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✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
okay I'm like a SUCKKERRR for angst\fluff with ghost that makes me cry at 2am hahaha so could u do smth like where reader is dying or smth idk she has cancer??? (bc that's how weird I am) and Simon is sitting in the hospital with her at her last moments-?? I totally understand its weird u don't wanna do it I just wanted to ask
Never in his wildest dreams
W/C: ~ 1.9k
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Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine things could turn out this way.
That was the truth of it, though Simon Riley didn’t believe in dreams. Never had. Dreams were so soft and fragile, fading away with the daylight and left nothing but dust in their place. His life had been too hard, too brutal, to believe in them.
But then there was you.
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It started – of all places – at a bloody pub.
Soap had dragged him there, swearing up and down that he had to come along. “Mate, it’s just a few drinks and some company. You’ve been hidin’ in that cave o’ yours too long.”
Simon had resisted, of course. The idea of sitting at some table making small talk made his teeth ache. But he let himself be convinced, if only to quiet Johnny’s nagging.
And then there you were.
You weren’t loud, weren’t showy. No painted-on laugh or desperate shine in your eyes. You just… existed. Sitting across from him at that table, caught in the crossfire of Soap’s effortless chatter, you didn’t flinch at his silence. Didn’t force words into the space he left empty. You only glanced at him once or twice, a quiet smile tugging at your mouth, before turning back to your drink.
It was nothing. It should have been nothing. Just a stranger, one among dozens.
But he felt it. That strange tug in his chest that told him something was shifting, even if he didn’t know what.
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You remember that night too. How tall he looked, even slouched in his chair, shoulders broad enough to block the light behind him. How his eyes, shadowed and guarded, seemed to track every movement in the room like he was still on patrol. How he said little more than a gruff “Evenin’” before settling into silence.
And how, despite all that, something in you leaned closer.
It didn’t happen quickly. Simon wouldn’t have allowed it. A man like him – scarred, silent, burdened with more than you could ever guess – he was built of walls. The kind of walls people didn’t bother trying to climb. But you did. Not with force, not with demands. Just steady, patient presence. A hand brushing his when you passed him a glass. A small joke slipped into the silence between you. A warmth that didn’t falter even when he met it with coldness.
It burned slowly, almost painfully.
And Simon – bloody hell – he let it.
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He’d never thought of himself as someone capable of this.
Simon Riley, Ghost, killer in the dark, soldier who had slit throats in silence and burned villages in his memory – what business did he have learning what it meant to laugh again? To watch your head tip back when you smiled, sunlight flashing in your eyes? To learn the shape of you beneath his hands, the sound of your voice in the quiet of dawn?
He wouldn’t have believed it, not even in his dream.
Yet here he was.
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It wasn’t easy. You saw that from the start.
He flinched at small touches, stiffened at unexpected noises. His past was a shadow that sat at the table with you, curled up in the corners of the bed, pressed into every silence. And yet, you stayed.
There were nights he woke up shaking, heart pounding like he was back in some godforsaken hole halfway across the world. You didn’t push him to speak. You only reached for his hand, your thumb brushing slow circles until the trembling eased.
There were days he snapped, rude and sharp, his temper worn raw by memories he couldn’t bury. You never snapped back. You only looked at him – really looked – until the edge of his anger dulled into guilt.
And then, impossibly, he began to soften. He’d catch himself watching you make tea, sunlight painting your hair, and something would clench in his chest so tightly it almost hurt. He’d find himself bringing home small things – a book you mentioned once, a pastry from the bakery near base – not because he thought you needed them, but because he needed you to know he’d been listening.
And when he held you – arms wrapped so tight around your waist he was half afraid he’d break you – he understood something he hadn’t dared to want.
A life.
He caught himself imagining things: small shoes by the door, laughter echoing in rooms that had known only silence, the weight of a child asleep against his chest.
It gutted him, because it was hope, and hope was the most dangerous thing of all.
You gave him that too.
You saw through him in ways no one ever had.
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But even through all of that, there were the aches you never truly shook. The way you’d sit at the table some nights, hand pressed against your belly like you were trying to hold yourself together. The winces you tried to hide behind a smile, the sudden moments when conversation faltered because the twisting in your stomach grew too sharp to ignore.
Sometimes it would come after a meal, sometimes when you hadn’t eaten all day – a dull burn that left your face pale and your breath uneven. You’d hunch over slightly, fingers clenching the edge of the table, sometimes pressing both palms to your stomach, groaning softly under your breath, trying to convince yourself it was nothing. Your legs would stretch out under the table, knees trembling, back pressed to the chair as though bracing yourself from the pain. Each wave of it left you shaky, gasping, your lips parted in a soft, helpless exhale.
Simon noticed everything. The shallow breaths. The sheen of sweat at your temple. The way your fork stilled halfway to your lips, set down too carefully on the plate so he wouldn’t notice your trembling.
And it ate at him, because he could face bullets and blades without fear, but watching you curl up against the pain left him helpless.
“I’ve been like this since I was little,” you’d told him once when he worried too much. “I’ll be fine, sweetheart. It’s just a tiny stomach ache, not the end of the world, I promise.”
So he did the only thing he knew how. The next day, he came home with enough medicine to fill an entire cabinet. Small packets, bottles, chalky powders he forced you to drink even when you weren't in the mood. You teased him for being overbearing, laughed at his gruff insistence – but you still let him fuss, still swallowed the pills he pressed into your palm before meals. It became a ritual: his quiet devotion, your stubborn compliance softened by the love you never stopped giving back.
It stunned him, how much he cared.
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He never saw it coming.
The first time the doctor said the words – stomach cancer – it was like being shot point-blank. He sat there, hands clenched so tightly in his lap he thought the bones might break, while the world tilted on its axis.
No. Not you. Not you.
You were stubborn, even then. Smiling, trying to soften the blow, insisting it would be fine. That it was caught early, that medicine had always worked for you. That you’d fight.
