✩𝒞𝒶𝓉𝓇𝒾𝒶𝓃𝒶✩

MY RULES.

INTRODUCTION.

MASTERLIST OF MASTERLISTS.

Gangbang with TF141

18+ || TF141 x f!reader || MASTERLIST || 1.7K

This is a proper fanfic inspired by one of my kinktober imagines: “Thinking about TF141 and a gangbang.” (linked)

Check my AO3 to see this but with Animated GIF’s 😙

PRICE | SOAP | GAZ | GHOST | READER

—————————————————————————

The safe house is quiet except for the low hum of the generator and the wind pressing hard against the shutters. You're still half in your gear when Price's voice cuts through the room—calm, absolute, the kind that doesn't need raising to be obeyed.

"Kneel."

You drop to the rug. The floor is hard under your knees, cold seeping up through fabric gone thin with wear. The four of TF141 close in around you, unhurried in the way only men who've done this before can afford to be. Price stands in front, his hands clasped behind his back. Soap rolls his shoulders beside him, restless energy rolling off him in waves he isn't bothering to hide. Gaz leans against the edge of the table, arms crossed, eyes soft but dark with something heavier underneath. Ghost stays at the outer edge of it all, still, mask tilted down toward you like he's cataloguing every breath before he's decided what to do with it.

Price's hand settles under your chin, warm against your skin, tipping your face until you've no choice but to look at all of them.

"You're going to take every one of us tonight," he says, low and even, almost gentle with it. "One after the other. No rushing. Understand?"

You nod, breath already short.

"Words, love."

"Yes, sir."

A quiet, approving sound leaves him. He holds your gaze a moment longer, thumb stroking once across your cheek, then turns his head.

"Johnny. First."

Soap doesn't need telling twice, though he doesn't hurry either—lifting you by the hips with steady strength, turning you to bend over the heavy table, his boot pressing between your feet to spread your legs wider. There’s the rustle of fabric, then the low sound of him jerking himself to attention, quickly followed by the blunt, hot press of his leaking tip against you, holding there just long enough to let you understand the promise of it.

Johnny sinks into your seeping cunt with one smooth, ruthless thrust that punches the air clean out of your lungs.

No slow stretch to it at all—just the full length of him, buried deep, hips already cracking against yours, the wet slap of skin against skin filling the room.

“God, listen tae you,” he groans, fisting a hand in your hair to pull your head back, arching your spine beneath him in turn. His other hand slides round to find your bundle of nerves, working it in tight, deliberate circles. “So fuckin’ wet already. You like havin’ an audience, don’t you?”

Price crouches in front of you at the same moment, calloused fingers finding your chin again, forcing your eyes up to his even as Soap keeps pounding into you from behind. His thumb strokes slowly across your jaw, almost soothing against everything happening at your other end.

"Good," he rumbles. "Keep those pretty eyes on me. That's it."

Ghost stands just to Price's side, already stroking his seeping dick in slow, heavy pulls. The mask hides whatever he's thinking, but you can feel the weight of his stare tracking every jolt of your body. Gaz leans down beside you, gentle lips brushing your shoulder.

"You're taking him so good," he murmurs against your ear. "Look at you. Bet you can do this all night, yeah?"

Soap's rhythm turns punishing after that, though he still takes his time with it—deep and grinding until the table creaks beneath you, his free hand cracking lightly across your arse before gripping hard enough to leave a hand-shaped mark. You feel him swell as broken curses tumble out of him, then he slams deep and holds there, pulsing hot cum inside you for several long seconds. Forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. Breath ragged against your back.

He pulls out with a filthy wet sound, leaving you dripping and shaking against the wood. One more playful slap, then he steps back, chest heaving.

"Aye, she's ready for round two."

The sound of boots shifting fills the room for a brief second before Price’s palm strokes tenderly down your spine. “Alright? Need a breather?”

“I’m okay,” you reply, with a blissful smile following.

