catrianaghvst

[catrianaghvst]

Beard Burn

1.6k words

beard!simonriley x f!reader

Warnings: Oral sex, P in V sex

You don’t expect it when he comes back.

The first thing you hear is the door shutting behind him—a solid, familiar click that tells you he’s home. The second is his voice: deep, rough with exhaustion, muffled just enough by the thick accent you’ve come to crave in ways you didn’t understand until the first time he ever said your name in bed.

But it’s the third thing that really gets you.

He drops his bag, shrugs off his jacket, and looks at you. And instantly, something feels different.

You pause, half-curled on the couch, blinking up at him—and then you see it.

He’s grown a beard.

Not a few days of stubble. Not the light scruff he usually lets gather between missions before shaving it off. This is full. Dense. A salt-and-pepper beard that wraps around his jaw and creeps down his neck just enough to make your fingers ache to touch it.

You don’t realize you’re staring until he arches a brow and slowly sets his gloves down on the table.

“Something on my face, love?”

Your cheeks burn. You glance away, too fast. “Just wasn’t expecting…”

He starts toward you. Slow. Deliberate. Heavy boots thudding on the floor, still wearing black tactical pants and a long-sleeve undershirt with the sleeves shoved up to his forearms. He smells like sweat, metal, and something earthy. Like him.

And that damn beard is making your thoughts go sideways.

He crouches in front of you, eyes scanning your face. “You hate it.”

You glance down at his mouth, then back up again. “I didn’t say that.”

“No?” His voice dips, low and knowing. “Then what is it, sweetheart?”

You hesitate, heartbeat kicking up. But lying to Simon has never been your strong suit—not with those eyes on you.

So you tell the truth. Quiet. Unfiltered.

“I’ve been thinking about how it’d feel… between my thighs.”

For a beat, he doesn’t react.

Then his mouth curves—slow, dark, dangerous.

“Say that again.”

You shift, pulse pounding. “Your beard. I want to feel it when you go down on me.”

He hums low in his chest. A sound that’s both a warning and a promise. “Jesus.”

Then he’s on you—kissing you hard, beard scraping your chin, your throat, your cheeks as he presses you into the cushions. His hands are greedy, tugging at your clothes, sliding under your shirt, pulling at your waistband. You’re lifted effortlessly, carried to the bedroom like you weigh nothing.

He tosses you on the bed, watching the bounce of your body like he’s imagining exactly what he’s going to do to it. Then he strips. Slowly. Not to tease, but like he’s planning.

And when he climbs over you, the weight of him presses your legs open, sparks lighting up in your belly.

“You’re already wet, aren’t you?” he murmurs, kissing your stomach, gripping your thighs. “Just from thinkin’ about this beard draggin’ over your cunt?”

Your moan is filthy. Raw.

He dips lower, kisses the inside of your knee, then your thigh. The first stroke of his tongue over your panties is hot and deliberate. Then he pulls them off and presses his mouth to you like he’s worshipping something sacred.

That first lick is fire—but it’s the beard that makes you cry out.

Rough and unrelenting, it scrapes your skin in the most devastating way, dragging over your folds and clit with every flick of his tongue. Your hips jerk, fingers tangling in his hair, but he pins you down with an arm across your stomach.

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he growls against you. “That’s it. Take it.”

You do. You have to.

He devours you like it’s all he’s thought about for weeks. Tongue insistent. Nose buried deep. His beard gets soaked, and still he doesn’t stop. Your thighs tremble. Your voice is wrecked from moaning his name.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave—messy, loud, dragged out by the unrelenting friction of his beard and tongue until you’re sobbing, arching up off the bed.

But Simon doesn’t stop.

Even as you shake, even as you whimper from the sensitivity, he keeps going. Soft licks now. Gentle sucks. The beard still brushing just enough to keep you teetering on that brutal edge of too much and not enough.

You claw at his shoulder. “S-Simon—fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice is hoarse. His lips wet. His beard glistening. “Give me another one.”

He pulls back only to slide two fingers into you—slow, deep, curling just right—before his mouth is back on your clit. Tongue and beard working in tandem. Relentless.

The second orgasm blindsides you—hotter, deeper, ripping a cry from your throat as you go limp beneath him.

When he finally pulls away, his face is soaked. He looks wrecked. You probably look worse.

And then he licks his lips.

“You still want me to shave it?”

You shake your head, dazed. “If you touch a razor, I’ll break it.”

He laughs—low and rough—and climbs over you, bracing himself on his elbows, cock hard and heavy against your thigh.

“You want me inside you, yeah?” he murmurs, lips against your neck, beard scratching the sensitive skin under your ear. “Want me to fuck you now that I’ve made you nice and messy?”

You whimper a yes, and he slides in—slow, deliberate, inch by inch—filling you completely.

You gasp his name, clinging to him as he starts to move. Slow and deep. Each thrust stretching you, grounding you. His beard rubs against your throat when he kisses you, and you feel it with every motion—claiming you. Marking you.

He fills you so good, so full. You’re still fluttering around him, body raw from pleasure and still wanting more. His hands slide beneath your knees, lifting your legs, angling deeper.

“You feel that?” he grits, watching your face. “So soaked for me. This fuckin’ beard’s gonna stay wet for hours.”

You moan, nearly delirious. Gripping his hair. “Harder.”

His eyes darken. “Yeah?”

And then he gives it to you.

He slams into you, fast and hard. The sound of skin against skin, your cries, his ragged groans—it’s all-consuming. His mouth finds your breasts, tongue and beard dragging over your nipples, making you shiver.

The third orgasm builds too fast. Too strong.

“Simon, I—I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he snarls. “Cum on my cock. Let me feel it.”

You shatter. Screaming his name, body arching, vision going white. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release now.

