Simon gets dosed with a truth serum, and Johnny is absolutely taking the piss.
Pairing: Simon×Fem!Y/N | Mild Sexual Content | Truth Serum
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"Would you fuck y/n?" Soap asked Ghost, grinning ferally.
Ghost's head snapped toward him with a speed that would have been intimidating if his throat wasn't darkening to a vibrant maroon at the hem of his balaclava. For a single, long moment, the room held its breath—Gaz frozen with his coffee halfway to his lips, Price watching from the doorway with the resignation of a man who had seen too much warfare to be surprised by interpersonal chaos.
Then, the serum kicked in.
"Yes," Ghost said, and the word came out so fast and so forcefully that it actually made Soap jump.
"Absolutely. Without hesitation. In a—" He stopped. Swallowed. The serum pushed. "—in a heartbeat. In less than a heartbeat. In a negative amount of time. I would go back in time an' do it yesterday if that was an option. S'not an option—time travel doesn't exist—but if it did, I'd—"
"Christ alive," Soap breathed, almost awed.
"—I'd do it so fast," Ghost continued helplessly, the words pouring out of him like water through a breached dam. "I'd do it so—y'don't even understand, Johnny. Y'don't understan' what y've just asked me. Y've opened a door that can't be closed now. M'gonna be thinkin' about that question for weeks. Months. Forever. M'gonna be on my deathbed thinkin' about that question because yes. Yes, I bloody would. Have y'seen her?"
"We've all seen her, Lt.," Gaz wheezed, practically crying with laughter now. "She's standin' right there."
"Right there," Ghost agreed, gesturing at y/n with his cuffed hands as if Soap had just made an excellent point. "Right there. Bein' pretty. Bein' the prettiest person I've ever—I already said that, didn't I? I already said that twice. S'still true. S'more true now. S'been—" He glanced at the clock on the wall. "—four minutes. S'been four minutes an' s'even more true than it was when I first said it. How is that possible? How is she gettin' prettier?"
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Ghost is angry about something but immediately is sat when his wee wife shows up...
Pairing: Ghost×Short!Wife | Comedic | He loves his wife
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Simon Riley had never believed he would fall in love.
It simply hadn't been within the realm of things he considered even remotely possible, yet along came y/n, and he was fucked.
Immediately.
Irrevocably.
They'd met at a small pub in a shitty part of Manchester, hit it off immediately, and he'd proposed weeks later.
Yes. Weeks.
They'd been married for going on five years now, and it was the happiest he could ever recall being. Y/N was also in the military—an extraordinarily talented analyst with a penchant for the dramatic and an incredibly short temper.
Ghost had never hidden his marriage, even if he didn't divulge unnecessary information about it.
His personal life was personal, and he preferred to keep it that way.
That was why Sergeant Henrietta Fray got on his nerves so bloody badly.
She knew—knew, the same way every bastard on base knew—that Ghost was married.
She simply didn't give a fuck.
It didn't matter to her that he was married. It didn't matter who his wife was. It was all irrelevant.
Because only she was good enough for Lieutenant Simon bloody Riley.
She flirted without restraint. Touched him. Made comments that just skirted the lines of propriety, and it was driving him barmy.
Weeks, this shite had been happening. Weeks, Ghost had been biting his fucking tongue, and finally his temper boiled over.
"For fucks sake, get the fuck away f'me, you—" He jerked back when she pressed her palm against his bicep, jolting to his feet.
"Oh, c'mon, Riley. Don't be dramatic." She purred, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder.
"Dramatic? Dramatic?" He asked, utterly baffled.
His heart was pounding in his chest, the adrenaline dump making his hands shake just slightly.
He'd been moments away from absolutely dismantling Henrietta Fray when a small shadow shifted in the doorway.
"Simon. Sit down."
His arse met the couch cushion before he'd even fully processed her words, and Henny just stared, mouth agape.
Y/N stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, one brow quirked.
"Don't be doin' that. Ain't worth the trouble." Y/N murmured, walking over to him. She didn't even glance at Henny. She just plopped down on his lap, utterly unbothered.
"Good lad. See? All's good. Im 'ere. S'all that matters."
Ghost just nodded, arms wrapping around her waist, glaring at Henny as if he could make her combust with his eyes alone.
Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley considered himself an old-fashioned man, and he wore that belief as comfortably as he wore his mask—like it had always been fixed there.
The world could shift and twist itself into whatever new shape it fancied, but some things, in his mind, remained fixed. Proper.
A man provided. A woman was provided for.
Simple as that.
He didn’t think it cruel.
Didn’t think it limiting.
If anything, he thought it kind.
Women, in his eyes, were meant for softer things. Quiet mornings with sunlight spilling through the windows. A book resting open in her lap. Maybe paint on her fingertips or the citrus scent of a mandarin orange as she peeled it slowly.
Not this.
Not hauling around something that looked like it could snap her bloody spine in half.
So when he turned the corner and saw Y/N staggering slightly under the weight of a box that was, frankly, absurdly large for her frame, he didn’t hesitate. Didn’t pause. Didn’t consider that perhaps she had chosen to do this.
He stepped in.
“Oi,” he called, voice low and firm, boots echoing against the corridor floor as he closed the distance. “Put that down.”
Y/N didn’t. She adjusted her grip instead, stubborn thing, shifting the weight higher against her stomach as if that would somehow make the situation more acceptable. Ghost frowned behind his mask, irritation flickering to life.
“I said put it down,” he repeated, already reaching for it. “Women can’t do that.”
The words came out as naturally as breathing—no malice, just a statement of fact as he saw it. His hands closed around the sides of the box, effortlessly lifting the burden from her arms before she could protest further. It might as well have weighed nothing to him.
“There,” he muttered, settling it against his chest. “No reason for you to be strugglin’ like that.”
She gaped at him.
Ghost tilted his head slightly.
“What?” he asked, brow furrowing beneath the skull-patterned fabric. “You shouldn’t be carryin’ things like that. Not your job.”
He started down the hall again without waiting for an answer, fully expecting her to fall into step beside him like this was the most natural thing in the world. “You’ve got better things to be doin’,” he went on, tone shifting into something that almost resembled a lecture. “Stuff that suits you.”
He gestured vaguely with his head as if the air itself could supply examples. “Reading. Painting. Hell, sittin’ in the sun doin’ nothin’ at all. That’s the point, innit? Not this.”
Behind them, a door creaked open.
Captain Price stood in the doorway of his office, mug halfway to his lips, frozen mid-sip as he took in the scene before him. His eyes flicked from Ghost to Y/N, whose face was utterly unreadable.
Horror slowly crept across Price’s face.
Ghost, oblivious, kept talking.
“A man’s meant to handle the rough parts,” he continued, adjusting his grip on the box with ease. “No sense in you wadin’ through muck when someone like me’s right here, s'there?”
Price lowered his mug.
Very slowly.
“Ghost,” he said, voice edged with genuine disbelief that was rapidly shifting into panic.
But Simon Riley didn’t hear the warning in it. Didn’t see the silent what the hell are you doing written all over his captain’s face.
Because as far as he was concerned, he’d done exactly what he was supposed to do.
"Next time, you bloody ring me. Daft thing." Ghost muttered.
Imagine if... Ghost ended up with a massive crush on his local librarian?
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Simon Riley had always been a simple man.
He kept to himself, minded his own bloody business, and absolutely—positively—did not linger in places that weren't Stirling Lines or his own back patio.
At least, that had been the case until approximately... a week ago.
He'd been given a few days of leave—"All work and no play makes you a bloody prick, Riley."—at Price's vehement insistence.
He'd lasted less than 24 hours before he'd pulled on his boots and an oversized hoodie and made his way out into the wider world.
He'd intended upon buying a coffee. Maybe a pack of fags and an aero bar (don't say a bloody word), and instead he'd ended up standing in front of the local library, staring through the window with enough intensity that even the bloody magpies seemed unsettled.
The lass at the counter wasn't one he recognized, but Christ, he couldn't seem to look away.
He must have stood there for near on ten bloody minutes before she noticed him—a giant masked specter looming outside like a vampire who couldn't enter without an invitation.
Her left brow quirked slightly, a tiny smirk pulling at the corner of her scarred mouth, and he felt his bastard heart kick hard against the wall of his chest.
He'd fled after that.
Simon fuckin' Riley. Ghost. The Ghost.