Gaz is the one who steps in next, and he does it carefully, lifting you onto the table and settling you onto your back as though you might break. He climbs between your thighs, kissing you slowly whilst his hands stroke along your sides, giving you time to catch your breath before he does anything more. He waits until your breathing has evened out, until the trembling in your thighs has softened, then slides into you—careful at first, letting you adjust to him. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing together before he gives them a gentle squeeze.

"You're doing perfect," he murmurs against your mouth. "Just like that. Let it go. Give them a show."

Soap doesn’t stay idle for long, dropping to his knees at the edge of the table to find the place where Gaz is buried in you, his tongue working over overstretched flesh and sensitive nerves until you arch hard off the wood. Price stands behind Gaz, one heavy hand resting on his shoulder, his voice low as he praises both of you in that steady, grounding tone he never seems to lose, no matter what’s happening in front of him. Ghost watches it all in silence, his thumb circling the head of his throbbing cock.

Gaz keeps you right on the edge for a long time after that, hips moving in deep, rolling thrusts until you're moaning loud enough for the whole room to hear. When he finally comes it's with a quiet, broken sound against your lips— *"You're so fucking good for us,"* he lingers there a moment longer, forehead pressed to yours, breathing with you—before he pulls out slowly, leaving you trembling and open on the table.

Price doesn’t rush the transition either. He lets you lie there for several breaths, dripping and oversensitive, unbuckling his belt with the same steadiness he always possesses. His hands stroke down your sides, over your hips, almost soothing—right up until he grabs your ankles, pushes them open and back, and drives his thick cock into your slick pussy in one deep, punishing thrust that jolts your whole body. One hand fists in your hair, the other locking hard around your hip.

"You take us so well," he growls from above you, voice rough with restraint now. "But you can take more, can't you?"

Soap and Gaz hold you open for him, eyes fixed on the place where you stretch around Price's girth, a ring of creamy mess forming. Ghost finally steps in close enough to crouch beside the table, guiding your hand around his own length as you stroke him. Price fucks you hard enough to make the table legs scrape against the floor, the whole thing rocking with every brutal thrust. He slows only when you’re begging, *“please, sir”, drawing it out just long enough to make you desperate and clenching around him before he falls back into that same relentless pace, slamming into you over and over.

You come apart again beneath him, shaking hard, and Price keeps going through it, driving into you until he buries himself to the hilt with a guttural groan, flooding you deep with thick pulses of cum. For a while, he stays exactly where he is, gently bringing your legs together. His hand moves in slow, grounding circles over your ankles, steadying you as the trembling gradually eases. Only then does he finally pull out.

Ghost is last.

He makes you wait properly for it, lying there dripping and oversensitive while the others recover around you—Price’s hand still on you, Soap’s fingers toying lazily with the mess between your thighs, Gaz pressing soft kisses to your temple and the side of your neck.

Only once you’re whining, hips twitching helplessly against thin air, does Ghost finally flip you over and pin your wrists above your head. The cool edge of his mask brushes your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

"You wanted this," he rumbles, low and rough. "So you're going to take every. last. inch."

He pushes in agonisingly slowly, until he's seated fully inside the mess the others left behind, holding there a long moment just to let you feel the stretch, the heat, the weight of him. Gloved thumbs stroke the insides of your wrists once. Then his hips finally snap forward—brutal, deep, the kind of thrusts that pull broken sounds from your throat with every impact. Price keeps a steadying hand at your lower back. Soap's fingers snake beneath you and return to your clitoris, relentless but careful now. Gaz kisses along your neck, your ear, anywhere he can reach, murmuring soft praise the entire time Ghost uses you without mercy.

You come apart completely under them—shaking, sobbing through the overstimulation, body going limp against the table—and still Ghost doesn’t stop, keeping that punishing rhythm until you’re begging, voice wrecked and soft. Only then does he bury himself deep one last time with a low, rough groan that rumbles out of his chest, holding himself locked inside you whilst the others steady you through every second of it.