“Fuck, baby—gonna fill you up—make a mess of you—”

He buries himself deep with a guttural groan, cock pulsing inside you, arms trembling with the effort to hold back. You feel every twitch, every drop, and it breaks something open in you all over again.

[catrianaghvst]

Hip Thrust

SimonRiley x f!reader

You’re at some kind of open day on base—part family event, part PR stunt. The sun glints off steel, and the air is sharp with oil, dust, and gunpowder. Equipment is lined up like a museum exhibit you can touch, civilians wandering wide-eyed among armored trucks and weapons displays. Soldiers in fatigues stand at intervals like monuments—present, polite, untouchable.

You stick close to Simon. Not out of discomfort, but because this is his terrain, and yours isn’t built from concrete and discipline. This place thrums with precision and memory, coiling beneath the surface like a loaded spring.

He’s in uniform—multicam pressed crisp, sleeves rolled to the elbow, mask in place. His rank—Lieutenant—is embroidered clean and sharp above the name “RILEY,” but it’s more than cloth. It’s in how he moves, how others step aside without question. Some salute. Most just nod, a quick flick of respect. Ghost. Myth and man in one.

He answers with nods, always measured, always distant. But his eyes keep returning to you, anchoring. Like you’re the only familiar note in a place tuned too tight.

Eventually, you both drift toward a quiet bench in the shade of a parked APC. He sinks down with a grunt, legs spread, forearms resting on knees. Cargo pants stretch tight over thick thighs as he leans back, shifting his hips with a subtle roll that sends a flicker of heat straight to your gut.

You sit beside him, close but not touching, breathing in diesel and sweat and sun-baked metal. The moment stretches—radio static, distant voices, the scent of grease.

Then he shifts again. Not much. Just enough—pelvis tilting forward slightly, deliberate. Controlled. His knuckles twitch once on his thigh like a warning.

You glance over, lips curving. “Comfortable, are we?”

He hums low in his throat. “Bench is shite. Back’s worse. But you—” his voice lowers, private, warm, “—you’re not.”

You raise a brow. “I’m not what?”

He turns his head enough that you catch the gleam of his eyes through the mask. “Not helping.”

The pause stretches.

“Didn’t know I was supposed to,” you murmur.

You lean closer, lips brushing the edge of his mask. “Where’s your office?”

That crinkle appears at the corner of his eye—his real smile. The dangerous one.

“Admin wing,” he murmurs, rising without ceremony. “Come on.”

You follow, step behind. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t need to. Moves like a man who owns every inch he walks on—shoulders squared, head high, that particular military grace that makes people step aside instinctively.

The noise of the open day fades behind you, replaced by sterile corridors and scuffed tile. The door to his office clicks shut, locking behind you.

He peels off his gloves first, tossing them on the desk. The sound is loud in the silence.

Then the mask.

You’ve seen him without it before, but here—after the weight of the outside world, after the mask of Ghost has been shed—it feels different. His eyes remain sharp, dangerous. But the rest softens just enough for you to see the man beneath the lieutenant’s uniform.

Simon.

He steps forward, one hand sliding over your wrist—warm skin against yours—and pulls you in.

His palms brace on the desk, backing you up until your back hits the hard edge. His hips brush yours, and it’s like a dam breaking.

His breath shudders through the quiet air as his hands slide to your thighs, lifting you up until you’re perched on the edge. Your legs part instinctively, drawing him closer.

“You gonna be quiet?” he asks, low and rough, mouth near your ear. Not mocking, not playful. Serious—the question of a man who knows exactly what he’s about to do to you.

You nod, throat tight, eyes locked on his. “If you are.”

He laughs—a low, breathless sound, like he’s already halfway gone. His hands slip beneath your clothes with practiced ease, fingers dragging fire across skin that prickles with every inch uncovered. His touch isn’t rushed, but it’s precise, mapping you out in his mind.

You’re already wet when his fingers press between your thighs, and he groans like it’s his own name you’re wearing there. The mask is gone, but the sound reverberates through the room—dark, low, hungry.

“Fuck,” he mutters, breath ragged. “You really came out here like this?”

You nod again, hips lifting toward his hand. “Didn’t think you’d—”

“Liar,” he cuts in, mouth against your jaw now, pulling you closer. “You knew exactly what this would do.”

His belt buckle clicks as he unfastens it with one hand, the metallic sound sharp in the quiet. You help, fumbling past zippers and fabric until he’s hard and hot against your thigh.

Slow, careful, he pushes in—stretching you open inch by inch until your breath hitches behind clenched teeth.

You clutch his shoulders, anchoring to the solidity beneath you. He doesn’t replace the mask, but his mouth is busy—kissing your neck with open-mouthed hunger that doesn’t ask, doesn’t hesitate. It just takes.

His pace is steady, deep, punishing thrusts that leave you gasping. Hips braced against the desk, your body folds around him like you were made to be kept just like this—hidden, claimed.

He grunts softly with every movement. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other grips your thigh as if needing to hold you in place.

And the way he says your name—muffled but reverent—breaks something low in your spine, sending heat spiraling outward until you’re trembling, clutching him tighter, teeth catching on fabric as you fight the urge to scream.

He follows with a shudder, hips pressing deep as breath catches and he spills inside you with a guttural growl that sounds almost inhuman.

For a moment, neither of you move—just breathing, foreheads pressed, heat still flowing between you. The world outside is distant, unreal.

Then he chuckles—low, hoarse. “That’s definitely not regulation.”

not proof read

[catrianaghvst]

Part two of teen parent

posted a prequel!!

[catrianaghvst]

Teen Parents: Prequel

Teen!SimonRiley x Teen!reader

Teen parents

You sit on the edge of the bathtub, the cold porcelain biting into the backs of your thighs as the second pink line creeps its way across the test. Your hands won’t stop shaking. You don’t look away from it, not even when your throat tightens and your chest starts to burn with a rising panic. There’s no mistake. Two lines.

