Simon "Ghost" Riley oneshots

Consumed

There's not exactly a whole lot of time for formalities when you're chasing a known terrorist across an entire city. All the time is taken up with shouting orders over the radio and checking your six as you make your way to the next location.
But the sight of you, something different than what he's used to in this line of work, not to mention how you're certainly a sight for sore eyes, certainly makes him pause for just a little bit; staring across at your distant, brisk form as you pass him by, briskly striding with purpose.

And when you stepped into the grand ballroom, the world seemed to slow. The red silk slip dress clung to your form like a second skin, every movement fluid and deliberate. Diamond earrings shimmered under the golden chandelier light, catching the eyes of more than a few admirers. The unmistakable click of your Louboutins against the marble floor was drowned out by the soft hum of conversation and distant orchestral music.

At the bar, you took your seat with effortless grace, the picture of a Russian elite with secrets worth trading. You could feel Soap's watchful gaze through his scope, ever steady, ever ready.

To anyone else, you were just an elite; a well-to-do woman who certainly didn't mind showing off her status. To the taskforces' eyes, you're a goddamn fox; a veritable vixen, and that dress does nothing to quell the fact.
Soap, in particular, is more than grateful; taking every opportunity to gaze at you through the scope of his sniper. He's not the only one, either, who's paying extra special attention.

In the sea of elites draped in luxury, Ghost stood out, not for his wealth, but for the sheer force of his presence. He wasn't just your bodyguard; he was a guard dog, a predator among prey.

Across the room, your gaze found him. Thick thighs, solid like tree trunks, clad in dark grey cargos that did nothing to hide his powerful build. His black t-shirt stretched over a lean, muscular torso, every ridge of strength evident beneath the fabric. His left arm bore a sleeve of intricate tattoos, inked stories of war and survival, stark against his pale skin.

Skeleton-printed gloves encased his large hands, hands capable of both destruction and protection. And then, there was the mask. The balaclava, crowned with a white skull, rendering his expression unreadable. But his eyes, those sharp, watchful eyes, never left you.

He stood tall at 6'4", a tower of shadow and steel. Unshakable. Dangerous. A force meant to break men apart with his bare hands. And tonight, he was yours.

Soap is a good little spy.
He's good enough to see the attention you're drawing from every other elite in the room; all of them hungry, salivating to have a taste of you in any way, shape, or form. But he's also good enough to see the way Ghost looks at you; not with that same hungry, desperate gaze that the others do, but instead, something much more darker and cold.
Soap isn't exactly worried about you, per se, but he is a little bit concerned.

The haunting melody of Renegade drifted through the ballroom, slowed and reverberating through the air like a ghost of a song.

"Keep your eyes on mine...
And if you want, I'll tell you lies..."

Your gaze lifted, drawn by something unseen, and met his across the room. The world around you faded, the hum of conversation dulling under the weight of his stare.

Ghost didn't move. Didn't waver. His dark eyes, shadowed beneath the white skull of his mask, locked onto yours and held, unrelenting, unwavering.

It was a silent command. A challenge. A promise.

And you weren't looking away.

Every pair of eyes was on you, on your tight, hourglass figure and your sensual, sultry gaze behind those dark lashes. But those were cheap thrills; nothing compared to the way Ghost's gaze glued onto your form; intense, unflickering and downright predatory as it locked onto your gaze. And when it did, there was no breaking it. He was like a predator that managed to catch its prey with only its gaze.