For a long time, none of them moves, Ghost’s weight pressing you into the wood whilst Price’s hand stays warm against your back. Soap’s fingers have gentled completely, and Gaz’s mouth keeps brushing your temple again and again, soft and unhurried, as though there’s nowhere else any of them need to be.

Ghost eases out eventually, slow and careful, and you feel the rush of everything leaving you all at once. Price gathers you up against his chest, holding you like something precious, whilst Soap drapes a blanket over your shoulders and tucks it in around you, and Gaz presses a bottle of water into your hands, one palm steady against the back of your head as you drink.

You are thoroughly used. And thoroughly claimed.

Price's voice is quiet against your hair, almost a murmur.

"Good girl. Rest. We've got you."

He swears the pasta doesn't taste like battery acid after a couple of bites, while the rest of TF141 argue that it does.

He'll either have a pepsi max or some sort of vitamin drink, no in-between.

The most basic meal deal it's almost psychotic.

Ghost got Price a coke and a water with his meal deal once instead of coconut water, Price never forgave him.

His breath absolutely REEKS after lunch

Definitely protein maxes.

He won’t drink any of the edition Red Bull’s, only original.

He Picks Up on the Signs

TW || simonriley & depressed!reader || MASTERLIST || 0.2K

He notices you acting off recently.

TRIGGERS: implied depression, implied suicidal thoughts/self harm

—————————————————————————

You’re sitting on the floor in the corner of your room, a half-empty mug of cold tea beside you, your phone face down on the carpet. The curtains remain shut despite it being late afternoon, and the only light comes from the pale glow of your laptop screen. You’ve been staring at it for ten minutes without really reading anything.

Simon leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. He’s been quiet for a while, just watching you. You can feel it — his stare like a weight pressing between your shoulder blades.

“You’ve been saying you’re tired for weeks,” he finally says, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the fog in your mind.

You flinch. “I am tired,” you mutter, avoiding his gaze.

He doesn’t buy it — you can hear it in the silence that follows. “This isn’t just tired,” he says, stepping closer. “You barely eat. You barely talk. You haven’t left this room unless I drag you out.”

Your chest tightens. You want him to shut up. You want him to just sit next to you and say nothing.

He crouches in front of you, his mask of indifference gone. “Are you going to hurt yourself?”

—————————————————————————

Honeymoon Morning

18+ || simonriley x f!reader || MASTERLIST || 1.2K

Soft honeymoon morning sex.

—————————————————————————

Morning light spills through the sheer curtains of the hotel room, golden and softly diffused, pooling at the foot of the bed where Simon sits with his back to you, shoulders bare, hair still tousled from sleep. He runs a hand through it without looking round, and somehow he still knows.

“You’re starin’,” he says. “Can feel it.”

You roll into the pillow to hide your smile, though it does nothing to hide the laugh that follows. His voice is too smooth and pleased with itself for this hour. Three days married, and it still doesn’t feel entirely real—Simon in linen he barely bothers to wear, skin warmed and golden where it's usually kept from the sun, tattoos and old scars laid bare instead of buried under black.

He stretches, arms overhead, and you watch the scars catch the light differently now, softened rather than hidden. He catches you at it before you can look away.

“Pervert,” he says, far too cheerful for the insult to land.

“Says the man refusing to wear a shirt.”

“In my defence,” he says, dropping back onto his hands, “it's hot. And I'm on my honeymoon. Man's allowed some liberties.”

“Is that what we're calling it?”

“What would you call it?”

“Showing off.”

He grins, unbothered, and you reach for the nearest pillow and send it into his shoulder. He takes the hit like it's mortal, collapsing backwards with a groan.

“Christ. Married not even a week, and she's already tryin' to finish me off.”

“Three days, and you're already this insufferable. Imagine year two.”

“You'll cope.” He peers up at you from the pillows, smug. “You married me knowin' full well what you were gettin'.”

You're laughing before you've even crossed the bed to him, sheets dragging with you, knees settling either side of his hips—not that he couldn't have you flat on your back in half a second if the mood struck him. His hands find your waist anyway, thumbs tracing slow circles through the thin cotton of the shirt you'd stolen from his case the night before.