Pregnant.

Seventeen.

You press the heel of your palm against your mouth, like that might hold back the flood of thoughts rushing in. This can’t be happening. It’s too soon. Too much. Too fast.

And then, his face comes to mind—Simon’s. His quiet steadiness, the way he touches you like you’re something delicate, something precious. Nineteen now, just barely. Not ready for this either.

But before you can think about telling him, you know who has to hear it first.

Your mum.

You find her in the kitchen, drying dishes at the sink. She doesn’t look up right away when you enter, too used to your quiet steps.

“Hey, love,” she says, calm as ever. “You alright? You look pale.”

You hover in the doorway, your arms folded tightly across your middle like that’ll keep everything inside. “Mum… I need to tell you something.”

She pauses, sets the towel down. Turns.

The words stick, heavy and foreign in your throat. “I— I’m pregnant.”

She blinks. Her expression doesn’t change right away—no gasp, no shout. Just stillness.

You rush to fill the silence. “It’s Simon’s. I’m sure. I didn’t— We didn’t mean for this to happen. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

“Hey. Hey.” She steps forward, her hands warm on your shoulders. “Breathe, sweetheart. You don’t have to apologise. Take a breath.”

You do. A shaky one.

Her eyes are soft, but searching. “You’re sure?”

You nod.

She pulls you into a hug. You half-expect her to cry or shake her head, but instead she just holds you, rubs your back like she did when you were small.

“We’ll figure it out,” she says. “I promise. One step at a time, alright?”

It takes you hours to build up the courage to call Simon. You ask him to come over, and he’s there within twenty minutes, like always. You watch from the front window as he climbs off his bike, helmet tucked under his arm, that familiar scowl on his face like he’s expecting something to be wrong.

You try to smile when he walks through the door, but he clocks your mood instantly. “What’s goin’ on?”

You tell your mum you’ll talk to him in your room. She nods but doesn’t speak. Simon follows you upstairs, his boots heavy on each step.

You sit on the edge of the bed, hands clenched in your lap. He stands across from you, arms crossed.

“You’re scarin’ me a bit,” he mutters.

You don’t draw it out. You reach into your hoodie pocket again, the test still there, now wrapped in a tissue. You hold it out to him. His brows knit as he takes it, unfolding the tissue slowly. He stares down at the lines.

One second.

Two.

Three.

His throat bobs as he swallows. “Is this…?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He blinks, like he’s trying to wake up. Then again, slower this time. “You’re sure?”

You manage a shaky laugh. “Three tests. Same result.”

He runs a hand down his face and turns away like he needs a second to think, pacing a few steps toward your window before turning back. His expression is unreadable. It makes your stomach twist.

“If you’re mad, I get it,” you say quickly. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean for this to happen, I just thought you should know. I’m not expecting anything from you, I swear—”

“Oi,” he cuts in sharply, stepping forward. “Stop. Just… stop.”

You shut your mouth, biting your tongue.

“I’m not mad,” he says, voice quieter now. “I’m scared outta my fuckin’ mind, yeah, but not mad.”

He kneels down in front of you, resting his big hands on your knees, eyes locked on yours. “We’re in this together. Alright?”

[catrianaghvst]

Through the walls

Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.2.5 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5

Neighbour!SimonRiley x f!reader

Part 5: Unmasked

warning: p in v sex

He kisses you like he’s drowning in it.

Like it’s not just desire but a deep, desperate need.

Your towel slips, forgotten. His hands span your waist, calloused palms dragging over your bare skin like he’s trying to memorize the texture of you—soft and flushed and trembling. You reach for his jacket, tugging it off with shaking hands, needing more, needing him.

He’s massive.

You knew that already—had seen it in the cut of his shoulders, the bulk of his chest beneath that mask and gear—but it’s different seeing him like this. Stripped down. Hungry. And when you finally push down his jeans and feel the heavy weight of him between you—

Your breath catches.

“Jesus,” you whisper, blinking down.

He’s thick. Long. Big in a way that makes your thighs press together instinctively, your body bracing for something it already knows is going to hurt before it satisfies.

He watches you carefully. His jaw clenched tight, like he’s holding himself back with every ounce of discipline he’s got.

“You alright?” he rasps.

“I want it,” you say, voice thin. “I just don’t know if I can.”

The corners of his mouth twitch into something like a smile—crooked, dark, but still gentle. “You can,” he murmurs, reaching down between your legs, his fingers sliding through the heat there. “You’re already soaking for me.”

You whimper as he strokes you, slow and patient, opening you up with careful fingers. One, then two, curling and scissoring, working you open as he kisses your neck, your chest, your mouth—until you’re arching into him, wet and pulsing and desperate.

But still—still—it’s not enough.

When he lines himself up and pushes forward, your breath leaves in a shocked gasp.

“Fuck,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. “So tight…”

You’re barely taking the head of him, and it already feels like too much. Your body clenches down hard, instinctive and panicked, and he stops immediately.

“Breathe,” he whispers, voice ragged. “Don’t rush it.”

He leans back slightly, one hand holding himself steady, the other gripping your thigh. You feel every thick, throbbing inch as he tries again, sliding in slow. Your body stretches around him, the pressure sharp, hot, toeing the line between pleasure and pain.

You wince, nails digging into his arms. “God, Simon—”

He shudders. “I know. I know, love. Just—let me. You’ll take it. I’ll make sure you can.”

Your legs shake as he pushes in deeper, just a little more, and then stops again. You’re panting, moaning softly, your whole body taut beneath him.

“Can’t,” you whisper. “Too big—”

He kisses you hard, swallowing your protest. “You can. You’re doing so fucking good for me.”

The next push drags a cry from your throat. It burns—a deep, stretching ache that has you squirming beneath him.

