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Garrus really hoped nobody was trying to reach him right now, because comms were off, and for good reason.
Commander Shepard, the one and only, was bent over a concrete siding while Garrus partially stood, partially crouched on top of him. He had his sniper rifle braced between his head and his shoulder, hitched on the rise of his armor, and supported by the railing in front of him. Garrus kept his eyes on his sights, even as he pounded Shepard into the concrete ruthlessly.
No hands, no worries. While Garrus worked on compensating for his steadily bobbing scope, Shepard had his knuckles in his mouth and his head against the rough surface of the concrete. He didn’t care that his cheek had been rubbed raw or stung with every jackrabbit thrust. He didn’t care that his legs were trembling with the effort of holding himself up for who knows how long now, or that his voice had gone hoarse with all of his muffled groans. Hell, he didn’t even care about the huge fucking mess they had both made, in and outside of their suits, which would not only be impossible to hide, but a pain in the ass to clean up. It was hard to care about much at all when he had Garrus’ dick in his ass.
This wasn’t the first time they had fooled around “on the job,” either. A blowjob while Shepard was supposed to be scouting, a handjob just out of the holo frame while Garrus was in the middle of talking to a client, some thigh fucking over the table while Shepard tried to clean his gun.
Part of it was the thrill--there was something so unbelievably sexy about the intense focus as you lined up your shot despite the very clear distraction between your legs, or the way you could run for your life and before you could even catch your breath it was stolen away again with a heated kiss. Part of it was also just the fact that Shepard found Garrus insanely hot in his armor, and hearing their suits clink together and the wetness between their skin squelch drove him wild.
Maybe he was a horndog, maybe he was just in love with everything he did and was.
He raised his head from his folded arms and took his bruised and bitten knuckles out of his mouth just long enough to utter the Turian’s name aloud. This caught him off guard--he glanced away from his scope, and his mandibles flared as he exhaled sharply. Just for a second, his pounding stopped. He drew the back of his hand over Shepard’s cheek, and the Commander closed his eyes with a shaky sigh. Garrus placed his hand in Shepard’s hair, as if he was to pet him--only to take a fistful, whisper his praise, and yank his head back hard.
Shepard made a choked sound and squeezed his eyes shut. He put his forehead against the railing and ground his teeth together. Garrus used his hair like reigns, bobbing Shepard against his hips like the ride he was. He was breathing heavy--they both were--and now with only one hand, he had to shift and angle himself awkwardly so he could lean against the concrete support and return to his sights.
He muttered something to himself, but Shepard couldn’t hear it over all of their noise. Only the brief lull in thrusts told him what happened: he had found his target. One second of stillness and then a powerful kickback that even Shepard could feel. He didn’t even check to see if he had hit his target (not like he needed to), all he did was toss his gun somewhere and push Shepard into the concrete.
Now that he had his full attention on him, he was able to curl over him completely, covering him in his size and using it to crowd the smaller man. He pressed his chin into the space between Shepard’s neck and shoulder. “Feel good?” he whispered, voice low and deep. Shepard whimpered something that sounded like a yes, and reached with trembling hands to cup Garrus’ cheek.
“More,” he whined, “Fuck me more.”
Shepard turned his head to find his hot breath. Tears dripped down his nose and Garrus kissed them away, before their mouths met and their lips parted.
Some man’s head pooled blood on the ground three stories below, but the fun wasn’t over yet.