“You planned this, didn't you,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. “The shirtless bit for me to wake up to. The stretching.”

“Planned nothin'. I woke up and just existed. Not my fault you can't handle it.”

“I'm handling it fine.”

“Mm. Doesn't look like it from up here.”

You lean down till your nose brushes his. “Careful. Big talk for someone who just got taken out by a pillow.”

“That was a warm-up. I was bein' generous.” His eyes go dark and unguarded in that particular way only you get to see, and his hand slides up beneath the shirt, palm rough and warm against your spine. “C'mere.”

“I am here.”

“Closer.”

You kiss him before either of you can say anything else—he tastes of sleep and faint minty toothpaste. He hums low against your mouth as the kiss deepens with that same unhurried certainty he's always had where you're concerned.

When you finally break for air, his hands have already dropped lower, drawing you flush against him, and there's no mistaking what's building beneath you now. You roll your hips once, testing, and his breath catches audibly.

“Careful,” he warns, voice gone rough at the edges. “Keep that up, and breakfast's not happening for a while yet.”

“Good. I wasn't hungry anyway.”

“Liar. You're always hungry.”

“Not for food right now.”

He huffs a laugh against your jaw, something between amusement and disbelief. “Cheeky.”

“You started it.”

“Did I?”

“You were sat there half-naked, being smug about it.”

“Fair point.” His hands find the hem of your shirt. “Off. Now, if you don't mind.”

You pull it over your head for an answer. His gaze follows, darkening the way it always does, like he still hasn't finished learning you—hands moving slow over your waist, the curve of your breasts, thumbs brushing until you feel it everywhere at once. He sits up to meet you properly, one arm banding round your back, mouth finding your throat, and the drag of stubble against skin sends heat straight through you as you grind down against his engorged shaft.

He groans against your neck, low and unravelling. “That's it. Take what you need.”

“Bossy for someone flat on his back.”

“Someone's gotta be in charge.” His mouth curves against your skin. “Clearly not you, you're doin' this all wrong.”

“I'm doing it exactly right.”

“Prove it, then.”

You reach between yourselves and free him, his cock is already thick and heavy in your hand and his hips lift into your touch before you've even properly begun, any smart reply lost somewhere in his throat. When you rise to meet his leaking tip, he watches you do it, patient in a way that costs him—you can see the effort in his jaw—and then you're sinking down slowly over each throbbing vein, and the sound that leaves you both isn't quite words.

“Christ,” he breathes, head tipping back against the ruffled sheets, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise faintly, though he lets you keep the pace for now. You take your time with it, feeling every inch of the delicious stretch, sunlight sliding over both of you.

“Alright?” he manages, eyes barely open.

“More than.”

“Good. Don't stop.”

It doesn't last. His control frays the way it always eventually does, feet planting solid in the bed so he can meet you thrust for thrust, one hand sliding down to find your sensitive clit with a thumb that knows exactly where to press. You clench around him at the first slow circle, breath fracturing.

“Look at me,” he says quietly, not really a request.

You do. His eyes hold yours through it, wrecked and reverent at once.

“There she is,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Mine.”

It isn't loud, doesn't need to be—it goes through you all the same, and you come apart around him with his name caught somewhere in your throat. He follows soon after, burying himself deep with a groan that sounds almost like relief, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he empties his seed into you in slow, shuddering pulses.

You sink onto his chest, both of you breathing hard, and his arms come around you at once—one hand tracing slowly up your spine, the other lost in your hair, mouth finding your temple, your cheek, finally your lips, unhurried now that there's nowhere left to rush.

“Best wake-up I've ever had,” he murmurs into your skin, voice wrung out and satisfied.

“Better than yesterday's?”

“Every day's better than the one before it, apparently. Not sure how you keep managin' that.”

You trace idle shapes across his chest, smiling against him. “We should make a habit of it. The waking up part. Not just today.”