Simon curses, breath hissing through his teeth. “You’re squeezing me so fucking tight. Feels unreal—fuck.”

He tries to hold back—tries to go slow—but your slick, trembling body is pulling him deeper inch by inch, your muscles clenching, fighting to adjust.

Every time he pushes forward, your thighs twitch. You gasp. Your back arches.

You feel too full.

You are too full.

But it’s intoxicating.

“I feel you—everywhere,” you whimper, voice shaky.

Simon groans deep in his chest, and you feel him throb inside you. “Not even all the way in yet.”

You gasp, overwhelmed. “Are you serious?”

He nods, sweat beading along his brow. “You’re taking it. Just a bit more. That’s it…”

He finally bottoms out with a guttural moan, hips flush against yours, and you cry out—stretched beyond anything you thought possible. You can feel your heartbeat inside. Your entire body is shaking.

He doesn’t move. Not yet. Just holds you close, his forehead against your temple, hand stroking your thigh like he’s calming a wild animal.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

Your breath is ragged. But you nod.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “God, yeah. Just—don’t move yet.”

“Fuck, you feel good,” he says softly. “So good, it’s driving me mad.”

Slowly, your body begins to adjust. The burn turns to pressure. The pressure to pleasure. When you shift your hips experimentally, he growls.

“Careful, sweetheart. I’m barely holding on.”

You bite your lip, rock again, and the friction sends stars dancing behind your eyes.

“Move,” you whisper.

Simon does.

He pulls out slow—so slow—and pushes back in just as slowly, watching your face the entire time. You whimper, hands clutching at his back, and the pace stays like that: deliberate, grinding, meant to keep you feeling every thick, perfect inch.

“Still so fucking tight,” he pants. “God, you’re taking me so well.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, desperate now. “Harder, Simon. Please.”

His restraint shatters.

He thrusts in harder, deeper, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. You gasp with every stroke, the pleasure now sharp, rising, clawing through you like fire.

Your climax builds slow, then slams into you all at once. You cry out, body clenching down hard, shaking beneath him as you come—tight around him, spasming, sobbing his name.

And that’s what undoes him.

He swears, loud and broken, hips snapping against yours as he finally loses control—fucking into you, deeper, faster, until he groans something raw and wrecked into your throat, spilling inside you in hot, endless waves.

For a long moment, you don’t move.

You’re still shaking. He’s still panting, forehead against your collarbone, arms caging you in.

Neither of you speaks.

But when he finally shifts, pulling out with a groan, you wince—still stretched, throbbing, sore in the best possible way.

He looks down at you, fingers brushing hair from your face.

“You alright?”

You nod, dazed, blissed out.

“I don’t think I’ll walk straight tomorrow.”

Simon smirks.

And then he leans in and kisses you again—slow and deep and full of something that feels a lot like more.

[catrianaghvst]

Through the walls

Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.2.5 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5

Neighbour!SimonRiley x f!reader

Part 4: Shower

You slam the door behind you harder than necessary.

“Felicity,” you mutter under your breath, dropping your keys onto the counter with a sharp clatter. “Of course her name is fucking Felicity.”

Too pretty. Too loud. Too familiar with him.

You kick off your shoes and stalk into the kitchen like the cabinets have personally offended you. Your jumper still smells faintly of rain and rubbish, and your skin burns from the heat of your own embarrassment. She touched him like she owned the space around him—like she knew what that body felt like under her hands.

And he let her. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even shrug her off.

You try to tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That you don’t care. That he’s just your neighbour—a silent, unreadable, emotionally unavailable neighbour with a face you’ve never seen and a body that looks carved from black ops daydreams. A crush. That’s all it is. That’s all it has to be.

But the thought of her voice still echoes in your skull.

Don’t let the skull face fool you—he’s mostly harmless.

You grit your teeth and tear your jumper over your head, fingers fumbling at the collar. Stupid. So stupid. You shouldn’t let it get to you. Shouldn’t let her get to you. But the heat crawling under your skin now isn’t just frustration—it’s memory.

That touch.

His hand, gloved and careful, brushing yours as he took the bin bag.

Brief. Simple.

But real.

You hadn’t even seen his eyes—but you felt the weight of his focus like a brand. Heavy. Hot. Unwavering.

You strip out of the rest of your clothes and cross the flat, your steps echoing faintly off the hardwood as you head into the bathroom.

The lights are dim. You don’t bother turning on the overhead. You step into the shower and let the water come down hard, steam rising like smoke, fogging up the mirror in seconds. The heat bites at your skin, but you don’t flinch.

You close your eyes.

And you let yourself remember.

The way he filled the doorway. The shape of him—massive, calm, dripping from the storm like something mythic. His voice, quiet but firm. You alright?

His fingers brushing yours.

Your breath catches.

You trail your own hand down your chest, slick with steam and water. Let your fingers drift over soft skin, lower, the ache coiled behind your ribs curling tighter.

You picture him behind you in the shower. Taller, broader, that weight pressing into your back. One hand braced on the tile. The other on your hip. He wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t need to. You’d feel everything he meant through the way he touched you—steady, thorough, controlled.

You slide your fingers down between your thighs, gasping softly as your body reacts like it’s been waiting for this—like the idea of him has been a thread through your days without you even noticing.

You stroke yourself slow, letting the rhythm match the phantom pressure of his hand, the imagined growl of his breath against your ear. Your head falls back against the tile.

God, what would it take to make him lose control?

What would it sound like, the first time he moaned?

You press harder, chasing that burn, that pull, that—

A knock cuts through the steam.

You freeze.

Three sharp raps on your front door.

Heart in your throat, you shut off the water, panting, blinking through the fog. You wrap yourself in a towel with shaking hands, water dripping down your legs as you pad barefoot toward the door.

Another knock.