Fled from a librarian with a crooked smile as if she'd tried to pry nuclear launch codes from him instead of simply.... acknowledging him looming outside like a fucking creepy gargoyle.
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Ghost and the Librarian — Part Two (Part One Here.)
Fem!OC | Crushing!Ghost | He's a dork
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It had only taken 22 hours for Ghost to return to the library.
Twenty bloody two.
Not even a full day before he was standing outside again, peering through the glass like a schoolboy trying to peek into the lasses lockers.
He felt ridiculous.
Didn't stop him, though.
She was there, thank whatever God had seen fit to take pity on him, and he walked past the reception desk without making eye contact.
Don't be conspicuous, Riley.
He'd almost snorted at himself.
Kind of hard not to be, when you were a 6'4" bastard wearing a bloody skull for a face, but he was trying his best.
He settled at a table in the back, half-hidden behind a bookshelf, with a clear line of sight to the desk where she was absently looking over book returns, chewing on her thumb.
She was so bloody pretty.
Simon Riley didn't believe in God, not really, but he reckoned she would be His favourite.
He stared openly for a long while, memorizing the contours of her face.
The scar on her lip—a jagged thing that stretched from the apple of her cheek and bisected the left side of her upper lip—gave her a permanent sneer that should have been unattractive.
It wasn't.
It was the most compelling thing he'd ever seen.
After what felt like hours—but was probably only about fourty-five minutes—he finally stood.
"Thermopylae."
The word escaped him the moment he approached the desk, and he nearly turned and fled again.
She just stared.
"Aye? Wha' aboot it?" She asked, head tilting slightly. "Books'll be in tha History section, dove. Jus' doon there." She pointed with one finger. His gaze snagged on her nails—long, slightly pointed, painted a glossy black.
"Uh... aye. M'lookin' f'a book." He said dumbly.
For the first time in a decade, he genuinely wished the floor would open and swallow him whole.
She smiled crookedly and stood.
"Aye. C'mon then, ye big lug. Le's see wha' we can find."
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a/n: I have no idea where this is going, but I'm happy to be here 😂
Simon followed her through the aisles, a masked behemoth being led by a small, Scottish angel who'd lost her wings sometime after turning away from the Clyde.
She hummed softly to herself under her breath, something clean and pure that reminded him of thatched cottages and peat smoke.
He'd never been the type of bloke for poetic thought, but Christ, if she wasn't making him dumb.
His gaze snagged—again and again—on the sway of her hips as she walked. When she finally spoke, he nearly jumped.
"Here ye are, laddie. This'll be tha section on most o' antiquity. Rome, Greece, Sparta. All ye coul' wan'. If yer lookin' fer information on Thermopylae specifically though..." She pulled a large book off on of the lower shelves and blew a curl out of her eyes. "This'll probably be yer best bet, ah reckon."
She held the book out to him—Thermopylae: The Battle that Changed the World—and gave him another small, crooked smile.
He just stared at her dumbly for a moment before carefully taking the book from her outstretched hands. His fingers grazed hers, and heat crept up the back of his neck beneath his balaclava.
"Cheers, love." He muttered, shifting awkwardly on his feet.
"Name?" He asked abruptly, voice rough. Her brows furrowed just slightly.
"Oh, s'by Paul Cartledge. He did good work, s'far as ah ken."
He stared down at her for a long moment.
"No, lass. Your name."
The words arrived rougher than he'd intended, but she didn't flinch at the harshness of them. She just flushed a faint pink, one hand covering her mouth.
"Oh! Gospel. M'name's Elspeth, dove. Bu' ye can call me Ellie, f'ye'd like."
Ellie.
Somehow, it suited her perfectly.
"M'name's—" He hesitated for a brief moment before his shoulders dropped slightly.
Kinks: Body Worship, creampie, rough sex, raw sex, eye contact, size difference, public sex.
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The library had gone quiet hours ago, the dim lights humming softly overhead as Elspeth stood on her toes to shelve a hardback on the top row.
Simon watched her from the end of the aisle, half hidden in shadow behind a shelf of old magazines. She was so small—less than five foot even if she stretched on her toes—drowning in an oversized black jumper that slipped off one shoulder, revealing the jagged red scar on her throat. He shouldn't be hiding here after closing, but his feet had carried him through the aisles anyway, drawn by the same pull that had kept him coming back for weeks without ever managing to choke out more than a grunted “thanks” when she checked out his books.