“Sweetheart, we're married. Bit late to be negotiatin' terms now.”

“Just making sure you're paying attention.”

Quiet Morning

simonriley x f!reader || MASTERLIST || 0.8K

You wake up to an empty bed and find Simon already up, unable to sleep.

—————————————————————————

You wake up to cold sheets.

The morning light is soft and golden, barely filtering through the blinds, casting gentle lines across the bed. You roll over, eyes still half-closed, and reach for the warmth you expected to find there. But there’s only the crumpled hollow where Simon should be, and the faint scent of his cologne fading into the air.

Sitting up slowly, you wrap the plush blanket around your shoulders. Everything feels too still. Too early. But your feet find the floor anyway, carrying you down the hall in worn socks and an old T-shirt that brushes your thighs. Your hair is a mess—a ruffled, sleep-tousled bun you made the night before.

You hear the soft clink of metal before you see him. In the quiet morning light, Simon stands by the counter in grey joggers and nothing else, hands steady as he cleans a knife with the careful attention most people reserve for fragile things. You lean against the doorway and watch him for a moment before speaking.

“Morning, sunshine,” you mumble, voice still heavy with sleep.

He glances up as if surprised by the sound. “Didn't mean to wake you, go back to bed, love.”

But you don’t. You cross the room and slip your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek to the curve of his back. He’s warm and solid—the kind of quiet you can lean into.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

He pauses, one hand still holding the cloth wrapped around the blade. “You saw me last night.”

“I know.”

He carefully sets the knife down, folding the cloth over it with the same quiet precision, then his broad hands cover yours where they rest against his stomach. He says nothing for a moment.

“Bad dream?” he finally asks.

“No.” You press a little closer. “Just woke up and you weren’t there.”

Another longer pause. You feel the slow rise and fall of his breath beneath your palms and count it without thinking. Outside, a bird begins somewhere distant. The kettle on the counter remains warm—he’s already been up long enough to make a hot drink and let it go cold, which tells you more than any words.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, which isn’t quite an explanation, and you both know it. You don’t push.

You tilt your head and press your lips to the ink between his shoulder blades, making him go very still.

“Sit with me,” you murmur against his skin.

“I’m not finished.”

“Simon.”

He exhales through his nose—that particular sound somewhere between exasperated and fond, the one you’ve quietly come to recognise over months of mornings like this. His hands squeeze yours once, briefly, before turning within the circle of your arms with the careful patience of a man aware of his size. You step back slightly to let him, but he doesn’t let go far—his hands find your waist and steady you whilst he looks down at your blanket-draped shoulders, your sleep-creased cheek, and the mess of your hair.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says.

“Deeply,” you agree.

The corner of his mouth tilts up, guiding you towards the table by the window—his hand low on your back, pulling out a chair with a quiet scrape of wood on wood. You sit, pull your blanket tighter, and watch him move back to the counter, where he puts the kettle back on again without being asked.

He’s different with you—no mask, no kit, no careful distance—just the broad lines of his shoulders, the old scar below his left shoulder blade, and the tattoos you still haven’t named all of. He moves like someone who knows how to be quiet in a space, who’s spent enough years in darkness not to take up more of it than necessary. When he returns with the mugs and sits across from you, he wraps both hands around his with quiet intensity.

The silence is easy—it usually is with him.

“You do this often without me knowing?” you ask eventually, turning your mug between your palms. “Up before sunrise, cleaning your knives.”

“When I can’t switch off.” He states it plainly.

“Does it help?”

He considers carefully, like he considers most things you ask him. “Routine helps,” he replies. “Familiar things. Keeps the noise down.”

You think about that—him standing here in the half-dark, hands moving through careful motions, finding quiet alone because that’s what he’s always done—and the thought settles in your chest, not quite sadness.

“You could’ve woken me,” you say.

He looks at you over his mug. “You were asleep.”

“I know. I’m saying you could’ve.”