You open it.

Simon stands there.

Still in that dark jacket. Mask still on. Hands in his pockets.

“I—” he begins, then stops. His voice is lower than usual. Rougher. Like maybe he ran a hand through his hair too many times before knocking.

“I wanted to say sorry…” he starts, voice low, hesitant. “About Felicity.”

You blink. “Your girlfriend?”

He flinches and snorts. “Ew, she’s not.”

The words are clipped. Final.

“She’s my sister.”

You freeze. “Oh.”

He shifts his weight. Looks down the hall, then back to you. “She likes to wind people up. Didn’t mean anything by it. Just… thought you should know.”

You stare at him, stunned, your mind scrambling to recalibrate.

Sister.

Not girlfriend.

The knot in your chest loosens just enough to let you breathe—but it’s immediately replaced by something sharper, hungrier. He came here. He knocked. He’s standing in your doorway like he’s trying not to cross a line you both know is already gone.

Your towel feels too thin. Too fragile. Especially under the weight of his gaze.

“Thanks,” you say, your voice quiet. Hoarse. “For telling me.”

Simon nods once, like he’s going to leave—but he doesn’t move. His eyes, hidden beneath the mask, still feel locked on you. Still feel like fire.

“You alright?” he asks softly.

You nod. Then shake your head.

He steps forward before you know what you’re doing, his presence suddenly overwhelming the doorway. He pauses just shy of touching you, like waiting for permission.

You don’t give it.

You take it.

Your hand curls into the front of his jacket and you pull him inside, shutting the door behind him with a dull click. You don’t think. Don’t breathe. You just rise onto your toes and press your mouth to the fabric of his mask, desperate, reckless.

He hesitates—but only for a moment.

Then he’s kissing you back through it, one gloved hand gripping your waist, the other rising to cup the back of your head. You can feel the heat of him even through the layers, the restraint vibrating just under his skin. He kisses like he’s trying to memorize you. Like he’s been holding back for weeks, maybe months, and now that you’ve cracked the dam, he doesn’t know how to stop.

You gasp against the mask, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Take it off,” you whisper.

He doesn’t move.

But his breath hitches.

“Please.”

And finally—slowly—he lifts it, just enough.

Just enough to kiss you properly.

And when he does, it’s not careful. It’s not polite. It’s everything you imagined and more—hot and hungry and utterly consuming.

You’re still dripping. Still wrapped in a towel. But none of it matters now.

Because he’s here.

And he’s kissing you like he’s been dying to.

[catrianaghvst]

Through the walls

Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.2.5 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5

neighbour!SimonRiley x f!reader

Part 3: Late encounter

It’s been six weeks.

Long enough for routine to settle back in. Long enough to pretend that moment in the laundry room was just a moment. Just static. A flicker. Nothing permanent.

You haven’t seen him since.

Not properly. A shadow on the stairs. A door closing softly just as yours opens. You know his rhythm by now—silent exits in the early morning, returns well after midnight. Sometimes you hear music through the wall again. Always faint. Always low. Sabbath. Soundgarden. Once, a single Nina Simone track that made your breath catch and your chest ache without knowing why.

You don’t knock. You don’t speak. You tell yourself it’s better this way.

And still, when your keys scrape into your lock, your ears tune to every sound in the hallway. Still, when your kettle boils, you wonder if he hears it. If he listens for your footsteps the way you sometimes listen for his.

Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe it’s just a crush. An overactive imagination filling in blanks where there’s only silence. But the silence feels… loaded now.

And then, on a Tuesday night, it shifts again.

You’re bringing your bin out late. Moon overhead, the corridor bathed in that strange blue quiet. It’s cold. Your jumper isn’t thick enough. You grumble to yourself, pushing open the back stairwell door—when it slams into something solid.

Someone.

You gasp, jump back, heart thudding, just as the shape steadies you with one large hand.

“It’s me.”

His voice. Low. Grounded. Somehow more familiar now, like hearing an old song in a different key.

“Shit,” you whisper, palm pressed to your chest. “You scared me.”

“Didn’t mean to.”

You look up. The mask is there, as always, but his hood is down tonight. A glimpse of cropped blond hair under the stairwell light. He’s in a dark jacket, plain jeans. Civilian. But there’s nothing soft about him. He carries tension like body armour—tight across his shoulders, braced in the soles of his boots.

“I was just—” You gesture with your bin bag, like it’s a white flag. “Late run.”

He nods once. “Saw someone out back earlier. Looked like they were checking locks. Could’ve been nothing.”

Your pulse trips again. “You think someone was casing the building?”

“Maybe.” He doesn’t elaborate. Just looks past you, down the corridor, then back again. “Keep your door locked.”

You huff a shaky breath. “Always do.”

Something in your voice must betray you—nerves fraying around the edges—because he doesn’t move. Doesn’t walk away. His gaze rests on your face for a long beat. Then:

“Give me the bag.”

You blink. “What?”

“I’ll take it out. You don’t need to be down here alone.”

You almost say no. Almost make a joke. But something in his tone brooks no argument. Not bossy. Not unkind. Just firm.

You hand it over.

He takes it with ease, his gloved fingers brushing yours. Just a second of contact, but it hums through you like static—some quiet, electric reminder that he’s real. Solid.

He disappears through the stairwell door without another word. You linger, waiting. Listening to the thud of the bin lid, the soft clang of metal. He’s back within a minute, footsteps even.

“Thanks,” you murmur as he returns, letting the door fall shut behind him.

He studies you a second longer than necessary, the way his eyes narrow behind the mask, like he’s trying to figure you out—or maybe just thinking about something else entirely.

Before you can say anything else, a sharp, familiar voice cuts through the quiet.

“Oi, dumb dumb—don’t leave the poor lass standing here like a right lemon.”

You both turn.

