Simon "Ghost" Riley oneshots

Office (fluffy smut)

Ghost’s office is dimly lit, the only source of light coming from the desk lamp casting a warm glow across the organized mess of classified files and scattered paperwork. His computer monitor is still on, muted, the remnants of a debrief playing in the background. You’ve been here for a while, sitting across from him in the worn leather chair, your own cup of tea slowly cooling in your hands as the conversation drifts into quieter territory.

He’s watching you, eyes dark and unreadable behind the black paint smudged faintly beneath them. The room smells of leather and gun oil, something unmistakably him, something grounding. He asks a question, low, measured. It makes you pause, tilting your head slightly as you consider it.

On the screen behind him, a grainy security feed plays, some archived footage left forgotten. A woman, civilian, from the looks of it, bolts from an estate too grand for its own good, a massive guard dog hot on her heels. Your gaze lingers for a second, and his does too.

“No… I suppose it isn’t,” you murmur, finally giving your answer.

Ghost exhales, a slow, deep sigh, a sound that vibrates through the room like distant thunder. He shifts, broad shoulders rolling back slightly, and with deliberate ease, he places his empty mug on the floor beside his boot.

There goes the last of his patience, apparently.

“Come ‘ere.”

His voice is rough, a low command that sends a ripple of something warm through you. You set your tea down carefully, the porcelain clicking against the wooden desk as you rise. The space between you is small, a few steps at most, but you don’t get the chance to close it yourself.

Ghost moves first.

His hands find your hips, firm and unyielding, fingers spreading as he tugs you forward. The next thing you know, you're being pulled across his lap, your knees pressing into the strong plane of his thighs. Heat radiates from him, from the solid warmth of his body beneath you, and the realization makes your breath hitch.

One gloved hand settles at your waist, steadying you. The other drags up, fingertips brushing the curve of your spine through the fabric of your sweater.

“Been sittin’ there all night, actin’ like I wouldn’t do this,” he mutters, voice edged with something unreadable. His thumb strokes lazily against your ribs, right beneath the band of your bra.

You swallow, hands resting on his broad shoulders, heartbeat pressing against your ribs.

“I didn’t think you were losing patience,” you admit, your voice softer now.

Ghost huffs a quiet laugh, the warmth of it brushing against the hollow of your throat.

“You underestimate me, love.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but the quiet hum of the security feed and the slow, deliberate way his hands move over you. Ghost isn’t in a hurry, he never is. Not when he’s like this, when his patience has finally run out but he still wants to savor the moment, make sure you feel every bit of it.

His fingers drag up your spine, the leather of his gloves rough against the soft fabric of your sweater. He pauses at the base of your neck, thumb ghosting over the sensitive skin there before he slides his hand into your hair, tilting your head just enough to make you look at him.

His eyes are dark, unreadable, but there’s something simmering beneath them, something restrained.

“You sit here in my office, drink my tea, and think I’m not gonna do anything about it?” he murmurs, voice low and edged with amusement.