✩𝒞𝒶𝓉𝓇𝒾𝒶𝓃𝒶✩

:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*: https://linktr.ee/catrianaghvst

[catrianaghvst]

Catriana’s Page.

MY RULES.

INTRODUCTION.

MASTERLIST OF MASTERLISTS.

[catrianaghvst]

MDNI

CW: religious/priest kink, known reader since she was under age, between consensual adults, breeding kink

MASTERLIST

Priest!Simon Riley who stays perfectly still on the other side of the confessional lattice whilst you whisper your sins, but the second you confess how many nights you’ve fingered your soaked cunt to the thought of him—his rough hands, shadowed eyes, and the forbidden line of his jaw beneath that white collar—his breathing turns heavy and his cock starts thickening beneath the heavy black cassock.

Priest!Simon Riley whose low, controlled voice cracks just slightly as he tells you to “tell Father everything,” fingers digging white-knuckled into the ancient wood whilst you describe cumming with his name on your lips, thighs spread wide in your bed like a whore for a man of God.

Priest!Simon Riley who snaps the moment your last filthy confession leaves your mouth. He storms out of his side of the confessional, yanks your curtain open, and hauls you out by the wrist like a man possessed, dragging you straight into the candlelit nave.

Priest!Simon Riley who slams you against the cold stone wall and claims your mouth in a starving, desperate kiss—tongue fucking deep, teeth scraping your lip, whilst his hands -the same hands that blessed you at your confirmation many years ago- shove your dress up around your hips and grope your bare arse.

Priest!Simon Riley whose thick, hard cock grinds against your dripping cunt through his trousers, groaning low and broken when he feels how obscenely wet you are for him. His white clerical collar digs into his own throat like a noose as he ruts against you, murmuring half-remembered prayers and curses between bruising kisses on your neck.

Priest!Simon Riley who drops to his knees right there on the chapel floor in the shadow of the saints, shoves your thighs apart with rough reverence and buries his face in your cunt like a starving man. He eats you out with filthy, desperate hunger—broad tongue dragging through your slick folds, sucking hard on your swollen clit, two thick fingers stretching you open whilst he groans against your pussy like it’s his salvation.

Priest!Simon Riley who makes you come on his tongue with your fingers twisted tight in his hair, your slick coating his chin and dripping onto his cassock, then stands up, spins you around, and bends you over the polished altar rail without mercy.

Priest!Simon Riley who frees his fat, leaking cock and drives into you in one brutal thrust, stretching your tight cunt wide around him. The guttural groan he lets out echoes through the empty church as your walls clench around every thick inch.

Priest!Simon Riley who fucks you in hard, punishing strokes—hips slamming against your arse, one hand fisted in your hair to arch your back, the other gripping the rail so hard the wood creaks. He growls filthy, broken words against your ear: “This cunt is my damnation… my only salvation… fuck—take every inch like the sinful little thing you are.”

Priest!Simon Riley who rubs tight, ruthless circles on your clit whilst railing you, forcing you to cum again around his cock before he finally buries himself to the hilt and spills deep inside you—thick, hot pulses of cum flooding your pussy.

Priest!Simon Riley who stays buried balls-deep in your dripping, cum-filled cunt afterwards, strong arm wrapped possessively around your waist, chest pressed to your back, breathing ragged against your sweat-damp neck in the trembling silence of the church. He presses a soft, almost reverent kiss to your shoulder and silently prays that his potent seed takes deep in your womb, breeding you full with his forbidden child.

[catrianaghvst]

Anaesthesia.

MASTERLIST || 1K

postsurgery!simonriley x reader

He accidentally spills a massive secret about a ring when groggy from anaesthesia after surgery.

The recovery room smells like antiseptic and recycled air, and you’ve been sitting in it long enough that the bad coffee has gone cold in your hand. You set it down on the plastic chair beside you and check the time. They said twenty minutes, maybe thirty. It’s been forty-five. You’ve read the same NHS poster about handwashing three times without retaining a single word.

Then the door swings open, and a nurse backs through it pulling the far end of a hospital bed, and there he is —your six-foot-something, usually-immovable man, flat on his back under a thin blanket with the tucked-in, slightly helpless look of someone who has absolutely no say in how they’re being transported right now. His head lolls toward you the moment he clears the doorway, and the second his eyes find your face, they light up.

“Babe.” He raises a finger and points it in your general direction, missing by about a foot. “That’s my person.” His voice is louder than it needs to be. The nurse guiding the head of the bed is staring very hard at the wall in front of her. “That one. Mine.”