She rounds the corner like she owns the place—fiery curls bouncing, boots loud against the floor. There’s a cocky ease to the way she strides straight up to him and loops her arm through his, tugging herself close with a grin like she’s done it a thousand times.

“You forget how to say hello, or are you just trying to scare her off?”

He exhales through his nose. Doesn’t shake her off.

The girl turns to you, eyes bright with amusement. “Hi. I’m Felicity. Don’t let the skull face fool you—he’s mostly harmless.”

[catrianaghvst]

Through the walls

Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.2.5 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5

Neighbour!SimonRiley x f!reader

Part 2.5: Simon post laundry mishap

warning: masturbation

The door to his flat clicks shut behind him, but he doesn’t move for a moment.

Just stands there, hand still on the knob, jaw clenched so tight he can feel the pulse in his temple. The hallway light cuts under the doorframe, thin as a blade. Everything else is still. Quiet.

Too quiet.

He locks the deadbolt out of habit. Then the secondary. Then the latch at the top.

Then he turns off the lights.

Darkness is easier. Cleaner.

He moves through the flat without thinking—no wasted steps, same rhythm as always. Boots off. Jacket hung. Glock laid on the console table with precise care. The muscle memory carries him, like it always does. It’s the only thing that ever really has.

But it’s not autopilot anymore. Not since that flicker of lace hit the laundry room tile like a dropped weapon.

Not since your eyes met his after. Wide. Frozen. Caught.

He’d seen it happen. Watched the fabric fall like it was slow motion. He hadn’t meant to look, not really, but he had. Couldn’t not.

Black lace.

Not the cartoon kind. Not gaudy. Simple. Soft. Meant to be worn, not shown.

Meant to be touched.

Fuck.

Simon rubs his hands over his face. The balaclava drags across his skin, and for a second he wants it off—wants it gone, like it’s too tight all of a sudden—but he doesn’t take it off.

Not yet.

He paces the living room once. Brief. Controlled. Then stops.

That look in your eyes is still with him. Not shock. Not shame.

Something else.

Heat, maybe.

Curiosity.

He shouldn’t be thinking about it. Should’ve shut it down the second he got upstairs, should be doing pushups or breathing drills or anything other than standing here like some kid who’s never seen a bit of lace before.

But then again, it wasn’t the lace.

It was you.

He snaps his belt free with a sharp tug, the leather strap falling to the floor with a dull thud that echoes in the quiet room. His fingers move quickly, fumbling slightly as the tension in his hands mirrors the pressure building beneath the fabric. He pulls his trousers down just enough to free the aching weight pressing against his skin—hot, heavy, demanding release in a way he’s tried to ignore all week.

His breath catches as his fingers wrap around the familiar hardness, roughened and raw beneath his touch. The room is dark, but the heat inside him is blinding and relentless. Every memory of you—the curve of your smile, the sharp edge of your voice, the careless way your panties slipped from your hands and landed on the floor—flares through his mind like a flame licking at dry wood, stoking the fire burning low inside him.

And when he comes, spilling over his hand and sliding down his thigh, it’s your pretty little face that fills his thoughts—the softness of how your skin would feel beneath his fingertips, the quiet kindness you show no matter how cold-hearted he seems, and those goddamn black lace panties, tangled deep in his desire and impossible to forget.

[catrianaghvst]

Through the walls

Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.2.5 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5

Neighbour!SimonRiley x f!reader

Part 2: Spin Cycle

You don’t mean to see him again. Not right away. But fate, apparently, has other plans.

It’s Saturday, early morning, you’re halfway down the stairs, lugging a laundry basket with one arm and a lukewarm cup of tea in the other, when you stop short.

He’s already in the laundry room.

You see him through the cracked door—back turned, sleeves pushed up, arms corded and tense as he loads a machine with practiced precision. Not rushed. Not lazy. Exact. The same way he moves down the hallway, like the world’s been mapped in advance and he’s just following coordinates.

You consider retreating. Coming back later. Giving him space.

Instead, you breathe deep and step inside.

The hum of the first washer starts. He doesn’t look at you.

“Morning,” you say, like you didn’t hesitate.

There’s a pause. Then: “Yeah.”

You blink. Not quite a greeting, not quite cold. Just… neutral. Walled off.

You move to the opposite end, giving him plenty of space, pretending not to notice the duffel bag slumped at his feet or the way he only brought dark clothes—uniform pieces, maybe. Not folded like civilian laundry. Rolled tight. Efficient.

“I usually come down earlier,” you offer. “Guess you beat me today.”

Nothing for a moment. Then, quietly: “Didn’t know there was a schedule.”

You glance at him, unsure if that was sarcasm. Hard to tell with the mask.

“I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine.”

Silence settles thick between you.

You start your washer. Shirts. Jeans. A hoodie with frayed sleeves. The kind of domestic clutter that probably irritates someone like him.

He’s still standing at his machine. Watching the cycle begin.

You look over. “You ever take the mask off?”

His head shifts slightly, just enough to say he heard.

“No.”

You raise a brow. “Ever?”

“Not around people.”

The answer is calm. Not defensive.

You shouldn’t find that interesting. You do anyway.

You lean back against the folding table. “Alright, mystery man. Let me guess. Special forces? Black ops? Or are you just allergic to fresh air and eye contact?”

He finally looks at you. Not his full face—just that steady tilt of the mask, the glint of his lenses under the flickering light.

“Why are you trying to guess?”

You pause.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “You’re the only one in this building who doesn’t leave a trace. No noise. No deliveries. No scent of takeaway curry sneaking under the door. You’re like a rumour.”

He doesn’t speak for a moment. Then: “People are noisy when they want to be noticed.”

“And you don’t?”

“No.”

You nod slowly, letting that settle.

You don’t ask more.

