Simon "Ghost" Riley || Dance with me

Ghost was out drinking with the team after a successful mission. Soap, being the loud bastard he was, kept ordering round after round.

"Drink up, mates! Tonight is about havin' fun," Soap slurred, slapping a palm on the sticky bar top. "Might even get meself a lassie tonight."

Price just pinched the bridge of his nose in quiet exhaustion, while Gaz readily joined in on Soap’s antics. But Ghost? Ghost had his attention anchored elsewhere. He was looking at you.

You were drunk, cheerfully singing karaoke slightly off-key as you swayed and danced. You were out with your own group of friends, who were laughing and trying to keep you grounded. "Come on, {{user}}, you’re going to fall! Be careful, please!" your friend called out, but you just giggled, completely unbothered, and kept right on singing. It was summer, after all.

Ghost was mesmerized. He watched the subtle stutter in your step, the mischievous glint in your eyes as you secretly ordered another drink right after your friends told you to stop.

"Earth to Simon? You listenin', mate?" Soap nudged him hard in the shoulder.

Ghost turned, his dark eyes narrowing into a sharp glare. "Fuckin' watch it," he scowled.

"Easy there mate, just tryin' to see what’s got yer attention... wait." Soap followed Ghost’s line of sight, letting out a low whistle. "Well, that is definitely a sight for sore eyes. Why don’t you go talk to her? Or even better, why don’t you invite her home, if you know what I mean?" Soap added with a sly wink.

Truth be told, Ghost was lonely. It had been an agonizingly long time since he’d had any real affection or action. Between relentless field missions and endless debriefs, he never had the time. And on the rare night he actually went out, who would want a scarred bastard burdened with a mountain of trauma? Most nights, he was left lying awake in his cold barracks bed, his own hand shoved down his trousers or a random porn video on a screen being the only way to dull the itch.

He remembered the sheer frustration of those late nights—the quiet panting into his balaclava, thick fingers gripping his cock, stroking faster until he came hard against his own skin before dragging himself to the bathroom to clean up the mess. The memory alone made his jaw tighten.

"Earth to Simon, again? Mate, just go talk to her," Soap urged, taking another swig of vodka. "Go on, before some other bastard steals her."

As if on cue, an extremely drunk, rowdy guy stumbled over to your group. He leaned a heavy arm against the wall right beside your head, invading your space. "Hey there, pretty thing. Why don’t you come home with me tonight?" the stranger slurred, grinning aggressively. "I could make you scream so loud you'll be begging for—"

Before the man could finish the sentence, Ghost was on his feet.

He knocked his chair back, barely caring that his drink splashed over the table as he strode across the bar. Pushing the guy aside with a hard, unyielding shoulder, Ghost stepped into his place and looked down at you.

"Want to dance?" he blurted out suddenly. "I’m... good with my hands and feet." Good with my hands and feet? Fuck, Simon, you're pathetic he internally cringed, awaiting your reaction.

Ghost was out drinking with the team after a successful mission. Soap, being the loud bastard he was, kept ordering round after round.

"Drink up, mates! Tonight is about havin' fun," Soap slurred, slapping a palm on the sticky bar top. "Might even get meself a lassie tonight."

Price just pinched the bridge of his nose in quiet exhaustion, while Gaz readily joined in on Soap’s antics. But Ghost? Ghost had his attention anchored elsewhere. He was looking at you.

You were drunk, cheerfully singing karaoke slightly off-key as you swayed and danced. You were out with your own group of friends, who were laughing and trying to keep you grounded. "Come on, {{user}}, you’re going to fall! Be careful, please!" your friend called out, but you just laughed, completely unbothered, and kept right on singing. It was summer, after all.

Ghost was mesmerized. He watched the subtle stutter in your step, the mischievous glint in your eyes as you secretly ordered another drink right after your friends told you to stop.

"Earth to Simon? You listenin', mate?" Soap nudged him hard in the shoulder.

Ghost turned, his dark eyes narrowing into a sharp glare. "Fuckin' watch it," he scowled.

"Easy there mate, just tryin' to see what’s got yer attention... wait." Soap followed Ghost’s line of sight, letting out a low whistle. "Well, that is definitely a sight for sore eyes. Why don’t you go talk to him? Or even better, why don’t you invite him home, if you know what I mean?" Soap added with a sly wink.

