The Normandy's Chef

"Commander Shepard. The hero of the citadel!"

A voice boomed through the mess hall and bounced against the back wall. Commander Shepard glanced between the elevator and the short stout man beside the fridge area.

"You did humanity proud that day. Mess Sergeant Gardner, at your service."

Commander looked him over up and then back down. He was bald, which wasn't always Shep's cup of tea. But he could tell under the Cerberus uniform he was tight. Tough. Hardened to the touch. He yanked his eyes back up to the man who seemed to be a big fan of his.

"What do you do here on the normandy?" Shepard's voice finally found itself. Stoic, serious. As usual.

He gave a shrug and a laugh. "What don't I do? Most think of me as the ship's cook, but I'm also the facilities technician and custodian." He reached down and scratched the front of his uniform. Perhaps seen as crude on another ship, but Shep couldn't help but to stare a bit as he continued to babble.

"HVAC, plumbing, non-mission critical electrical, I make sure they are all clean and running."

A small chuckle. A surprising sound. "So the man cooking the toilets is also preparing the meals."

"I wash my hands...most of the time." The two shared a look for a long moment. Eyes daring the other before he spoke up again, breaking the silence.

"This ain't no luxury liner. You have to pull your own weight on a Cerberus vessel. And I catch what falls through the cracks."

The Commander would've disagreed on the luxury part. He just got trapped by Joker and listened to him speak about the leather seats for about an hour. He thought about the idea of pulling your own weight. He told himself that is what he did. His crew did. Was it secretly Cerberus just making sure they accomplish things? "How do you feel about working for Cerberus?" Shep finally asked, his brows raising as he leaned against the side of the fridge and crossed his arms.

"Damn proud! Cerberus gets the job done. The Alliance and Council have got their heads buried so deep up their butt puckers they can't see squat. It'll take good ole human ingenuity to crush these Collector vermin. Only Cerberus knows that."

Shepard gave a solid single nod before turning to leave. He needed to check on Garrus and the guns anyhow, hoping the new upgrades would stand. A hand on his hip stopped him. Shepard froze a moment and quickly took stock of his surroundings like any N7 soldier would.

Two people at the dining hall table, talking about a poker game they played with Kenneth and Gabby from downstairs in engineering. A Cerberus soldier trolling in circles around the main dock for protection. And Mess Sergeant Gardner's hard buldge pressed against Shepard's uniform. Clear as could be.

Shepard cleared his throat. Harsh but quiet. "You wanna holster that weapon, Sergeant?"

A quiet 'humph' of contemplation was heard. But then, his hips began to rock ever so slightly. Rubbing his buldge against the Commander's ripe peach. The two people at the table entirely lost in their conversation.

"I told you, Commander Shepard. I have quite a few jobs on this here tincan. And I know you being the big boss and all, it can be a bit stressful."

Shepard tried to get away but only managed to move to the sink area, bending over it slightly. Only making it worse on himself. The man kept babbling.

"I am sure you got plenty of blue people and that one fella with the scars, but you know. The reason I joined Cerberus is because sometimes..."

A caloused hand reached down and pushed Shepard's casualwear down, trapping him around the knees.

"Sometimes you need good ole human.....ingen.....uity......"

Without so much as spit, the chef, custodian, whoever he was on the Normandy, slipped his thick cock deep into the Commander's tight hole. Fucking him from behind. Slow. But deep. Oh so deep. He kept babbling.

"Go ahead, ask me how I like working for Cerberus. This should tell you just how much--"

His words eventually faded away. Shepard began to ignore him. Only focused on the thick long cock that kept punishing his tight back door. Each thrust sending him harder against the countertops. Each thrust making his own weapon flop with excitement and force. Each moan or groan or comment making Shepard worry that someone would walk in. Or out. Or see them in the open floor plan. Plain as day being fucked hard from behind. But only really hidden by one tiny little counter. Or was it a bolted down fridge? Shepard couldn't decide.

Before he contemplated much more a hand was wrapped around his neck and he felt the thrusts quicken. Harder. Deeper. Faster. He was gonna cum. Commander Shepard didn't even have to confirm it. Shepard reached down and began to attend to themselves, knowing that this man probably wouldn't have done anything for him after he was spent.

Shep stroked their cock while the kitchen troll fucked him harder. And harder. He began erupting, deep gutteral groans. And sounds of him trying to catch his breath as he filled Shepard. The Commander slowly gave up on their own erection and slowly adjusted their appearance. Lifting up pants, straightening hair, and simply walking away.

Commander Shepard now dripping, aching, whatever adjective you wish to call it. He went to the elevators and tried to go about business as usual. And then, he went to his own cabin. Lay on the bed. Stared up through the square at the stars. And Shepard began to stroke themselves. Long and slow. Thinking about the dirty new chef on their crew.