When his washer finishes, he loads his things into the dryer, closes the door without slamming it, and moves like he’s preparing for exit. No wasted steps.

At the door, he pauses.

“I’m not here to make friends.”

You shift your basket. Something soft flutters out and lands on the tile.

Your panties. A black lace pair, traitorously perched in plain sight.

You freeze.

He doesn’t. Just stands there, eyes on the fabric. A pause. A heartbeat.

Then his gaze lifts—slowly, deliberately—to meet yours.

You open your mouth, some scrambled apology half-forming—

He says nothing. Just looks.

And then, with the same quiet precision he uses for everything else, he opens the door and steps out.

[catrianaghvst]

Through the walls

Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.2.5 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5

Neighbour!SimonRiley x f!reader

Part 1: Flat 3B

You never expected much from the flat.

Just four walls, a cracked ceiling, and a radiator that whines like a haunted kettle every other night—nothing special. But it’s yours. Well, yours in the way that monthly rent and shared laundry machines make it. Still, after years of couch-surfing and short-term leases with roommates who ghosted you harder than your last date, stability smells like old floorboards, plaster dust, and the faintest trace of bleach from the hallway.

The complex isn’t bad. A five-story building on the edge of Manchester’s urban sprawl, too far from the city center for tourists but not far enough to be charming. There’s a small corner shop down the road, and the bloke who runs it always calls you “luv” whether you’re buying milk or just passing through. You’ve started to appreciate the way the morning light filters through your tiny kitchen window, brushing everything with a sleepy sort of gold. Peace. That’s what it is. Uneventful peace.

Until the new neighbor moves in.

You hear him before you see him.

It’s early. Too early. Maybe just past six. The hallway echoes with the thump of heavy boots and the muffled scrape of a key in a lock—yours is the only flat on this end, except the one across the hall that’s been empty for months. You sit in bed, half-asleep, trying to tell yourself it’s just a delivery guy or a lost postman, until the boots retreat, then return again. And again. Over and over. Someone’s moving in. Big time.

You roll over and try to ignore it, pressing your pillow over your head, but curiosity has a cruel way of digging its claws in.

You meet the building manager that afternoon, a round, balding man who always smells faintly of curry and pipe smoke. He’s in the stairwell, muttering at a clipboard.

“Someone moved into 3B?” you ask casually, sipping a takeaway coffee.

He nods distractedly. “Yeh. Military guy. Quiet type. Signed the lease in cash, barely said five words. Not the chatty sort.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Army?”

“Something like that.” He waves a hand like it doesn’t matter. “Wears a mask. Not the medical kind. Some skull thing. Bit spooky, that one.”

You blink. “A what now?”

But the manager’s already muttering about broken radiators on the fourth floor and trudging upstairs.

You return to your flat with a strange buzz in your gut. A mask? What kind of person wears a skull mask around an apartment building like it’s nothing?

For the first week, you don’t see him. Not really. Just glimpses. A flash of black fabric in the stairwell. A sound like a zip-up bag being dragged across the hall. Once, you hear metal clinking. Another time, low murmured voices—too low to make out, like the rhythm of soldiers on a comms line. It’s not loud, never obnoxious, just… odd.

And then there’s the music.

Soft, barely audible through the thin walls at night. Old rock. Johnny Cash. A bit of Sabbath. Sometimes something darker—slow, instrumental tracks with eerie melodies that settle under your skin like fog. Not enough to complain about. But enough that it keeps you lying in bed with your eyes open, wondering what kind of man lives on the other side of your wall.

You start to notice other things.

He doesn’t leave trash out like everyone else. You never see him at the corner shop. No delivery orders. No loud phone calls. It’s like living next to a ghost. Fitting, you suppose, with that mask.

Once, you catch a better glimpse of him through your peephole. He’s coming in from outside, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, wearing a black hoodie with the hood up. He’s huge. Broad shoulders. The kind of bulk that doesn’t come from vanity workouts but from years of carrying weight and pulling triggers. You barely see his face—just the glint of something white under the hood. The mask.

Another time, you accidentally leave your keys in the door and come home to find them slid neatly under your welcome mat, untouched. No note. No knock. Just a silent reminder that someone noticed and cared enough to protect your security. It should feel creepy. But instead, it feels… safe.

Still, the mystery gnaws at you.

So you do what any self-respecting, chronically curious person does: you start to guess.

You build a story in your head. Ex-military. Special forces, maybe. PTSD? A loner type. Probably doesn’t like small talk. Might own a dog that stays with a friend. You imagine scars under the mask. Maybe he lost someone. Maybe he lost himself. Maybe he’s running from something.

And maybe that’s why you stop leaving dishes in the sink. Start locking your door more carefully. Begin checking the news for reports on masked men.

Not because you’re afraid.

But because something about this man—this presence—stirs something ancient in you. Like instinct. Like the feeling of watching a wolf on the edge of a forest, knowing it could disappear at any moment but choosing to stay.

Then comes the storm.

You wake in the middle of the night to the crash of thunder so loud it shakes your window panes. Rain lashes the glass. The lights flicker and die. The building hums with a sudden silence—no fridge noise, no hallway light buzz, nothing. Just the rain. And then, a knock.

Your heart jumps. You’re not expecting anyone.

You cross your flat barefoot, the floor cold under your feet, and open the door slowly.

He’s there.

Up close, he’s even more intimidating—tall and still as stone, drenched from the downpour. A black tactical jacket clings to him like second skin. The skull mask gleams faintly in the dim emergency lighting. His eyes are hidden behind dark lenses, unreadable. He says nothing for a beat. Just stands there, water dripping from the edge of his hood.

Then, finally, he speaks. His voice is low, rough, touched with a Manchester accent—raspy like gravel soaked in smoke.

“You’ve got a leak.”

You blink. “What?”

He lifts a gloved hand, points upward. “Your bathroom. Ceiling’s wet. Could hear it.”