He doesn’t answer, which speaks volumes, but his gaze remains steady and dark. After a moment, he sets his mug down and reaches across the table, his thumb tracing the back of your hand slowly.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, and in Simon’s language, that means yes. You’ve learned to hear the difference.

MDNI

MASTERLIST

Mechanic!Simon Riley who’s been under this fuckass truck for the better part of three hours. The garage is thick with the smell of oil and metal, his broad back aching against the creeper as he fights with a seized suspension bolt. The old Ford has been giving him grief for weeks, but he’s stubborn, and once he starts something, he has to finish it.

Mechanic!Simon Riley who hears the familiar creak of the side door and the soft slap of bare feet on concrete. He doesn’t slide out immediately. He knows that walk. Knows the little huff that always comes with it when you’ve had enough of waiting.

Mechanic!Simon Riley whose pretty girl steps into the garage in that muted periwinkle and white floral sundress, the one that makes his mouth dry every single time. The hem brushes your ankles as you stop beside his legs, hands planted on your hips, your voice already carrying that sweet, frustrated edge he’s grown addicted to.

“Si, you’ve been out here since lunch. Again. The sun’s nearly gone, and I’ve barely seen you all day. I made you a cuppa, and you didn’t even come inside when I called.”

Mechanic!Simon Riley who lets out a low grunt from beneath the chassis, tools still in hand, his voice rough from disuse. “Almost done, love. Just this bloody bolt. Ten more minutes.”

Mechanic!Simon Riley who hears you shift closer, the fabric of your sundress whispering against your skin. You don’t sound convinced.

“Ten minutes always turns into an hour. You work yourself half to death on these cars, and I’m just supposed to sit in the house like a good little wife, waiting for whatever scraps of attention you’ve got left?” Your voice softens, a touch vulnerable. “I miss you, you big idiot. Not the version of you that smells like grease and swears at engines.”

Mechanic!Simon Riley who finally stills, the spanner loose in his grip. Something warm and guilty twists in his chest. He knows he’s been distant. The garage has always been his place to disappear into when the weight of everything else presses too hard, but you—you’re the one thing that pulls him back every time.

“Come here, then,” he rumbles, his voice dropping. “If you’re that impatient, get that pretty arse over here and sit on my cock. See if that fixes your mood.”

Mechanic!Simon Riley who expects hesitation, maybe a scandalised little gasp, but instead feels your warm hands already working his zipper down with practised ease. His breath catches as you free him, his thick, heavy cock springing out, flushed dark and leaking at the tip from hours of low, simmering want.

Mechanic!Simon Riley who groans deep when you hike your sundress up around your waist—no underwear, just how he likes—and sink onto him in one slow, slick glide. Your soaked cunt stretches around his girth, tight and welcoming, the wet heat of you pulling a rough curse from his throat. He’s still half under the fucking truck, only his hips and legs properly exposed, his back flat on the creeper whilst you settle fully onto him with a shaky moan.

“Fuck, Simon… you’re so deep like this,” you breathe, hands bracing on his grease-streaked abs, rolling your hips experimentally. Your dress pools around your waist like a halo of floral fabric.

Mechanic!Simon Riley who grips your soft thighs with his big, calloused hands, leaving faint dark streaks across your skin. “That’s it, sweetheart. Take what you need. Been thinking about this tight little cunt all afternoon.” He rocks up into you as much as the tight space allows, the truck creaking overhead with every thrust.

You lean forward, your voice breathy between little whimpers. “You always say that. Then you go right back to work… I hate sharing you with these stupid cars.”

Mechanic!Simon Riley who chuckles low, the sound vibrating through his chest. One hand slides up under your sundress, his thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing slow, messy circles. “Yeah? Then why are you dripping down my balls already, hm? Greedy girl. My pretty girl.” He gives a sharper snap of his hips, driving deeper. “Say it again. Tell me how much you missed me while I’m buried inside you.”

Mechanic!Simon Riley who listens to every filthy, sweet word that spills from your lips as you start riding him harder—how lonely the house feels without him inside, how you touched yourself earlier thinking about his rough hands, how no one else has ever made you feel this full. The garage fills with the wet slap of skin, your moans, and his low, gravelly groans.