And Simon – what else could he do but believe you? What else could he do but cling to that shred of hope, that thin line of denial that maybe this time, just this once, the universe wouldn’t take from him?
But things got worse.
The truth came hard, cruel. It wasn’t just stomach cancer. It had metastasized to the liver. Lungs. Bones. Peritoneum.
So aggressive. Merciless. And you haven’t even reached 30 yet.
Simon couldn’t breathe.
He thought of every time you’d brushed off his concern, every time you’d laughed when he pushed a pill into your palm, every moment he’d convinced himself it was nothing. And now – now – your body was failing you, betraying you in ways he couldn’t fight.
He’d faced enemies with knives and guns and fire, but this? This he couldn’t kill. Couldn’t protect you from. Couldn’t even touch. And it tore him apart.
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The doctors explained things in flat, clinical voices. How your stomach was smaller than normal. How it was drooping, weakening, dragging you down from the inside. How nothing could be done, not anymore.
Simon barely heard them. All he could see was you. Pale, thinner than you had any right to be, but still smiling at him like you always had. Like he wasn’t breaking in half right there beside you.
He wanted to scream. To tear the world apart until something gave him back the years you deserved. But he didn’t. He only sat there, hand wrapped around yours, thumb rubbing small circles like you had once done for him.
Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine things could turn out this way.
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Now – here he is.
The ward is too quiet.
Every sound, every silence, presses down like a weight he can’t lift.
There you are, lying on the hospital bed – the air faint with the smell of medicine and flowers long since wilted. Your breath is shallow, fragile, a whisper of life he’s terrified of losing. He sits beside you, mask long abandoned, face raw and unguarded.
His hand doesn’t leave yours. Not anymore. Not until it has to.
His lips press to the back of your hand, lingering there, desperate, unwilling to let go. He presses little, pleading kisses against your knuckles, his forehead resting against your arm, eyes closed as if memorizing every line of your skin. His chest trembles with each shallow breath you take, each uneven inhale a hammer against his chest. His other hand weaves into yours, holding it tight, thumbs brushing frantically over your fingers, desperate to anchor both of you to this fleeting moment. His words come ragged, broken whispers: “Please… stay… don’t leave me… not like this… I need you, always…” and they shudder out in uneven, shaky bursts, as if saying more might fracture him completely.
Every brush of lips, every squeeze of your hand is desperate, pleading, a silent vow not to let the world take you away.
And he thinks—
Of that pub, of your quiet smile. Of sweet mornings spent tangled in sheets, of the way you’d laugh at his muttered endearments. Of the small, impossible family he’d dared to hope for.
Of everything he never believed he could have, and everything he’s about to lose.
He bends his head, lips brushing the back of your hand once more, and the words catch in his throat.
“You’re mine now, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice breaking on the endearment. “Always. Even if—”
He can’t finish. Doesn’t need to.
Because you/him already know.
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Simon Riley – Ghost, killer, soldier, survivor – had never allowed himself to dream. Not until you.
And now, when he holds you through the final hours, he learns the hardest truth of all:
Simon Riley had never planned on staying long. Retirement was supposed to be quiet – nights that lingered with the peaceful silence, mornings that passed without a pressing need. A house hidden away on a suburban street where no one asked questions. Where no one knew who he used to be.
But then there was you.
The neighbor with the porch light always left on too late, the one who always fumbled with a stack of papers and a takeaway cup at 7 each morning.
He first saw you when you passed by – carrying your laptop bag, toast between your teeth, muttering at your keys since they refused to turn. A neat little civilian life, eh? Seemed so far from his own past that it almost felt unreal. You offered a shy, casual wave, and he found himself grunting a quiet, awkward “Morning” before retreating inside. That should’ve been the end of it, but it wasn’t.
It started small.
He noticed your trash can tipped over one night and righted it up before you woke. You found your lawn mowed when you’d been too busy with late office shifts. You left a plate of extra cookies on his porch around Christmas, scribbling “For the mystery gardener. Thanks.” in blue ink.
He didn’t eat cookies, not really. But he ate those.
One evening, he found you sitting on your front steps, shoes discarded, blouse rumpled from work. A long sigh carried out of you, and for once, Simon didn’t duck inside. He walked over, lowering himself onto the concrete to sit beside you.
“Rough day huh?” he asked, voice quiet, laced with something softer.
You startled, then smiled – tired, but sincere. “Insurance paperwork. Basically death by a thousand signatures.”
Simon huffed. Almost a laugh. Letting his shoulder brush yours, deliberate and steady. “Could be worse.”
“Oh?” You tilted your head at him. “You’d know?”
He glanced at you, and for the first time in years, his chest didn’t feel so hollow. “Yeah. Trust me.”
From then on, it was easy. Effortless.
You brought over leftover dinners when you “accidentally” cooked too much.
He fixed the leaky faucet in your kitchen.
Some nights he sat on his porch just because you were on yours, two silhouettes under the glow of cheap streetlights.
And one night, when you leaned your head against his shoulder without prompting, Simon froze – then exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His big hand covered yours where it rested on your lap, his rough thumb brushing your knuckles ever so gently.
Wordless. With pure warmth. And felt like home.
He’d lived through fire and blood, through the burden of every ghost his mask had carried. But here, next door, with you? It was simple.
For the first time, Simon Riley thought maybe he ݁could stay.
⤷ He never believed your words until they became his curse.
𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 Content warningsᵎᵎ
⟡ Grief/loss of loved one
⟡ Survivor’s guilt & self-blame
⟡ Mental breakdown/decline
⟡ Hallucinations, blurred reality
⟡ Angst, no comfort or happy ending
⟡ Mentions of self-destruction
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“There’s something even worse than dying for someone : outliving them.”
You said that once. Said it with a smile, the kind that softened your eyes. Been teasing him, leaning against his shoulder while his mask was half-off, both of you too tired to think straight. Simon remembered the way he had grunted, the way he had told you not to say stupid things like that.
But he had laughed.
God help him, he’d actually laughed.