You glance over your shoulder and, sure enough, there’s a slow drip-drip from your ceiling vent. Damn.

“Oh—uh. Thanks.”

You’re not sure what else to say. It’s the first time you’ve heard his voice. The first time you’ve seen him up close. And your brain short-circuits just trying to process the sheer presence of him.

He pauses again. A heavy silence.

“You alright?” he asks, finally.

The question throws you. It’s not what you expected.

“Yeah,” you say, almost too quickly. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… storm caught me off guard.”

He gives a small nod. “Same here.”

The lightning flashes through the windows, illuminating his outline like something out of a graphic novel. Thunder cracks a second later. The moment feels suspended—like you’re standing at the edge of something far bigger than a plumbing issue.

And then, just like that, he turns.

“Get it checked,” he says. “Could be mold.”

And that’s a wrap on the very first part of a fanfic that’s been sitting in my notes app for months now, part two coming very soon 🫶

[catrianaghvst]

Teen Parents

Teen!SimonRiley x Teen!reader

Prequel

Your hoodie’s stained with milk, your hair’s in a knot you don’t remember tying, and your phone alarm is going off again even though the baby’s already awake—and screaming like the world’s ending. Simon groans from beside you.

“I just closed my eyes,” he mumbles, face buried in the pillow.

“Yeah, and she just opened hers. Guess who wins?”

You’re already scooping your daughter out of her bassinet, your arms on autopilot. She’s warm and fussy, rooting against your chest like she knows what she wants and isn’t taking ‘later’ for an answer.

Simon peeks with one eye, voice rough. “You need me to—?”

“No, I got her. Just…” You lower yourself onto the edge of the bed, unclip your nursing bra one-handed like a total pro. “Get me a granola bar or something. Please.”

“On it,” he says, sitting up with a stretch and a yawn, hair sticking out in about seven directions. He disappears into the kitchen while you latch your daughter on. The crying stops almost instantly, replaced by soft gulps and the tiniest sigh you’ve ever heard. Your heart does that weird twisty thing it does every time—like it still hasn’t caught up to the fact that she’s yours.

Yours and Simon’s. Teen parents. Two barely-grown kids figuring out how to keep another human alive.

He comes back with a granola bar and a juice box, which honestly feels like the most romantic gesture in the world right now.

“Your breakfast, madam.”

You smirk. “Fancy. What’s next, candlelight and a clean burp cloth?”

“Let’s not get crazy,” he says, dropping onto the mattress beside you. “We still haven’t folded the laundry from, what, last Tuesday?”

You rest your head on his shoulder while the baby nurses, the room still dim, full of warm, sleepy morning light.

“I’m pretty sure normal teenagers are asleep right now,” you mutter.

“Normal teenagers don’t have a bossy little milk gremlin,” he says. Then, softer, “But she’s ours.”

You both stare down at her. Her hands are so small. Her cheeks are full and flushed, and her eyes blink up at you like she knows you. Not just your face, but you—the scared, overwhelmed, stubborn girl trying her best. And she loves you anyway.

“She smiled yesterday,” you say, brushing your knuckle gently across her cheek.

Simon leans in. “What? No way.”

“Totally did. Right after she peed on my leg.”

He snorts. “A true romantic, this one.”

The baby unlatches with a soft pop, and Simon immediately grabs a burp cloth with the speed of someone who’s learned the hard way. You hand her off carefully, and he lays her against his chest, patting her back with his big, gentle hand.

[catrianaghvst]

Biker!Simon x reader

Leather and Late Nights

It always starts with the sound of the engine. That deep, rumbling growl echoing down the street long before you see him. You know it’s Simon before he even turns the corner. The way the neighborhood dogs go quiet and your heart starts doing that stupid little thing in your chest like it’s never heard an engine before.

And then there he is. Matte black helmet under his arm, skull balaclava tugged down just enough to show the smirk that’s all for you.

“Miss me?” he asks, voice low and a little gravelly from the ride. He always says it like a joke, but something in his eyes dares you to say yes.

You roll your eyes, like usual. “How would I even notice you were gone with all the chaos you left behind?”

He walks past you, slow, with that usual swagger—equal parts soldier and sinner—and drops his gear by your front door. His leather jacket creaks as he shrugs it off, revealing the black long-sleeve underneath that hugs his frame a little too well. You don’t look. Not too obviously.

“You say that,” he mutters, stepping close, “but you looked real lonely in those texts.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Not flatterin’,” he says, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His gloved hand lingers against your cheek just a second too long. “Just observin’.”

He smells like motor oil, steel, wind, and something undeniably him—danger and comfort wrapped up in one impossible package. That mix you can’t help craving even when you swear you’re over it.

You lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms. “So are you here to stay, or is this another ‘in and out before dawn’ mission?”

His gaze flicks to your lips, then your eyes. “Maybe I’m hopin’ you’ll convince me to stay.”

There’s always something unsaid between you two. Something simmering. He’s never one for big declarations, but he shows up. Every time. Even when he shouldn’t.

And that’s the thing with Simon. You never really know where it’s going. One night it’s a bottle of whiskey, your legs draped over his lap while he sharpens a combat knife and tells you half-truths about the desert. The next, he’s gone without a word, nothing but tire marks and the smell of his cologne left behind.

You never ask too many questions. He’s the kind of man who lives in shadows, and you—fool that you are—keep leaving the light on for him.

He tilts his head. “Well? You gonna let me in, or am I sleepin’ on the bike tonight?”

You pause, watching him in the fading sun. The smirk, the scars, the weight in his shoulders that never seems to lift.

Then you smile.

“I’ll put on the kettle,” you say, stepping back into the house.

He follows without a word, booted feet thudding soft and certain on the hardwood. Like he belongs there. Like he always has.