You stand and cross to him, pressing a hand to his forearm. “Hi, love. How are you feeling?”

Simon stares at you with deep, grave seriousness for approximately three seconds. Then his whole face softens into something so unguarded it makes your chest ache a little, and he says, very slowly, “You have two heads.”

“I don’t.”

“Two.” He blinks, squinting, like he’s working through something genuinely complex. “Both beautiful. Don’t know which one to kiss.” He attempts to sit up, is immediately defeated by his own IV line and the fact that his arms have apparently stopped cooperating, and sinks back against the pillow with a defeated expression.

You laugh and press your hand gently to his chest to keep him still. “Maybe focus on one for now.”

He doesn’t hear you. He’s already tugging at the blanket tucked around him, studying it with intense concentration.

“I’m a burrito,” he announces.

“You are a bit, yeah.”

“You like burritos.” He says it like a fact he’s just remembered, important and certain. “So I’m… your burrito.” A pause. He blinks once, slowly. “That’s good. That’s very good, actually.”

The nurse at the head of the bed makes a quiet sound that she turns into a cough. You are half-embarrassed and entirely melting.

“Can you believe,” Simon says, voice shifting to scandalised, “they just let me sleep in there?”

“That’s generally how surgery works.”

“I closed my eyes for one second.” He holds up a finger from where his arm lies flat on the mattress. “One. And then—” he waves the same finger vaguely “—appendix. Gone. Just taken.”

“They did tell you they were going to do that.”

“Did they?” He looks incredibly uncertain. Then, with suspicion: “Was it a prank?”

“It wasn’t a prank, Simon.”

He absorbs this and then frowns at the ceiling. “Feels like a prank.”

The nurses finish their handover and quietly take their leave. You pull your chair flush to the side of the bed and settle into it, threading your fingers through his where his hand rests heavy on top of the blanket. He looks down at the contact, and something passes over his face—slow and warm and unhurried.

“You stayed,” he says.

“Of course I stayed.”

“Didn’t have to.”

“Simon.”

“Just saying.” His thumb moves over your knuckles, back and forth, back and forth. He’s watching your joined hands like he’s not entirely sure they’re real yet. The anaesthesia makes everything about him loose and unfiltered—no armour, no careful restraint, just him, sitting just below the surface of everything he usually keeps so close to the chest. “You’re the best thing,” he says quietly, to no one in particular. “You know that?”

“You’re a bit biased,” you say softly.

“‘M not.” He shakes his head against the pillow, slow and certain. “Ask anyone. Price’ll tell you. Soap’ll tell you—well, Soap talks too much; he’ll tell you a lot of things—” He pauses, reconsidering. “Maybe don’t ask Soap.”

You laugh, squeezing his hand. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He falls quiet for a moment. The monitor beside him beeps steadily, and somewhere down the corridor, someone drops something metal, and the sound echoes and fades. Simon’s thumb has stilled against your hand, but he hasn’t let go. His eyes drift half-closed, then open again, fighting it.

“Got you something,” he mumbles. “Well. Not here. At home. It’s at home.”

“You got me something?”

“Mm.” His brow furrows faintly. “Well. It’s more… it’s more for both of us, really. Well—it's for you. And for me. And for—” He stops. The frown deepens. “It’s a ring.”

The word lands in the room very quietly.

You go still.

“A ring,” you repeat.

“In my sock drawer.” He says it with immense seriousness, as though the location is the important part. “Second one in. Behind the grey ones. Been there three weeks, I keep—” He shifts against the pillow, blinking. “Keep waiting for the right time. Was gonna do it somewhere nice, but I think it should be more personal. Have a whole—” Another slow blink. “I have a plan.”

Your heart has done something that makes your ribs feel too small for it.

“Simon,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

“You’d say yes,” he says, like it’s not a question, like it’s just something he knows the way he knows north from south. “You’d say yes, wouldn't you.” Still not a question. His eyes are drifting again, the pull of sleep getting heavier by the second, his words softening at the edges. “You always say yes to me. Even when I’m—even when it’s hard. You stay.”

You press your free hand over your mouth for a second.

He lets out a long, slow breath. His grip on your hand slackens slightly, not letting go but going loose and easy. His head settles deeper into the pillow, the line of his shoulders dropping as the tension finally, fully, leaves him.

“I want it to be perfect,” he says, almost to himself. “But suppose it’s—s’fine either way. You’ll still say yes.”

