Simon "Ghost" Riley oneshots

Janitor's Closet

The door to the janitor's closet slammed shut with a resounding thud, the noise reverberating through the small, dimly lit space. You were pressed against the cold, unforgiving wall, the force of it causing your breath to hitch as your sternum collided with the hard surface. Your eyes fluttered, rolling back involuntarily as a mix of fear and adrenaline coursed through your veins.

His presence was overpowering, dominating every inch of the cramped room. The scent of his cologne, mixed with the musk of the enclosed space, filled your senses, making it hard to think of anything else. His thick, husky voice echoed in your ear, low and dangerous, each word wrapped in a blanket of barely restrained intensity.

"Wot did I tell ya about behaving, rookie?" His hot breath tickled your earlobe, sending shivers down your spine as the roughness of his tone contrasted with the soft brush of his lips grazing your skin.

You could hear the rustling of fabric, the unmistakable sound of a belt buckle being undone. The click of metal against leather was deafening in the silence, amplifying the tension that hung heavy in the air.

Your breath caught in your throat, a mixture of anticipation and trepidation as you struggled to find your voice. It came out shaky, barely more than a whisper. "Ss-sorry," you stammered, the word trembling on your lips as the reality of the situation began to sink in.

The room seemed to close in around you, the walls pressing tighter as you stood there, helpless against the force that had taken hold of you. The moments stretched on, each second weighted with the unknown, as you awaited whatever came next.

You were pressed harder against the wall, your feet lifting off the ground as he groaned low in his throat, the sound reverberating through your entire body. The pressure against your chest made it difficult to breathe, every inch of you pinned by his overwhelming presence.

"Tsk tsk! Can't make things up now with that sorry," he growled, the sound laced with dark amusement, his teeth grazing your earlobe in a way that sent jolts of electricity down your spine. The sharp edge of his tone left no room for argument, his voice carrying a weight of authority that made you instinctively shrink back, despite there being nowhere to go.

A soft, involuntary whimper escaped your lips, betraying the fear and helplessness you felt. The sound seemed to spur him on, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest as his large, gloved hands moved up your sides. They were rough, commanding, as they found their way to the swell of your breasts, cupping them with a firm grip that sent a shudder through you.

You barely had time to register what was happening before the sound of fabric tearing filled the small room. Your shirt was ripped open with one swift motion, the buttons popping off and scattering across the linoleum floor. The cool air hit your exposed skin, the sudden chill contrasting sharply with the heat radiating from his body.

Your shirt lay in tatters on the floor beneath you, a silent testament to your vulnerability. His gloved hands lingered, rough against the softness of your flesh, each touch sending a jolt of sensation through you, amplifying the tension that hung in the air.

"Sir!" you squeaked, your voice trembling, barely above a whisper. It was a desperate sound, more a plea than a protest, your fear bubbling up as you struggled to find any semblance of control.

"Ssh, ssh! Kitten," he murmured, his voice low and soothing, yet laced with an unmistakable warning. Before you could utter another word, his hand came up to cover your mouth, muffling the shrill sound that had escaped your lips. The leather of his glove was cool against your skin, its scent mixing with the sweat and fear that clung to the air around you.

"Don't invite your friends over," he whispered in your ear, his tone almost playful, yet the threat was clear. The closeness of his breath made your heart race, pounding in your chest so loudly you were sure he could hear it.