cw: sss - stands for short but shameless smut ;)
you were not expecting to get dicked down in a supply closet. especially not by lieutenant simon “ghost” riley. but here you were.
you’d made one offhand comment during a mission debrief — something about how stoic he always looked, like he didn’t even have a dick, let alone know how to use it — and it had somehow turned into this.
“not even a thank you for saving your ass back there,” he murmurs against your ear, hand already shoving your tactical vest up.
“i said thank you,” you pant, bracing one hand against the shelf, the other trying to keep your radio from falling off your belt. “just not with my—”
“mouth? yeah. ’bout to fix that, love.”
you choke on a laugh. “you’re so mean.”
he chuckles — dark, low, dangerous. “funny. that’s what they all say right before i make them cry.”
his fingers are already in your pants, shameless, rough and greedy like he’s earned this — and maybe he has. maybe saving your life gives him one free pass to absolutely ruin you in a closet full of duct tape and canned beans.
you gasp when he finds your sweet spot instantly, like he’s memorized your anatomy from a field manual. he grins against your neck when you grind down on his hand like you’re starved for it.
“jesus christ,” you mutter. “how the fuck are you this good with gloves on?”
“military grade dexterity,” he says, deadpan. “standard issue.”
you snort. then moan, loudly, because he crooks his fingers just right and it’s game over.
he’s panting now, grinding up against your ass, rutting like a man possessed. the mask stays on — obviously — but it’s making everything worse. more intense. more him.
“you gonna be good for me?” he murmurs, pulling down your pants in one swift motion. “gonna take my cock like a good girl?”
you nod desperately, fingers slipping on the shelf as he lines himself up.
he thrusts in with one hard, perfect stroke, and your vision blacks out for a second.
“already am,” he grunts, snapping his hips. “properly, i might add.”
somewhere in the distance, something crashes. probably a mop. you’re too cock-drunk to care.
he slams into you like he’s punishing you for every smart-ass comment you’ve ever made — which, fair. you moan through your teeth, grabbing at the shelving like it’ll save you.
“still think i don’t know how to use it?” he hisses in your ear.
“n-no,” you sob. “you’ve made your point—”
“nah.” he grabs your chin, forces you to look back at him. “i’m gonna make it again. just so you really remember.”
snowghoul
germansingergirl
tangentwithtanner
titsay