And then, with all the unbothered peace of a man who has absolutely no idea what he’s just said, he falls asleep. Completely and utterly out, breathing slow and steady against the hospital pillow, hand still curled loosely around yours, a little furrow between his brows the only remaining sign that he was ever awake at all.

wrote this manually with paper and pen btw

[catrianaghvst]

feel free to vague pst me or whatever i just. had to get this off my chest. love ur bots friend but they are so verh. white woman pov. i f that maks sense. goodnight

I try to make them inclusive but I am a white woman so I naturally write like that, nothing I can do about who I am 🤷‍♀️

[catrianaghvst]

Thinking about TF141 and letting you ride their thigh. (AFAB Reader)

MASTERLIST

Soap: He starts off with that shit-eating grin, all cocky and playful, patting his thick thigh like it’s some kind of joke. “C’mere then, princess. Don’t be shy.” But the second your dripping cunt settles against the hard muscle, the facade drops. He bounces his leg with mean, deliberate rhythm, forcing you to grind down harder just to chase the friction. His rough hand grips your hip tight enough to bruise while he watches your face with dark, mocking amusement. Every frustrated whimper makes him chuckle low in your ear.

“Fuckin’ pathetic, look at you. Soakin’ my fuckin’ leg already, and I’ve barely done anything.”

He leans in close, his Scottish accent thick and filthy. “That’s it, ride it like a desperate little slut. Make a mess. I want to feel how greedy that cunt is.”

Price: He’s calm, authoritative, and terrifyingly in control. He pulls you onto his thigh with steady hands like he’s done this a thousand times in his head. Leaning back in his chair, cigar smoke curling around him, he watches you with that heavy, predatory stare. He doesn’t rush. He makes you work for every roll of your hips while his big hand slowly strokes up your spine.

“Easy, love. Don’t get greedy now.”

Every time you start losing rhythm, he flexes his thick thigh hard under your soaked pussy, making you jolt and moan like a whore. He keeps you right on the edge with slow, deliberate movements and low, gravelly praise. “Good girl. Look at you humping my leg like you’re in heat. So fucking filthy for your captain.”

Ghost: He doesn’t say much at first. He just drags you into his lap with those massive gloved hands, locking you down on his thigh like you belong there. The silence is cruel. He stays almost completely still whilst you desperately grind your dripping cunt against him, only giving the occasional brutal flex of muscle when you start to slow down.

When you try to hide your face in his chest, a gloved hand grips your jaw hard and forces your eyes up to his.

“Eyes on me,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. “Want to see how fucking pathetic you look riding my thigh like a needy bitch.”

The rare times he speaks are pure filth — deep, broken grunts mixed with cruel taunts as he feels you tremble and leak all over him.

Gaz: He’s the most dangerous because he’s sweet about it. He laughs softly when you climb on, all pretty smiles and warm hands sliding up your thighs… right until you’re grinding on him. Then the teasing starts.

“Aw, baby, you’re so wet already. Can feel you throbbing through my trousers.”

He keeps up a constant stream of filthy, playful commentary, praising and degrading you in the same breath while his thigh moves in perfect little jolts that make your eyes roll back. The more you fall apart, the more smug he gets. When you bury your burning face in his neck, he just chuckles and wraps an arm around you, holding you there.

“Yeah, hide your face, princess. We both know you’re creaming all over my leg like a desperate little slut. Keep going. I want to feel you cum like this.”

guess who’s back (for now) bitches 😙

[catrianaghvst]

Condom Shopping.

NSFW!! || MASTERLIST || 0.3K || 18+

Exactly as the title says.

It’s a Tuesday evening, and you and Simon are wandering the quiet aisles of Tesco, basket half-full with no real plan. Oat milk, toilet roll, and the crisps Simon swore he wasn’t getting — now sitting proudly on top after you turned your back for two seconds.

You turn the corner into the family planning aisle — all bright boxes and painfully awkward packaging.

Staring at the shelf, Simon stops bedside you. “Well,” he says, completely deadpan. “Romantic.”

You smirk, nudging his hip with yours. “Beats running out at 11pm like last time, Mr ‘I’ll just pull out’.”

He chuckles softly, a little sheepish, shifting the basket to his other hand so he can lean in closer. “True. Lesson learned.”

You both stand there like idiots, silently observing the wall of options. Extra safe, ribbed for her pleasure, ultra-thin, glow-in-the-dark, and strawberry-flavoured.

Simon tilts his head, squinting at one box. “I’m sorry, but do people actually want their dick to taste like a fruit smoothie?”