And now the words were etched into him, a truth so vicious it left him hollow.
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At first, the memories were a balm. A comfort. He wanted them – wanted your voice, your warmth, the sound of your laugh as it filled rooms he didn’t know had been cold until you stepped into them. He clung to the image of your face in morning light, eyes half-closed, hair a mess, with a soft and unguarded smile.
But memories rot when forced to carry too much weight.
What was once beautiful now became unbearable. Every detail betrayed him. The echo of your voice bled into silence so profound it pressed against his skull. The memory of your hand brushing his became the phantom ache of skin he’d never touch again. Even your laughter – it broke him now. The sound replayed in his head, cruelly bright, mocking him with its absence.
You were beautiful, he thought.
Too beautiful for this world. Too beautiful for me.
And he hadn’t saved you.
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It happened so fast. Too fast. And yet, when he closed his eyes, he relived it frame by frame.
The blast. The chaos.
Your hand slamming against his chest—move, Simon—pushing him out of the line. Your voice, low but steady: “Go.”
Not panicked. Not begging. Commanding. As though you’d decided in an instant that his life was worth more than yours.
And he had listened.
That was the part that gutted him. He moved. He stumbled back, obeying your push, letting instinct take over. He let you shield him.
He let you give up everything for him.
Sacrifice for him.
The next moments were a blur of light, heat and ringing silence. When he came to, it was to your body – broken, still, blood blooming too fast to stop. He’d held you, begged you, pressed his hands uselessly against wounds that were too deep. You’d managed one last word, or perhaps it was just a breath shaped like his name. Then you were gone.
He told himself he had tried. He told himself there had been no other way. But the truth sat inside him like shrapnel: he had let you die on him.
It should have been me.
It should always have been me.
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In the weeks after, he walked like a shadow of himself. Soap cracked jokes, received only silence in return. Gaz lingered nearby, steady, but every hand on his shoulder felt wrong because it wasn’t yours. Price simply watched him, the sympathetic gaze in his eyes almost unbearable.
But Simon couldn’t let them in. He couldn’t understand that healing meant loosening his grip on pain, and he wouldn’t dare.
Pain was the last thing tethering you to me.
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At night, he dreamed of you. Or maybe not dreamed – hallucinated, haunted. Sometimes it was the feel of your hand against his. Sometimes it was your voice, soft, calling out his name. Sometimes it was your face, but twisted, covered in blood. Always, he’d wake gasping, mask damp, heart racing like he’d been running from something.
He stopped sleeping.
He thought about your words constantly: There’s something worse than dying…
You’d been right. You always were.
Dying would’ve been easy. Final. But this –this is punishment. This is hell.
He spoke to you when no one was listening. Sometimes aloud, sometimes in his head. He whispered promises:
I’ll make this right. I’ll carry you. I won’t let you fade.
But each promise was hollow, bouncing off the walls of his skull and returning empty.
────────────୨ৎ────────────
The decline became evident in ways he couldn’t hide. His hands shook. He lost weight. His eyes –when he caught them in a mirror – were feral, bloodshot, surrounded by sleepless nights. He wore his mask more often than not, even alone, as if covering his face could hide the ruin inside.
The others noticed, but they couldn’t reach him. He didn’t want them to. Because some days, he thought he deserved this spiral.
You gave up for me. You believed my life was worth more. And look what I’ve done with it.
────────────୨ৎ────────────
One night, he sat with your scarf in his hands. It still carried your faint scent, though maybe it was just memory playing tricks. He held it tight, fingers trembling, knuckles white. He pressed it to his face, desperate, breathing in until his chest hurt. For a moment – just a moment – he felt calm.
But peace never lasted long. Peace was a liar.
The scent faded into the metallic tang of blood. The fabric felt damp, as it had that day, when he tried and failed to stop you from bleeding out. He dropped it like it burned him, breath breaking in ragged gasps.
He slammed a fist into the wall, once, twice, until the skin split. The pain grounded him, but only barely. He welcomed it. Pain was honest. Pain was all he had left.
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At your grave, he knelt. Mask off, lying in the dirt beside him. His face was in nothing but pure exhaustion, streaked with tears he didn’t bother to hide.
The air was cold. Too quiet.
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he swore he felt you there. Sitting next to him. Hand brushing his shoulder the way you always did when words weren’t enough. He dared to believe it.
And then he saw you.
Not with his eyes – those stayed shut – but in his mind. You, smiling, alive. The exact way you looked that morning before it all went wrong. Your lips curved, your eyes bright, the sound of your laugh bubbling in the stillness.
“You’re late,” you teased, the way you used to when he missed breakfast after a mission.
He almost smiled. Almost reached out.
But then the vision flickered. The smile twisted. Blood seeped down your chin. The words warped into a gurgle, your laugh collapsing into the choking sound of your last breath.
His chest seized. His heart pounded. He tried to hold onto the version of you that was whole, warm, alive – but the image slipped like water through his fingers. What remained was the memory of your body cooling in his arms.
He opened his eyes to emptiness.
Just dirt. Just silence.
The silence he deserved.
And in that silence, Simon finally understood: the only way he could keep you close was to keep breaking. To carry the wound, raw and unhealed. To let grief consume him, because letting it go would mean letting you go.
Warnings; suggestive but no actual smut (I’m sorry! If people are down for that lmk!)
After Simon called it a ‘date’ you have been excited. Maybe he didn’t mean to call it a date but for you it meant everything. Even before looking after his hair, you knew he was a fine man, with big muscles and a confident aura surrounding him. Seeing his face just concluded the fact that you liked him. And liked him a lot. Not just because of his physical attributes but his easy-going flirting, the smirking when you stuttered over your words all flustered.
It’s been a couple of days since you last saw Simon fully, probably busy doing work in his office and you busy training rookies and yourself. You knew he’d need to control his curls again soon but maybe he got the hang of it already?