She turned, and those mismatched eyes—one emerald and amber, one blue—fixed on him without surprise.
Simon stepped closer, filling the narrow space between the shelves, six foot four of muscle and scar tissue towering over her. He reached up and pulled the skull balaclava from his head, exposing the wreckage of his face. His knuckle tattoos—Forgiven—flexed as he dropped the mask to the floor, waiting for the flinch.
It didn't come.
Elspeth tilted her head, her dark curls falling across her face, and lifted her hand. Her fingers were tipped with glossy black nail polish, long and slightly pointed, and they gently traced the scarred ridge of his upper lip where the skin pulled tight.
Simon? He stopped breathing.
Her own scar bisected her left lip, a vicious red line that tugged her smile slightly off-center. When she didn't pull away, something fragile in him snapped.
He picked her up.
Easily, like she weighed nothing, his hands spanning her waist over the thick fabric of her clothes.
She wrapped her legs around his middle on instinct—she'd had to, the height difference was absurd—and he carried her to the reference desk, setting her down on the edge among the stacks of returns. His hands shook as he pushed her jumper up, revealing the soft swell of her belly, the heavy curve of her breasts. She wasn't hiding under those clothes; she was magnificent, scarred and solid and so fucking soft it made him want to weep.
Simon crowded between her thighs, his tactical belt digging into her belly until he clumsily yanked it off, letting it clatter to the floor.
He kissed her, messy and too hard, his scarred lip catching against hers. She tasted like the tea she always drank, Earl Grey, and she kissed back with a ferocity that surprised him, her fingers tangling in his short hair, pulling gently. He groaned into her mouth, the sound rough and broken.
He was already hard, had been since she touched his face, his prick straining against his combat trousers.
He freed himself with shaky hands, the weight of his cock heavy in his palm, flushed and aching. Elspeth watched him, her chest heaving under her black lace bra, those heterochromatic eyes wide and fixed on his body—the muscle, the scars. She was flushed, trembling slightly as he yanked off her joggers and spread her legs wider.
When he pushed into her, the heat and tightness of her made him see stars. She was small everywhere, and he was big—too big, probably—but she took him with a gasp that sounded like relief, her nails digging into his shoulders through his hoodie. Simon gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles white, trying not to crush her. The books rattled as he moved, a steady, desperate rhythm that knocked a dictionary to the floor.
He couldn't stop looking at her face—her beautiful, extraordinary face—flushed pink, her eyes rolling back.
"S-Simon," she gasped, “Si-Simo—nnnnngh!”*
He hooked her knees over his elbows, opening her even wider, driving deeper. The sound of his hips meeting her thighs filled the silent library obscenely, her breath hitching every time he bottomed out.
He was being too rough, he knew he was, but she was clawing at his back, urging him on, her tight little cunt spasming around his cock.
“You're fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart.” He groaned, cock throbbing.
He bent his head to her throat, pressing soft kisses against that red scar, breathing her in—apples and pine trees and cigarette smoke.
He wanted to keep her, this brilliant, broken creature who looked at him like he wasn't a monster.
His hips snapped forward, the desk screeching against the floor, and Elspeth cried out, her head falling back, exposing the column of her scarred throat.
The pressure built uncontrollably, tightening his balls, drawing his whole body taut. He was close, so close, and he wanted to wait, wanted to make this last, but she was tightening around him, milking him, her small body shuddering with her own climax.
Simon?
He lost it.
“Take it f'me, angel. Fuuuuck. That's a good girl. My good fuckin’ girl.”
He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of her, an ungodly amount of cum filling her tight cunt, pulse after pulse that left him trembling and raw.
He cradled her face, legs shaking, his nose brushing hers, lips pressing against hers desperately.
Simon woke with a jolt, his hand already gripping his cock through his sodden shorts, the last twitch of his orgasm fading as reality crashed in.
His bedroom.
The wet spot spread cold and sticky across his stomach, his heart hammering against his ribs like he'd run a marathon.
He lay there panting, the ghost of her touch still burning on his scarred mouth, and cursed softly into the empty room.
“Bloody fuckin’ hell, Riley.”
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a/n: so, im not the best at writing smut. i get second-hand embarrassment (first hand?) but i tried my best.