You laugh under your breath, reaching up and grabbing the strawberry ones purely for the reaction. “Could be fun,” you say, turning the box over in your hands like you’re genuinely considering it. “Mix things up a bit.”

He raises an eyebrow at you, already suspicious. “That sounds like a threat.”

You glance up at him, a slow grin creeping in. “I could take my time with it,” you murmur, playful but just pointed enough to make him shift his weight. “Like a lollipop.”

There’s a brief pause where he just looks at you, trying not to smile and failing slightly.

“Right,” he says finally, clearing his throat and gesturing vaguely at the shelf. “Or — and hear me out — we go for something normal and avoid you turning me into a sweet treat.”

You hum like you’re seriously weighing the options, then toss the strawberry box into the basket anyway just to watch him react.

Simon looks down at it, then back at you. “…You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” you say, nudging the basket forward so he has to follow, “here you are.”

[catrianaghvst]

Dirty Talk at Your Work.

NSFW!! || MASTERLIST || 0.8K || 18+

simonriley x barista!reader

He comes into your work and talks about your previous night together.

The afternoon sun slants through the big front windows of the coffee shop, turning the worn wooden floor golden. You’re behind the coffee machine, tamping down a fresh puck with smooth, practiced motions while steam hisses softly and the low murmur of customers fills the background like white noise.

The bell above the door chimes once—low and unhurried—and you don’t need to look up to know it’s him after his message earlier.

Simon steps inside, broad shoulders briefly blocking the light before he moves forward with that quiet, rolling stride that makes the space feel smaller. He doesn’t pause at the tables or glance at the menu board. He comes straight to the counter and leans one thick forearm along the edge, close enough that you catch the faint trace of his cologne, and the crisp bite of outside air still clinging to his hoodie.

“Hey, love,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low, the kind of sound that settles warm in your chest.

You glance up from the portafilter and let a small smile slip out. “Hey yourself. Usual?”

“Always.” His eyes crinkle at the corners—the only part of his face visible above the mask. “Missed waking up to you this morning.”

“You were still dead to the world when I slipped out,” you tease, already reaching for the milk jug and sliding it under the steam wand for a customer’s drink. The soft roar of foam starts up between you, a gentle curtain of sound.

“Was just recharging,” he says, tilting his head so the light catches the faint scar that disappears under the fabric. “Needed my energy back after last night.”

You snort softly, your cheeks warming as you pull the double shot, watching the dark espresso stream rich and perfect into the cup. “Behave. There’s a line.”

He doesn’t even glance behind him. Instead, he leans in a fraction closer, elbows braced on the counter now, his voice dropping to that velvet tone meant only for your ears—except the shop is small, and he’s never been particularly careful about volume when he’s like this.

“Been replaying last night in my head all day,” he continues, low and unhurried. “The way you sounded when I had you pinned under me, thighs trembling, begging so sweetly for me to go harder. Christ, love, I can still feel you clenching around me every time I shift.”

Your hands stutter for half a second; hot foam spills over the rim of the pitcher. You curse under your breath and wipe it up quickly, your pulse thudding high in your throat as you flick a panicked glance over his shoulder; three customers stand in a neat row behind him.

Simon doesn’t stop. If anything, the corner of his mouth twitches upward, like he’s enjoying the way you’re unraveling right there behind the counter.

“Had you cumming so hard you forgot how to breathe for a second,” he goes on, softer now but no less deliberate. “That little hitch in your voice when I hit just the right spot—fuck, I’m half-hard just thinking about it.”

A choked cough sounds from the line. You press your lips together hard to keep from laughing or spontaneously combusting, then slide his black coffee across the polished wood. Your fingers brush his when he takes the cup, and he catches them for a beat, his thumb stroking slowly over your knuckles.

“You’re impossible,” you whisper, leaning forward so your words stay between you, even though it’s far too late for discretion.

“Thought I was pretty damn thorough last night,” he counters, his eyes locked on yours over the rim as he takes a slow sip. “Had you shaking and dripping for me. Still feel the marks you left on my shoulders.”

“Simon Riley,” you say through gritted teeth, your voice barely above a breath, “there are literally people standing right there.”

He finally flicks a lazy glance over his shoulder. The customers meet his gaze but look oblivious to the conversation going on.

He turns back to you, utterly unruffled. “They’ll survive.”

“You’re awful.”

“Only for you.” He sets the cup down for a second so he can reach across and tuck one stray strand of hair behind your ear, the touch surprisingly gentle against the chaos he just caused. His thumb lingers along your cheekbone. “Come to mine early tonight?”