As the evening creeped up, you slowly made your way down to the cafe that became apart of your daily routine, grabbing a coffee and pulling out your laptop to continue with repetitive tasks of training, any injuries, who’s progressing the fastest and more. The cafe was quiet and calming compared to the concrete walls of the barracks, it tucked away in a corner with wooden panelling on the walls, hanging light bulbs and the faint smell of coffee.
The door behind you opened gently, creaking slightly. You peer over your shoulder to find Price making his way to the coffee machine, like his life depended on it. Maybe it did.
‘Y’alright, cap?’ You called out noticing the bags under his eyes.
‘Yeah, yeah’ he sighs ‘just so much fuckin’ work at the minute’
‘Still working on the same case?’
He nods slightly, settling his laptop down across from yours beginning to type. He changed out of his usual uniform, replaced with jeans and a hoodie but still looking ready to head into a war if necessary with his thigh strap holding a gun. You were similar, always having a knife round you, just in case. Comfort, maybe. Trauma, probably.
After an hour, Price reluctantly stands up with a slap of his knees and a ‘right’ as he stands up (the British will get that).
‘You off, Price?’
‘Yea’, got to meet Laswell at 05:00 tomorrow.’
‘Fuckin’ Hell, I’ll see you soon then sir.’ You laugh and meet his eye. A faint grin is hidden under his mutton chops as he starts to walk off.
‘I’ll be back before y’know it.’ He calls out from behind you with a faint chuckle. It felt like you and Price had a very easy-going relationship. He was much closer to the team than you, as you’re the newest but you expected that. What you appreciated was the effort to make you feel welcome, treating you like a friend more than someone beneath him. You still ranked high, coming from a previous task force and having plenty of experience, you were a Lieutenant before you moved, now being a Sergeant again needing to prove your worth before your promotion again.
As you continue your last paragraph, wanting to finish for the day. The door clicks open behind you. Price must of forgotten something-
Oh…
‘Simon? You okay?’ You whispered as you stared at the mammoth of a man in the doorway, blocking 90% of the light.
Standing in the doorway, Simon has his usual cargo trousers on and boots, nothing unusual but as your eyes scan up past the waist. Well…
He’s shirtless for a start. He must of just come out the shower, water droplets scattered across his scarred chest. Chest rising up and down heavily like he’s ran to find you which makes your heart flutter ever so slightly. He has his balaclava on but it’s slightly twisted and not adjusted.
‘I need y’help…it’s me ‘air again.’
You can’t help but chuckle softly at this man in front of you. He’s killed enemies with his bare hands and captured terrorists yet he’s so concerned over his hair, wanting to impress you with his curls much like you caught his attention with yours. He doesn’t know, he already captured your attention with his eyes that dragged you in every time he stared.
‘Oh God’ you said between giggles ‘let me get ma shit together’
‘This ain’t a laughin’ matter’ he mutters
You giggle again following after him as he paces down to his room like a man on a mission, watching his back muscles contract and relax as he walks in front of you.
Simon’s room is very clean, pristine even. But as you follow him towards the bathroom you notice the clutter of hair products scattered around the sink. Mousse with a cap off, tub of curl cream open with cream on the side, the spray bottle betrayed and forgotten in sink. You look up at him with horror on your face as he removes his balaclava and a puff of frizzy bounces out the mask.
You stare for a while before you burst out laughing.
‘Y’can’t laugh… tha’s not fair, I tried. Harde’ than’t looks.’ he mumbles as he looks at you like a lost puppy.
‘Oh darlin’, I don’know how ya managed that’ you manage to say between laughter and a bit of wheezing.
‘Just…help meh…please.’
‘Considering you asked so nicely…’ you pulled up a stool hidden in the corner of his bathroom, much like every bathroom in the barracks. Why they have them is unsure but they’ve proven helpful tackling Simon’s locks, or frizzy mess.
‘I think I’ll be ‘ere a while’ you mutter laying a towel across his broad shoulders before completely wetting his hair.
‘Such a bad thing, luv?’
‘Well, you still owe me tha’ date’
Simon peers up at the mirror, staring into your eyes through it, trying to figure out whether you’re joking or you actually want that date. Simon would love to, pick you up with roses, drive you somewhere secluded and show you a calmer part of him but being in the military that doesn’t always work.
‘The best I can do is serve up dinner in that shitty kitchen-but you… you deserve more tha’ that’
You slowly walk to his front, steps pausing for a minute from what he said.
‘It could be the best date I’ve been on, y’never know’
‘You shoul’ get higher standards, sweet’eart’
The new nickname caused your heart to flutter and new found confidence in yourself. Purposefully leaning over towards Simon, his face getting closer to being smothered by your chest, his breath quickens and his hands gently hold onto the sides of your hips. He gently utters your name in a whisper, looking up at you, faces inches apart. A hand in his hair slowly migrates towards his cheek, holding his face as he gently leans into it.
You couldn’t take it any longer with his breath fanning over your face so you leaned down and kissed him. It wasn’t hungry or lustful, it was caring and gentle. Your thumb strokes his cheekbones casting over a slight scar, your other hand in his hair massaging his temple.
His hands on your waist give a gentle tug for you to straddle his lap.
‘Take me to dinner first’ you mumble through the kiss.
‘I did ask, luv’ he shuts you up as his lips find yours again.
The kiss remains gentle, but there’s controlled restraint in Simon’s firm touch on your waist, wanting to travel… to feel what he’s been staring at for months.
Your hand on his cheek moves to grab his hand and lets it slide down to your ass. A guttural groan rumbles in Simon’s throat. The kiss becomes needier, more confident as you explore each other’s bodies and feelings for one another. After a few minutes, the kissing stops and both of you panting for breath.
‘Th-that was nice… weren’t ‘t’ you said between puffed panting.
Simon chuckled quietly leaning his forehead on yours, hands still on your ass giving it a light squeeze ‘I’ve been wantin’ to do tha’ for a while’
‘You should’ve said sommet’
‘I was nervous’
‘Nervous? Simon ‘ghost’ Riley nervous?’