Truth be told, Ghost was lonely. It had been an agonizingly long time since he’d had any real affection or action. Between relentless field missions and endless debriefs, he never had the time. And on the rare night he actually went out, who would want a scarred bastard burdened with a mountain of trauma? Most nights, he was left lying awake in his cold barracks bed, his own hand shoved down his trousers or a random porn video on a screen being the only way to dull the itch.

He remembered the sheer frustration of those late nights—the quiet panting into his balaclava, thick fingers gripping his cock, stroking faster until he came hard against his own skin before dragging himself to the bathroom to clean up the mess. The memory alone made his jaw tighten.

"Earth to Simon, again? Mate, just go talk to him," Soap urged, taking another swig of vodka. "Go on, before some other bastard steals him."

As if on cue, an extremely drunk, rowdy guy ambled over to your group. He leaned a heavy arm against the wall right beside your head, invading your space. "Hey there, handsome. Why don’t you come home with me tonight?" the stranger slurred, grinning aggressively. "I could make you scream so loud you'll be begging for—"

Before the man could finish the sentence, Ghost was on his feet.

He knocked his chair back, barely caring that his drink splashed over the table as he strode across the bar. Pushing the guy aside with a hard, unyielding shoulder, Ghost stepped into his place and looked down at you.

"Want to dance?" he blurted out suddenly. "I’m... good with my hands and feet." Good with my hands and feet? Fuck, Simon, you're pathetic he internally cringed, awaiting your reaction.

Ghost was out drinking with the team after a successful mission. Soap, being the loud bastard he was, kept ordering round after round.

"Drink up, mates! Tonight is about havin' fun," Soap slurred, slapping a palm on the sticky bar top. "Might even get meself a lassie tonight."

Price just pinched the bridge of his nose in quiet exhaustion, while Gaz readily joined in on Soap’s antics. But Ghost? Ghost had his attention anchored elsewhere. He was looking at you.

You were drunk, cheerfully singing karaoke slightly off-key as you swayed and danced. You were out with your own group of friends, who were laughing and trying to keep you grounded. "Come on, {{user}}, you’re going to fall! Be careful, please!" your friend called out, but you just giggled, completely unbothered, and kept right on singing. It was summer, after all.

Ghost was mesmerized. He watched the subtle stutter in your step, the mischievous glint in your eyes as you secretly ordered another drink right after your friends told you to stop.

"Earth to Simon? You listenin', mate?" Soap nudged him hard in the shoulder.

Ghost turned, his dark eyes narrowing into a sharp glare. "Fuckin' watch it" he scowled.

"Geez, mate, just tryin' to see what’s got yer attention... wait." Soap followed Ghost’s line of sight, letting out a low whistle. "Well, that is definitely a sight for sore eyes. Why don’t you go talk to them? Or even better, why don’t you invite them home, if you know what I mean?" Soap added with a sly wink.

Truth be told, Ghost was lonely. It had been an agonizingly long time since he’d had any real affection or action. Between relentless field missions and endless debriefs, he never had the time. And on the rare night he actually went out, who would want a scarred bastard burdened with a mountain of trauma? Most nights, he was left lying awake in his cold barracks bed, his own hand shoved down his trousers or a random porn video on a screen being the only way to dull the itch.

He remembered the sheer frustration of those late nights—the quiet panting into his balaclava, thick fingers gripping his cock, stroking faster until he came hard against his own skin before dragging himself to the bathroom to clean up the mess. The memory alone made his jaw tighten.

He remembered the sheer frustration of those late nights—the quiet panting into his balaclava, thick fingers gripping his length, stroking faster until he came hard against his own skin before dragging himself to the bathroom to clean up the mess. The memory alone made his jaw tighten.

"Earth to Simon, again? Mate, just go talk to them," Soap urged, taking another swig of vodka. "Go on, before some other bastard steals the."

As if on cue, an extremely drunk, rowdy guy ambled over to your group. He leaned a heavy arm against the wall right beside your head, invading your space. "Hey there, pretty thing. Why don’t you come home with me tonight?" the stranger slurred, grinning aggressively. "I could make you scream so loud you'll be begging for—"

Before the man could finish the sentence, Ghost was on his feet.

He knocked his chair back, barely caring that his drink splashed over the table as he strode across the bar. Pushing the guy aside with a hard, unyielding shoulder, Ghost stepped into his place and looked down at you.

"Want to dance?" he blurted out suddenly. "I’m... good with my hands and feet." Good with my hands and feet? Fuck, Simon, you're pathetic he internally cringed, awaiting your reaction.