“I get off at six.”

“Six it is.” His voice dips again, intimate and promising. “Wear that little black thing I like—the one that barely covers your ass.”

Your breath catches and heat pools low in your belly. “You’re going to get me fired.”

“Worth it.” He straightens slowly but doesn’t step away just yet. Instead, he leans in one last time, close enough that his next words brush warm against your ear. “I’m not done with you yet, sweetheart. Not even close.”

Then he pulls back, lifts his coffee in a small salute, and turns toward the door. The bell chimes again as he steps out into the late-afternoon light, his broad back disappearing around the corner.

pulled an accidental month long hiatus 🥴

[catrianaghvst]

Wearing his T-shirt.

NSFW!! || MASTERLIST || 1.1K || 18+

simonriley x f!reader

He likes you in his T-shirt.

You pad across the room, toes sinking into the carpet as the oversized T-shirt you’re wearing skims the tops of your thighs. The fabric is worn buttery soft from years of washing and still carries the faint, grounding smell of him. 'Riley' stands out in stark block letters across the back, and when you glimpse yourself in the mirror, the shirt drapes loose over your frame—too big, swallowing you whole—but that’s exactly why you love it.

His footsteps are soft, almost silent, yet you feel him before you hear the last one fall. Then Simon is behind you, arms sliding around your waist to pull you gently back against his chest. His stubble brushes your skin as he dips his head and presses a slow, lingering kiss to the side of your neck.

“Comfortable?” he murmurs, his voice pitched so low it ripples through you.

You cover his hands with yours, holding him in place, and a small smile curves your lips. “Very. This is mine now, by the way.”

A chuckle rolls through his chest into yours. “Is it?” Arms tightening, his warm breath ghosts over your skin. “Looks better on you anyway.”

He nuzzles closer, lips grazing the spot just below your jaw. “Fits you better too… or doesn’t fit, really.” He shifts just enough so that he can glance down the length of you, his mouth tipping into that familiar half-smile. “But I like it loose like this; it makes it obvious who you belong to.”

The words land gently, curling into something sweet and aching in your chest. He stays close, kissing a languid path along your neck while his thumbs sweep slow, absent circles over your hips. “Definitely better on you,” he murmurs again, mostly to himself.

You tip your head back against his shoulder; a breathy laugh slips out when his teeth graze the tender skin beneath your ear.

“Feeling possessive tonight?” you whisper.

He hums, low and pleased, the sound vibrating straight through your spine. “Always.” His fingers fan wider, cradling you like he’s relearning every curve under the thin cotton. “Especially when you’re wearing my name and nothing else.”

You twist just enough in his hold to meet his mouth. The kiss starts sleepy and slow in the way only late-night kisses can be. He still tastes faintly of the cigarette he smoked earlier.

Your fingers curl into the soft front of his hoodie whilst his drift higher, cupping the gentle swell of your breast through the shirt. His thumb circles your nipple with patient, deliberate pressure until it draws tight and shows clearly through the faded black fabric.

A small sound escapes you. He smiles against your lips.

“Like that?” he asks quietly, repeating the slow stroke just to draw another soft noise from your throat.

“Mhm.” You nod, a quiet giggle bubbling up when he does it again on purpose. “You’re terrible.”

“Downright cruel,” he agrees, eyes crinkling even as his tone stays solemn.

He guides you backwards in careful steps until your knees hit the edge of the bed, then lowers you down so gently it feels almost reverent. The mattress dips as he follows, settling between your thighs without ever breaking the kiss.

The T-shirt rides up under the press of his body, cotton gathering at your waist, but he leaves it there. Instead, he bunches the extra fabric loosely in one fist at your hip—keeping it out of the way—while his other hand slips between you. His fingers glide through your folds, slow and searching, and when he finds you already wet and ready, a quiet, approving sound hums against your mouth.

Your hips lift into his touch on instinct. He chuckles softly and kisses the smiling corner of your lips.

“Easy, love,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

He leans away just long enough to reach the nightstand, his movements smooth from long habit. You watch through heavy-lidded eyes as he tears open the foil packet with his teeth and rolls the condom down his thick length with unhurried care, then gives himself one slow stroke, eyes never leaving yours, before guiding himself back to you.

He notches the broad head of his hard-on at your entrance, slicks the latex with your wetness, and then sinks in so slowly you feel every inch, his familiar weight stretching and filling you until his hips rest flush against yours.