He shuts you up with another kiss, feeling his smile through it before standing up and gently placing you on the ground.
‘So… about that date…’
‘Yes Simon, I would like tha’’
The date
It’s a couple days later and Simon kept his word after you found some flowers and a note that said;
‘Meet me in the kitchen at 21:00 - S’
The bouquet of flowers already got you excited, him managing to get them from god knows where and the fact that he was truly doing it made butterflies appear in your stomach.
You stood staring at your wardrobe. Most of it consisted of black clothing and to be honest, you wanted to look like you were on a date not going to a funeral. The only piece of clothing that wasn’t black was a red top with a squared neck and long sleeves. It hugged your waist and gently pushed your chest to just show a little bit of cleavage. Knowing how he reacted earlier, you grinned to yourself while putting it on. Matching that with black jeans that hung low but showed off the strength of your quads and glutes. Your makeup remained minimal, highlighting your features beautifully and keeping your curly hair as the centre piece. It was tied up messily in a high bun with strands of curls falling out and bouncing with every step, a few coming out to frame your face.
Your heart hammered stronger and stronger as you made your way to the little kitchen. You understood the late time, other soldiers probably there in the evening for snacks before they headed to their barracks.
Finally, gently knocking on the door, ruffling and clinking of plates was heard before the gentle click of the door and opening it to reveal Simon himself. As he opened the door fully, your jaw gently dropped in awe.
Face revealed without its balaclava, seemingly more intimate and a small smile curving its way on his lips. Hair styled perfectly with curls wishing the back of his neck. He wore a navy blue button up shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his tattoo and veins that made your mouth salivate. His shoulders seemed to be strained under the cotton as they shifted, the seams wanting to burst (and you wouldn’t be too upset if they did). Plain, black dress trousers draped around his huge thighs and calves and his regular boots were matched with it.
He stared too, a slight bulge in his trousers that he was desperately wanting to ignore, as he looked at your neck out in open, not surrounded by your curls as they balanced on your head. Dog tags dangling straight towards your chest that made his breathing quicken and head go funny. Jeans digging in at your waist making your hips and quads look breathtaking, creating a natural hourglass figure. You were stunning. He thought himself as a respectful man but right now he felt like a feral dog as his eyes scanned you up and down, his nose sniffed at your perfume that clouded his mind.
‘Fuckin’ Hell’ Simon mutters, stating your name like he was praying to a goddess ‘you… you look incredible’
Your head drops with a smile playing at your lips as your cheeks heat up to a rose colour. A finger lifts your head back up, letting yourself look at Simon fully, his thumb caressing your jaw.
‘Thank you, Simon… I- you- sorry… you look very handsome’ you stutter as you stare into his deep brown eyes twinkling with amusement as you try to compliment him.
‘Thank you, my luv. Come in.’
The slight change of pet name was noticed but you didn’t comment as you found yourself breathless at what Simon had managed with a few hours and measly kitchen on military ground.
Fairy lights hung from the ceiling, little pieces of black duct tape holding them up. The smell of a creamy sauce filled your nose as you could hear the crisping of bacon. Two fold up chairs and a fold up table sat in the middle with a black cloth draped over it. It wasn’t perfect but it was everything you could’ve asked for.
‘Simon…this-I- wow’
‘I know it’s no’ a lot, best I can get with this shi’hole’
‘No Simon, it’s amazing. Thank you’
You gleam up at him. Simon feels his heart stop for a moment, your eyes glinting up at him with appreciation and care. He slowly takes your hand, pulling out the chair for you, allowing you to sit before he slides you in with ease.
‘Such a gentleman’ you giggle
‘Anything for you, darlin’’ he answers amused, smirk subtly gracing his lips.
His back muscles contort as he finishes up the last of dinner before dishing it up with complimentary French bread. It was carbonara, one of your favourites. It smelt divine and looked exquisite.
‘How did you know I like carbonara?’
‘I have me ways… just try it, could be shi’’
‘I doubt tha’’
You take a bite and it tastes divine. You moan slightly from the taste as it hits your tongue. A bit of the cream sauce decorates the side of your mouth as you continue to relish in the dish. Simon leans forward slightly and brushes the sauce into your mouth, your tongue darting out to lick his thumb. His breath holts and lips part slightly.
‘Don’t do tha’ luv, I need to finish this dinner before i take you t’ bed’
You look up to expect amusement but your met with his earthy, brown eyes staring back full of earnest and want. You knew Simon was blunt but that comment caused your stomach to flutter and a pool to form in your lower stomach.
You both continue to fester in your lustful gazes and tentative touches of hands and legs as you eat. Of course, the sex would be great but this wasn’t just a date and a shag… there’s more. Both of you cared for each other and that was seen through you taking care of his hair, giving him products to make himself feel and look better. He bought you flowers and cooked you dinner, asking around everyone who ever spoke to you to figure out a dish you enjoyed. You both tried for each other, cared for each other, looked out for each other.
As the date comes to an end, you pester him to let you help wash the dishes… it was only fair, he cooked dinner. It wasn’t just to spend more time with him.
‘Don’t be stupid lovie, I’ll do it’
‘Simon, seriously- let me help at least.’
Towards the end of washing dishes, Simon found himself with his hands on your waist from behind, gently squeezing past you to put dried plates away. Your hips tilt backwards causing friction in his groin. A groan escapes his lips with your name faintly escaping.
After everything was cleaned and a few more teases from each other, you start walking with him to your room, hands brushing past with slight touches. You bite the bullet and wrap your hand around his as you continue to walk down the hall.
‘Well, this is my room… thank you for tonight, I-i really appreciate it.’
‘Pretty women like you deserve a bette’ date tha’ that, my luv’
‘It’s the gesture, Simon- that’s what matters to me darlin’’
Your hand lifts up to caress his cheek before you lean up and land a kiss on his lips.
‘Thank you… thank you for the flowers too’
‘You can get more if you le’ me take you on anothe’ date’ he says as he leans a hand on the doorframe. You giggle at his bluntness.