Mechanic!Simon Riley who feels you shatter above him, your thighs trembling from the intensity and a broken cry of his name falling from your lips as your orgasm crashes through you. He follows with a guttural groan, his hips jerking as he pumps you full of thick, hot pulses, flooding your soaked cunt until it leaks out around him.

Mechanic!Simon Riley who stays buried deep inside you even after, breathing hard against the cool underside of the truck. One grease-stained hand smooths up and down your thigh soothingly while the other rests possessively on your hip beneath the dress. You lean down as far as you can, pressing soft kisses to the exposed strip of his jaw and neck.

“Si… I wasn’t joking earlier,” you murmur, your voice soft and fucked-out. “I know this work pays the bills, but I need you too. Not just quick fucks when I come begging.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your skin. “I know, sweetheart. I get lost in it sometimes. Old habit.” His voice is rough, honest. “You’re not scraps. Never have been. Give me ten minutes to button this up properly, and I’ll come in. Shower. Then I’m all yours for the rest of the night. Yeah?”

You smile against his neck, clenching around him once more just to hear him hiss. “Promise?”

Mechanic!Simon Riley who squeezes your arse and lets out a low, warm laugh. “Promise, love. Now stay right there a minute longer. Feels too fucking good to move yet.”

MASTERLIST || 0.4K

ill!simonriley x ill!reader

He comes down with the flu after a couple days of you having it.

The past few days have blurred together with fever, poor sleep, and the misery of not finding comfort no matter how many pillows are shifted. You’ve barely left the bed, whilst Simon has been everywhere else—bringing soup every hour, setting out paracetamol before you ask, and straightening the blanket each time you kick it off during the night.

He’d been insufferably calm through it all, claiming immunity and not even knocking on wood.

You hear him before you see him—his footsteps heavier, slower, lacking their usual confidence—and when the bedroom door creaks open and you turn your head, it's obvious. A single glance confirms it.

He looks terrible—hair tousled, eyes glassy, his skin showing a grey undertone that isn’t caused by the light. He stands in the doorway as he always does, filling it, but now he looks like a man quietly broken, just beginning to show it.

He crosses the room and sits on the mattress beside you without words, shifting the bed under his weight as he pulls the blanket up to his chin, then exhales a long, suffering breath.

“I’ve caught it,” he says, his voice thick and lower than usual.

“I know.”

He stares at the ceiling. “This is it for me.” His tone is flat. “Tell my family I fought bravely.”

“You’ve had symptoms for about an hour.”

“Tell them I went down swinging.”

“You said you were immune,” you remind him.

“I was.”

“Simon.”

“Briefly immune.” He closes his eyes. “The window has closed.”

You stay silent, and he shifts—closing the small gap between you and nestling against your side with practised ease. His hand finds yours under the blanket, resting there rather than holding.

“If I don’t make it,” he says softly now, with less performative bravado, “at least we’ll go down together.”

Outside, the afternoon remains still and grey, the radiator ticks steadily, and your thumb absent-mindedly moves over his knuckles.

“Been watching you feel terrible for three days,” he murmurs. “Didn’t look so bad from the outside.”

“Much worse from the inside.”

“Yeah.” A long exhale. “Sorry I laughed when you sneezed and fell off the couch.”

“You’re not sorry.”

“Not even a little,” he admits, a faint, fleeting smile at the corner of his mouth. “But I am now. Retroactively. On principle.”

You rest your head against him and close your eyes. He’s warm, a sign the fever is rising, and his breathing slows, indicating he’s losing the battle against sleep. His hand slackens around yours.

“Go to sleep,” you tell him.

He responds with a low sound, somewhere between acknowledgement and surrender, and within minutes, he’s completely asleep.

Thinking about him making a cult just so he can have both his pretty girls to himself.

I’m combusting, thank you anon for matching and upping my freak 😋

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.

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.

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.”