The shirt stays tangled between you, soft cotton shifting over heated skin with each lazy roll of his hips. There’s no rush—just the intimate glide of him inside you, the way he grinds deep and lingers a moment before drawing back, only to slide in again until you sigh softly in satisfaction.

Your arms wind around his neck, fingers threading into the short hair at his nape. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes half-closed, watching every flicker of pleasure move across your face like he’s memorising it.

“Feel good?” His voice is rough with restraint, yet so tender it makes your chest ache.

You nod, biting back another quiet moan when he angles just right and your thighs quiver around him. “Really good.”

He kisses you through the next slow thrust, swallowing the soft sound you make. One hand finds yours and threads your fingers together beside your head; the other stays knotted in the shirt, tethering you both to each other in more ways than one.

Pleasure builds slowly and steadily, a quiet, unhurried rise rather than anything frantic. You barely notice how close you are until your breath falters and your free hand tightens around his shoulder. He feels the shift instantly. Adjusting his position, he presses deeper and holds there, moving with patient, deliberate pressure. Each slow circle brings the firm base of him against your sensitive clit as he grinds in a measured rhythm.

The sensation crests gradually, tension winding through your body until it finally breaks. You draw closer, whispering his name against his mouth as your body tightens around him, long, languid pulses of pleasure rolling through you whilst he keeps that steady, grounding motion.

He follows a heartbeat later—a low groan buried in the crook of your neck, hips stuttering once, twice, then locking still as he pulses inside the condom, shuddering hard against you.

For a long minute, you simply lie there, breathing in sync, tangled together in wrinkled cotton that now smells of sweat and each other.

Simon eventually presses a lazy kiss to your temple and murmurs into your hair, “Still mine?”

You laugh under your breath, sleepy and sated as your fingers trace idle shapes across his back.

“Always,” you whisper. “But this shirt? Definitely mine now.”

He huffs a quiet laugh and nuzzles closer.

“Keep it,” he says simply. “Looks better on you anyway.”

I gave up on proof reading so there may be some inconsistencies 🫠

[catrianaghvst]

Period Care.

MASTERLIST || 0.7K WORDS

simonriley x f!reader

Simon runs you a bath and takes care of you during a bad menstrual period.

You wake up to a dull throb at the base of your spine and a familiar heaviness in your abdomen. The sticky warmth between your thighs confirms what you already know. It’s right on schedule, as always.

Still half-asleep, you pull on one of Simon’s oversized shirts and shuffle into the kitchen, bare feet scuffing the floor, your body feeling like it’s moving through water.

He’s already there, leaning against the counter in low-slung joggers and nothing else, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, scrolling absently. He glances up before you’ve even reached him, eyes flicking over you in that quiet, assessing way he has.

“Alright?” His voice is low, already threaded with concern.

You stay silent, stepping closer instead, pressing your forehead against the heat of his upper arm.

He stills at once, gently pulling you back to look at him. “Bad one?” he murmurs.

“Started in the night.”

He studies you a moment longer, then leans in and presses his lips to your forehead, lingering until you feel the slow exhale against your skin.

“Gonna run you a bath. Stay put.”

He leaves the kitchen and heads down the hall, the bathroom door left slightly cracked after he enters. A moment later you hear the water start, then him testing the temperature, the faint clink of the Epsom salts jar, and the quiet pour of lavender-rosemary oil he got you for your birthday.

When he returns and finds you curled up on the couch, he doesn’t ask if you can walk—he simply scoops you up, one arm under your knees, the other behind your back, and carries you down the hall like you weigh nothing.

He sets you on the closed toilet lid, steadying you with both hands on your shoulders. “Arms up.”

You let him peel your shirt off carefully, mindful of every tender place, then help you out of the rest of your clothes before guiding you into the tub.

The heat sinks in at once, loosening the iron grip around your pelvis. You let out a long, shaky breath—and he exhales too, like he’d been holding the same one.

“Too hot?”

“Perfect.”

He crouches beside the tub, forearms resting on the edge. “Changing the sheets while you soak. Yell if you need me.”

You’re already melting into the warmth as he leaves. Soon you hear the snap of fresh linen, pillows being fluffed, and the quiet scrape of the mattress being smoothed.

When he comes back, the steam is still curling off the water, and your limbs feel heavy in the best way.

“Out?” he asks quietly.

You make a small affirmative sound.

He helps you stand, wraps you in the biggest towel like something precious, and dries you with slow, gentle passes.