‘So you’re askin’ me on another date?’
‘I-I guess- yes I am’
‘I’d love to.’
You lean up, giving him one last kiss before he straightens and kisses your forehead before leaving to his room. As you close your door you stare at the flowers realising you’ll need a vase for them… and probably another vase for the second date.
WELL!! Finally- sorry it took so long and it’s such a long chapter haha, didn’t want to starve you lot. Thinking of keeping these two around, they’re very cute. Are we interested in a part 3 of the 2nd date or maybe how they make their relationship official?? (Maybe some smut if I’m confident enough haha)
Pretty sure I already sent a tiny Simon Riley fic to this lady/gentleman (titled ‘Card Tricks’ or whatever it is).
The thing is… I dunno if they’ve received it or not. Kinda clicked ‘make answers private’ by mistake and after that i was cooked. Btw this chapter? Super sugary
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You’re twenty minutes deep in chaos when you feel him standing behind you.
You don’t even look up, just smile as you nudge the edge of the jigsaw box with your elbow.
“Wanna help?”
There's a low grunt. “Help with… this ?”
You glance over your shoulder. Simon’s looking at the puzzle as if it’s trynna pick a fight with him.
“Come on,” you urge, patting the space beside you. “I’ll let you do the edges.”
He grumbles something under his breath but sinks down anyway. Cross-legged, knees brushing yours and starts silently sorting through pieces.
𐙚───────────────ᝰ.ᐟ₊ ⊹
Five minutes in, he hasn’t said a word.
You peek over. “You okay?”
He lifts a corner piece. “You bought a puzzle with a field of sunflowers.”
You smile innocently. “Lookin' good.”
He squints at a pile of twenty near-identical yellow pieces. “More like a bloody nightmare.”
You chuckle.
Simon inhales slowly, he’s trying to keep calm. Then without warning – slides a blue sky piece neatly into place.
Click.
His eyes flick to yours.
You raise your brows, grinning. “Good job.”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. But you catch the way his mouth twitches at the corner.
𐙚───────────────ᝰ.ᐟ₊ ⊹
Ten minutes later, he’s fully committed.
Elbows on the coffee table, brows furrowed muttering things like “I think someone just sneezed while holding a knife and called it done” and “Who designs puzzles like this? Sadists?”
You hum beside him, doing the border. Every so often, you sneak glances, watching him get this little crease between his brows when he concentrates.
He's so serious about it. And you're so deeply in love.
You hear him says it: “This is harder than infiltration.”
And immediately burst out laughing.
He shoots you a flat look, but you can see the amusement in his eyes. You lean over and bump your shoulder into his.
“Bet Price never trained you for this, huh?”
“No,” he mutters, flipping over a piece. “But Johnny would’ve rage-quit by now.”
You giggle.
Simon doesn’t smile outright – not yet – but he does nudge a corner piece into your side of the puzzle.
“Thought that one was yours.”
Your heart warms at the little act of teamwork. You gently slide your fingers over his and take it, fitting it into the edge with a soft click.
“Look at us,” you smile softly. “Building a field of sunflowers together.”
Simon snorts. “Romantic.”
You grin. “It is, actually.”
You hear his exhale – half sigh, half chuckle – and he finally leans back, stretching his legs out under the table. He watches you work for a second. Coming up with a casual comment:
“Didn’t think I’d like this.”
You glance up. “Yeah?”
“Mm.” He’s quiet. “It’s… peaceful. With you.”
Your chest does that thing – that quiet ache you always get when his walls lower just enough to let a flicker of softness slip through.
You nudge your hand across the table until it rests beside his.
He glances down. Says nothing. Then hooks his pinky around yours.
And keeps puzzling like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I'll break every bone in your body while naming them pt.2
A story of an army doctor... and how they learn to take your strength into account.
So it's been a whileeeeee jaja i'm so so sorry but i hope this makes up a bit for it. I promise to post the 3rd part soon. It's short but it's the best i have until the next part
Platonic!T.F.141 x reader, Minor Injuries , bit of OOC T.F. 141, pining!reader, Sexual Harassment (they get what they deserve), Not proofread
MASTERLIST Part 1
You still had the man’s arm in your hold, bending it in a way it wasn’t supposed to go.
The dangerous tone in your voice and the pained shout of the man was the only thing the boys needed to spring into action, Simon pushed the man he was holding backwards and fell into a nearby table, Price held another man off while trying to get to you, Kyle helped him and Johnny arrived just in time to prevent another man to grab you.
The fight was not as intense as it could’ve been, the boys pulling their strength not to fatally injure any of the drunk men but still they landed a few punches which will definitely bruise, at one moment or another the boys placed themselves in front of you as protective as they could.
At the commotion the bouncer and some extra security.
Luckily for you the bartender vouched for you and as an apology gave you a free bottle of whiskey but still asked you to leave as it was the pub’s policy, he assured you though that you could return just as long as you don’t get in more trouble. John gave an apologetic smile and thanked the man but still was high in adrenaline and the fury in his eyes had not dwindled.
Once you were back at the truck, you sat in silence, your lip was definitely busted, a punch out of nowhere from one of the drunks had you stumbling back but thanks to Simon it didn’t get any further. You're pretty sure all of them would need to go to the hospital, the boys almost beating them harder after that.
The boys were all intact years of training and combat making themselves known right there and there. The whole ride back to base was silent, you felt embarrassed. The sting in your knuckles was a reminder of the lost composure you had at the pub.
The silence was so loud and the grip the captain had on the steering wheel was so tight you could almost see his knuckles turning white in the darkness of the road.
- I…-
-Don’t apologize- Came the voice of the captain in the front. It came out a bit harsher than intended and you flinched a bit.
Simon sighed loudly.
-’s no yer fault, so don’ ye dare apologize-.
-Thank you- your voice comes in a whisper -For having my back-
A sigh of relief comes over your body
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He’s seen too much. But it’s the smallest things that haunt him most.
───── ⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹ ─────
It’s late. You’re standing at the sink, brushing your teeth, the minty foam making your cheeks puff out a little. Your hair’s a mess, in your way-too-big-shirt – probably one of his – and you’re swaying faintly, humming something under your breath.
You catch him in the mirror.
Simon, leaning against the doorframe. Silent. Watching.
His eyes aren’t sharp like on mission. They’re soft. Too soft. Like he’s studying something he doesn’t dare touch too hard in case it breaks.
You rinse your mouth and lift a brow at him. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”
He blinks. Slow. Shrugs, but doesn’t look away. “…Dunno. You just… exist.”
You laugh quietly. Shake your head.
But he doesn’t smile back.
To him, that’s not small.
You, standing there in the safe, boring light of a bathroom mirror. Not bleeding. Not running. Not screaming into a comms line.
Just existing.
He watches you fold socks like it’s a ritual. Watches you chew pen caps while doing crossword puzzles. Watches you hum to yourself while making tea and doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath the entire time.
You’re the only person who’s ever made him feel like the world can pause.
And it wrecks him.
Worse than the war zones. Worse than the blood and screams and smoke and loss.
Because this?
This is what he never thought he’d have.
And every second of it feels like being in a dream he’s afraid to wake from.
So he watches.
Burns every detail into the inside of his mind like sacred scripture.
───── ⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹ ─────
“He needs to remember exactly how it felt – just to be in the same room while you exist.”
"What are ya doin'?" Simon asks, coming up next to you.
"Puzzle. New one. It's... really fun." You say, showing him your phone. "It's like escape room but you're really just looking for like one item." You say, leaning into him as you continue to play your game.
"Mh.." He mumbles, wrapping his arm around you. But he couldn't care less about your game. He cared about this moment. You. You in his shirt, you sipping from cups he bought, cuddled up to him on the couch in the house he bought.
"Always so warm Si." You say, nuzzling into his side.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." The truth.
You continued to play your game silently, grumbling every now and then when you were stumped.
He watched, rubbing on your shoulder, slipping the sleeve off a little to touch your skin. He listened to each breath, each smile when you got something, each furrow of your eyebrow in confusion, each grumbled curse word. All he could think about was you.
Perfect, perfect you.
"What's this called?" He asked, hand weakly gesturing to the phone.
"Collection. It's super fun, but some are just ridiculous. But, they have 2 parts. Collection 2."
He hummed again, rubbing your arm. "A... collection of puzzles?" He asked.
"Mhm."
----
Idk, puzzle night seems fun. Maybe you make Simon help you with a 1000 piece jigsaw on the coffee table
You’re halfway through rushing out the door when you realize your hair’s a mess.
One hand scrapes it into a ponytail, but strands keep slipping out – the back of your neck hot and bothered from the unevenness, the flyaways. It’s been a long morning. You're tired. And if one more thing goes wrong–
“Come here.”
Simon’s voice is calm. Low. Cuts through the chaos with unexpected gentleness.
You blink. “What?”
He’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed – not with irritation, but… focus.
“You’re stressin’ yourself over that,” he murmurs, nodding toward the tangled strands at your neck. “Let me.”
You hesitate. You’ve seen those hands break down rifles in seconds. Pull triggers without tremble. Touch only with purpose.
You’ve never seen them… do hair.
But something in his posture – his eager eyes – the way he’s already ready and waiting – makes you turn around without a word. Sit at the edge of the bed.
He steps behind you. His fingers brush your nape.
They pause. He mutters: “Tell me if I’m pullin’, yeah?”
You nod.
And then he starts.
His fingers thread through your hair, slow and surprisingly gentle. He’s learning as he goes. No rush, no shame, just pure concentration. You hear his breath steady, feel the subtle tension in his shoulders.
“…Didn’t expect you to be good at this,” you tease softly.
He snorts. “Wasn’t. Had to practice.”
You frown. “Practice?”
A pause.
Then, quietly:
“Watched videos. While you were gone last week. Thought maybe you’d let me try one day.”
Your chest squeezes. You bite your lip, not to cry, but just to contain it.
He finishes, palms smoothing down the braid, and leans close – nose grazing just behind your ear.
“All done,” he murmurs. “Looks good on you.”
You twist to look at him. “Really?”
He hums. Doesn’t back away.
“Softest thing I’ve touched in months.”
You smile. Kiss him before you can stop yourself.
And he kisses back like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Fingers still curled at the nape of your neck, holding not just your hair, but every piece of you.
You hear the door click open – heavy, slow, like the person on the other side is dragging time behind them.
A dull thunk. Gear bag dropped to the floor. Another. Boots.
And finally, Simon Riley, slouched in your doorway, looking like he’s been peeled out of war and stitched back together just to come home.
His mask is still on. Eyes shadowed. Posture's like someone who has been shot at too many times and just wants to rest for a century.
“Love?” you say, shifting slightly on the couch.
He lifts a hand in acknowledgment.
The most tired salute you've ever seen.
“You shower yet?”
“Mm.” A sound that could mean yes, no, maybe, or I’ll dissolve into ash if you ask me anything else.
You catch him watching you intently as he stands still, his shoulders loosen – barely – like you’re the only safe thing in the room.
“Food’s in the fridge,” you tell him softly. “I’ll heat it up. Or you can do it, if you feel like–”
“Don’t feel like anything.”
His voice is rough. Brittle. But not unkind.
“Thought so,” you smile. “Okay. Sit first, eat later. But boots off–”
But he’s already crossing the room.
Already collapsing onto the couch.
Already–
“Oh my God, Simon!”
He lands face-first in your lap.
One arm limply draped across your thighs, the other curled beneath him like a kid hiding from the world. His mask nudges your stomach, the weight of him grounding – enormous, solid, alive.
You freeze.
“…Seriously?”
And there's a low groan. Maybe agreement. Maybe defiance.
“You’re dirty. You’re– Simon, you’ve got blood on your sleeve!!”
