His hands fly to your hips, fingers digging painfully into your heated flesh before he pulls back, cock almost sliding all the way out before he slams forward again, and your cry of pleasure is muffled by your sleeve.

He starts a brutal pace, uncaring as your hands fumble for purchase. You’re babbling a string of nothings, your pleas incoherent and mind hazily cock dumb as his hips slam against your ass again and again, the solid thickness of him sliding and filling you perfectly on every single fucking thrust.

You burn at the feel of him, your back arching as you push back into his brutal aggression and welcoming the ache he quickly starts to cause in your core. Your pussy flutters around him each time he bottoms out within you, your hot walls flexing and tensing so fucking nicely around him and coaxing him further to the edge. His teeth mash under the strain to keep up the furious pace, sweat beading along his forehead as the feral slap of his skin meeting yours echoes around the room.

So good. He’s so fucking good—

You try to tell him, try to gather words to create a single fucking sentence but ultimately give up when he continues to rip the air from your lungs.

Close. It’s all too much and not enough and so fucking perfect at the same time. So fucking close—

He can feel it in the way you tense beneath him, body curling in on itself and muscles winding in anticipation under his hands. He almost wants to give it to you, a soft part of him desperate to give you everything you deserve before he meets his own end. Almost.

Lips hover at your ear, “Don’t you fuckin’ dare.”

The whine that leaves your throat is distraught, eyes crushing shut to fend off the searing heat building in your core.

He snarls and presses heavily into your back, keeping you tight and pressed harshly against the desk. “Do you think you deserve it?”

You make a low noise, head falling against your forearm and a slap rings around the room, your mind taking a quick second to catch up. Your ass cheek burns from his quick assault and you whine lowly, needily, pushing desperately back against the forceful press of his hips as he continues to rut deeply into you.

“N-no—”

“Speak up.”

“No, sir!”

“No. You don’t.”

And then he’s ripping completely away, leaving you to cry out in anguish as your pussy throbs hungrily around nothing. You’re lost in a cloud of pleasure, denial, fury - you don’t even know. You stay there, panting against the desk and wondering what the fuck he’s even doing, but then you hear the slap of his hand and moan when you realise he’s jerking his cock again. You want to see, want to watch, but a hand lands on the back of your head and keeps you exactly where you are.

You hear a quiet groan, your toes curling at the filthy sound of it, and then the hot spurts of cum hitting your skin, exactly where it throbs from his slap like the final seal of his punishment.

It takes a moment for you to feel your legs. It takes a moment for you to feel fucking anything other than the devastatingly empty ache of your pussy, and the sadly ignored throb of your swollen clit. You knew Rick, though. He wouldn’t leave you wanting for long.

“‘Soldier’?” You mumble in question against the desk, a tired grin stretching your lips.

He chuckles quietly behind you, the feel of cheap tissues rough against your skin as he cleans you as well as he was able before the rustle of the trash alerts you that he was finished, and you stand to fix your pants.

“I wasn’t going to call you ‘inmate’. You’re not a prisoner anymore.”

You grin at him from over your shoulder. “You think I’d make a good soldier, Ricky?”

“Not with your attitude.” He snorts, palm now much softer as it playfully swats your ass.

Turning to face him, your hands slide along his shoulders and hook around his neck, his hands landing comfortably on your hips and massaging the lingering ache from your flesh as he smiles tenderly down at you.

“Mm, I don’t know about that… after that little display, I think you’d whip me into shape quicksmart, Colonel.”

He rolls his eyes, smile widening into a shy, boyish grin before he presses a tender kiss to your lips before resting his forehead softly against yours.

“I know you’re more than capable of handling yourself out there, but I just… please be careful.” His words end in a pleading whisper and you sigh softly, nodding as well as you could against the press of his head.

“Yes, sir.”

———

Tags (super sorry if I’ve missed anyone): @juletheghoul @charnelhouse @witchygagirl @lacontroller1991 @xoxabs88xox @h-hxgirl @whoopsiedaisez - if you would like to be added to my Flag list, just let me know!

#rick flag x reader #rick flag x f!reader #rick flag x you #rick flag #rick flag smut #dceu fanfiction #dceu fic #the suicide squad fanfiction #foli's hiatus schedule

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