In the bedroom, the bed waits—remade with dark-grey sheets, extra pillows stacked, and your favourite soft blanket folded at the foot. He’s laid out clothes on your side of the bed: your softest pair of joggers, one of his ancient army-issued T-shirts that smells like him, and thick fuzzy socks.

You point weakly. “Spoiling me.”

“Damn right.” He kisses the crown of your head. “Arms.”

He helps you dress, patient and careful, then sits you on the edge of the mattress while he fetches you chocolate, painkillers, and your water bottle.

“Take these. Small sips.”

You swallow obediently.

He kneels again, thumbs working deep heat into your lower back until the ache softens another degree. When he’s done, he pulls the covers back.

“In.”

You crawl under, gratefully.

He tucks your electric heating pad against your stomach, grabs his laptop, and slides in behind you—long legs bracketing yours and chest solid against your back.

“Movie?”

“Please.”

“Pick.”

You shake your head, already sinking against him. “Any.”

He huffs that quiet, almost-laugh and queues up your comfort rewatch without another word.

The opening credits roll as he props the laptop across your lap on a pillow tray, loops one arm loosely around your middle—careful pressure—and laces the fingers of his other hand with yours over the heating pad.

You lean back into his heartbeat.

“Still bad?” he murmurs against your hair.

“Less. You’re magic.”

“Not magic.” His hold tightens by the smallest fraction. “Just hate seeing you in pain like that.”

You tip your head just enough to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

“I’m okay,” you whisper. “Promise.”

I did NOT hit any sort of flow state with this one so please ignore how clunky it feels 🫠

[catrianaghvst]

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick’s Masterlist.

——ONE SHOTS——

HIS DICK | 18+

A short thing about what his penis is like.

[catrianaghvst]

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish’s Masterlist.

——ONE SHOTS——

HIS DICK | 18+

A short thing about what his penis is like.

[catrianaghvst]

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick’s Dick.

Cut. Sticks straight up north with no curve. 6.9 inches in length, thick at the base, but tapers out slightly toward the tip for a conical shape, with an average diameter of 2.4 inches, but feels balanced. The base is #49362C, and the tip is a slightly lighter #513E34 with a smooth, defined corona that’s subtly ridged. Completely shaved, not a speck of hair. Taste is sweet with a sweet aftertaste. More reserved vocally with some breathy gasps. Good stamina with a focus on rhythm and endurance.

[catrianaghvst]

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish’s Dick.

Uncut. Jacob’s ladder piercing with four evenly spaced barbells that make him extra sensitive. Hung, and he knows it. Sticks up with a curve that slaps against his stomach. 7.9 inches in length, with a diameter of 3 inches even, and a slight upward hood at the end. The base is a tanned Scotsman's #C1A091, and the tip is #C7968F. Full bush. Taste is sweet with a bitter aftertaste. Shudders, whimpers, and moans. Exceptional stamina, and can go multiple rounds with enthusiasm.

[catrianaghvst]

John Price’s Dick.

Uncut. Slight northeast curve. 5.5 inches in length, but is very particular about the half inch: “You're only 5 inc—" "CHEEKY SOD, I AM FIVE AND A HALF.” He is girthy – 3.8 inches in diameter, with a slight bulge midway down. The base is #C9977C, and the tip is a flushed #C98384 when happy. He grooms every now and then, just to not let it get out of control. Taste is salty, with a slightly bitter aftertaste. Gravely groans. Average stamina, but builds slowly through the session.

[catrianaghvst]

Simon “Ghost” Riley’s Dick.

Cut. One prominent vein curling up, that only makes an appearance when standing at attention, with a few subtler branching veins along the side. Sticks up with a slight forward tilt (about 10-15°). Has a pronounced ridge under the head. 7.1 inches in length, with a diameter of 2.6 inches, but feels thicker due to the veins. The base is a warm, muted #BB9986 fading into the tip, which is a pale #C39A96, and is extra sensitive. Trimmed short, and keeps groomed to feel clean. Taste is bitter with a bitter aftertaste. High stamina. Quiet grunter with occasional deep sighs.

[catrianaghvst]

Your Birthday.

MASTERLIST || 0.9K WORDS

simonriley x f!reader

Simon surprises you with a homemade cake on your birthday morning.

You wake to the faint scent of vanilla and warm sugar curling through the air. For a sleepy moment you stay cocooned in blankets, the edges of a half-remembered dream still clinging to you. Then you hear it — quiet, purposeful sounds drifting from the kitchen. Not hurried. Not clumsy. Just… gentle.

You know that rhythm.