“Not mine,” he mutters.
“That doesn’t help!”
He doesn’t respond.
He’s already out.
Breathing slow. Even. His body finally let now that it found you.
You stare down at him – big, deadly Simon Riley, curled in your lap, completely spent.
With a sigh, you brush your fingers lightly over his knuckles.
He flinches in his sleep. Mumbles something. You lean in closer.
One word: your name.
That’s it.
Just your name. Like a prayer. Like home.
You settle back, resting your hand gently on his broad back.
Okay, you think. Shower later. Food later. This… now.
Outside, the world can burn.
But in this quiet corner of the universe, Ghost sleeps with his head in your lap, and that’s all that matters.
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It starts as a joke. You’re curled on the couch, legs in his lap, flipping through your phone as he idly runs a hand up and down your shin.
“Alright,” you say, smiling a little, “if I were an ice cream flavor, what would I be?”
He snorts. Doesn’t even look up.
“That a real question?”
“Yup.”
He’s quiet for a second.
“Honey almond.”
You blink. “That’s weirdly specific.”
He shrugs, but you see it. That faint twitch in his jaw. He’s trying not to look sentimental.
“Why?”
He exhales. Still not looking at you.
“Soft. Warm. Doesn’t try too hard. Bit sweet, and not fake.”
He pauses. Fingers still on your skin. Then, low:
“Feels like home. The kind you don’t wanna leave.”
You swallow.
He finally glances at you. “Knew it were dumb the second I said it.”
You shake your head, voice caught in your throat. “It’s not.”
He shifts, a little embarrassed now. Mutters: “And you always taste/smell like that one. Even if you don’t wear it. Dunno how.”
“You’re such a sap.”
“Shut up,” he grumbles, tightening his hold on your leg. “You asked.”
You want to tease him again – something smug, something flirtatious – but you don’t get the chance.
Because suddenly his hand slides up behind your knee and pulls, dragging you closer across the couch cushions. You yelp, half-laughing, but he’s already over you – eyes dark, hungry, burning with something too sharp to be called playful.
He hovers there, nose almost brushing yours.
“You wanna keep talkin’” he murmurs, voice low and thick, “or d’you want me to remind you of what I truly think you taste like?
Your breath stutters.
“You’re blushing,” he says, amused now – voice teasing but hoarse.
Without waiting, he dips in and kisses you. Hard. Deep. As if the admission flustered him and this is the only way he knows to deal with it – to shut you up, to cover it, to claim it back.
His tongue brushes past your lips and tastes you like you’re the only sweetness he’s ever craved.
And when he finally lets go so you can catch your breath, his eyes are already on yours.
“Yeah. Definitely honey. Fuckin’ addictive.”
You’re dazed. Lips tingling. Breath shallow.
“You’re ridiculous,” you whisper.
“Mhm,” he hums, pressing his mouth to your jaw. “Still want me to list more flavours? Or should I use my mouth for something else?”
⟢───────⟢⟢───────⟢
You taste like comfort. Like softness.
Like something he never thought he’d be allowed to keep – but desperately, quietly hopes he can.
Some men wear silence like armour. He wears yours like home.
He guards your nights not with guns, but with every counted breath.
────────୨ৎ────────
It’s a quiet afternoon.
The kind of quiet that comes softly like dust – warm, and still, and settled. There's rain taps against the windows, and there's a cup of tea cooling between you and Simon on the coffee table.
Simon's perched beside you on the couch, half in shadow, flipping a knife between his fingers with ease. The motion is like muscle memory, not thought.
You watch him. Chin on your knee. Curled into a blanket that still smells like him.
The question slips before you can stop it.
“Do you ever listen to me sleep?”
His fingers still mid-flip.
His eyes don’t move to meet yours immediately. He stares at the knife, at the reflection of your shape in its metal curve.
“Why d’you ask that?” His voice, when it comes, a low, cautious breath of sound.
You shrug, gentle.
“It just… sometimes I wake up and you’re already looking at me. And I wonder if you even sleep at all.”
He doesn’t answer right away. As if weighing the words first.
Then, slowly, he sets the knife down. Quiet. Careful. Like it might shatter the moment if it lands too hard.
You watch him breathe. Watch the way he leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together as if he’s holding something in, or holding himself up.
“I do. Listen to you.”
It’s so soft you almost miss it.
“Every night?”
You don’t tease. Don’t prod. Just ask.
He huffs – something close to a laugh, but it falls flat before it can turn into anything real.
“There were nights,” he says, “after bad ops… after blood and noise and shit I couldn’t scrub out of my head–”
His throat bobs.
“– and the only thing that made sense was hearing you breathe.”
Now he looks at you.
Eyes shadowed. Bruised with sleep he never seems to get.
But there’s a softness in them too.
Raw, vulnerable in a way he rarely lets show.
“I’d count them. Every inhale. Every exhale. Over and over.”
A breath.
“Felt like… if I kept track of yours, maybe I wouldn’t lose my own.”
Something in your chest twists.
He looks away.
Eyes drop to his hands again. They’re steady, but not still.
“Didn’t plan on it,” he muses. “Just happens. I’ll wake up and your hand’s on me, foot tangled wi’ mine, and the world’s not so bloody loud anymore.”
Another pause, this one smaller.
“Could sleep anytime. Just… rather not.”
“Don’t wanna miss it.”
You don’t speak.
Instead, you shift closer. Press your head to his shoulder. Your hand finds his, and he holds on tight.
“That’s not weird, innit?” he mutters, voice gruff.
“No,” you whisper. “That’s love.”
And he just looks at you, really looks, like you've just said something dangerous. Something he doesn’t know how to carry. Something he’s not sure he deserves.
And for the first time that day,
he lets his eyes close.
Not from exhaustion.
But trust.
────────୨ৎ────────
For a man built from scars and shadow, trust is louder than any vow.
────────୨ৎ────────
It wasn’t sleep that saved him.
It was the fact he could sleep at all – with you near.
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