Not an ideal place to be doing this kind of shit.

Yeh, no.

‘Cause— well, a car’s backseat being the fuckin’ stage for tonight’s dirty show. It ain’t romantic. Ain’t elegant.

But after completing a long, gruesome and tiring mission. Their target had been eliminated with success, nothing went tits up. Doing this felt like a fuckin’ reward, at least to Ghost.

Blood, sweat, and grime caked your skins, the stench of death and gunpowder still clinging to your clothes. Your forms bloodstained and bruised. He was still half-delirious from the combat high, and still riding the damn adrenaline.

This was hot anyway, gettin’ all physical with his lovie and get loose after almost dying. What does a man could ask more for?

Hell, he needed it. Needed you.

Though positioning was a bitch here. His knees bumped against the front seat. The car’s interior added rough angles, your elbows knocked against the doors. He was finally being able to have you all for himself, that’s enough to keep him happy.

The leather seats squeak under your restless bodies as you two are pressed together. Every little touch felt electric. His breath hitting your neck, hot and impatient as you straddled his hips. “That desperate ya are fo’ me, darlin’?” he growls lowly, his voice strained and rough with need. He rolls up the fabric of his balaclava until it bunches on the bridge of his nose to trail sloppy kisses down your throat. Leaving beautiful marks that you wouldn’t be able to cover tomorrow.

"S’fuckin’ needy—” the Brit’s voice comes out more slurred and heavy with lust than he’d like, muffled against your feverish skin as he sucks hard on the pulse point beneath your ear, bruising the flesh.

(Ironic that the desperate one is ‘im)

His hands scrabble for purchase on the fabric of your clothes, pulling you down so he could grind his aching erection against your ass. That slight friction sending multiple jolts of pleasure directly to his groin, making him groan needily and his cock throb in his pants. Leaking pearly drops of pre into the front of his briefs, where a damp spot forms.

The air was thick with the stench of musk and sweat inside the cramped place, the windows fogged as hell from your heated breaths. His fingers digging into the straps of his gear, trying to take the shit off— all to no avail, the space too tight to even move right. “Can’t—fuck...I need you baby,” Please. Ghost rasps, the plea left unspoken. He can’t allow himself to beg, like the smug and proud bastard he is.

But his touch, is enough to give him away. His calloused hands reach to map out every inch of your body on their own accord, searing into his brain once again those curves and dips he’s already grew familiar with. “Fuckin’ hell,” A grunt falls from his lips, his movement growing messy and frenzied as his desperation mounts. It was utterly pathetic, how he turns into a horny teenager whenever his hands come in contact with your body.

Shaky breaths filter through clenched teeth as his fingers fumble with your belt buckle, his knuckles scraped raw. “Off—” he grits out, yanking at the leather strap. ‘Cause I can’t wait no more, hon’.