It’s Simon.

A lazy smile curves your lips before your eyes are even fully open. Today’s your birthday. You’d been content to let it slip by unnoticed, but clearly he had other ideas.

Still blinking sleep away, you pad barefoot into the kitchen. And there he is in all his glory, broad shoulders and sculpted muscles coming alive with every movement. He’s wearing that particular focused look he saves for things that matter — the one that makes your chest ache in the best way. When he turns and catches sight of you, his whole face softens, brightening in that quiet, private way that belongs only to you.

“Morning,” he says, casual as if he hasn’t been up for hours. “Thought you’d sleep longer.”

“I smelt cake,” you answer, grinning, arms loosely crossed. “Are you baking… for me?”

He nods toward the counter. A slightly crooked sponge cake sits on a cooling rack. The frosting is uneven, a little sunken in places, and the top is cracked — but your name is piped across it in careful, wobbly letters, framed by lopsided stars that look more like fluffy clouds.

“Tried to,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, ears faintly pink. “Wanted you to do nothing today. Just… something soft. Something sweet.”

You linger in the doorway a beat longer, simply watching him — the way his shoulders shift beneath the soft cotton of his shirt, the self-conscious flush creeping up his neck because he knows you’re looking. There’s something almost painful in how tender it is: this large, usually guarded man trying so hard to make something delicate.

“Looks perfect,” you say quietly.

He huffs a small, fond sound. “Liar.”

You push off the frame and drift closer. The kitchen smells like brown sugar, butter, and him — clean soap undercut by that stubborn trace of gun oil that never quite washes away. It’s absurd. It’s home.

Close enough now, you reach past him and drag a finger through the edge of the frosting bowl. It’s still soft and impossibly sweet when it hits your tongue.

His gaze follows the motion. Something in his expression warms, edges darkening just a shade.

“Oi,” he murmurs, voice low. “That was for the cake.”

You tilt your head, your smile turning sly. “Plenty left in case you need to add more.”

Before he can answer, you scoop more onto two fingers and—impulse winning—smear a thick stripe of vanilla across his cheekbone.

His brows lift. For a stunned half-second he simply stares, the white streak bright against his skin.

Then he exhales through his nose, caught between disbelief and amusement.

“You’ve got a bloody death wish, love.”

You’re already laughing, retreating a half-step. “Maybe.”

He reaches for the bowl without breaking eye contact. You squeak and dodge sideways — pointless, of course. He’s faster. Always faster. His hand closes around your wrist, gentle but unyielding, and he tugs you back in until your chest brushes his, until you feel the steady thump of his heart beneath muscle and quiet restraint.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just looks at you — really looks — like he’s relearning every line of your face. Then, very deliberately, he scoops a dollop onto his thumb and swipes it across the bridge of your nose.

You gasp, mock-outraged. “Simon!”

“What?” he deadpans, though the corner of his mouth betrays him. “Fair’s fair.”

You lunge for the bowl. He catches you around the waist one-armed — effortlessly — and suddenly you’re both dissolving into helpless, rib-aching laughter. Frosting ends up on his jaw, your t-shirt, and the tip of your chin. A glob lands in his hair; he groans theatrically but keeps grinning, eyes crinkling in that rare, unguarded way that still makes your stomach flip.

When the bowl is nearly empty and you’re both a disaster, he’s got you backed gently against the counter, hands braced on either side of your hips—caging without trapping. His breathing is uneven from laughing. There’s a smear of frosting on his lower lip, and you can’t look away.

Slowly, you reach up, giving him every chance to pull back.

He doesn’t.

Your thumb brushes over his lip, wiping at the sweetness. His lashes flutter. Then you lean in and replace your thumb with your mouth.

The kiss starts soft — sticky, vanilla-warm, tasting of sugar and him and early morning. But then he makes that low sound in his throat and tilts his head, deepening it just enough to make your knees unreliable. One broad hand slides to the back of your neck, thumb tracing your jaw like he’s anchoring you in place.

When you finally ease apart—just far enough to breathe—your foreheads rest together. You’re both still smiling like fools.

“You’re covered in frosting,” you whisper, giggling again because you can’t not.

“So’re you,” he rumbles back, voice rough with fondness. He presses a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to the smeared stripe across your nose. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

[catrianaghvst]

GODDAMNNN WHO THE HECK IS YOUR HUSBAND FOR YOU TO BE WRITING THIS KIND OF SMUT LMAO LUCKY

he’s an army veteran and is currently a fire chief 😋🙈