John Price wasn’t a man prone to sentiment. But lately, he’d caught his son watching him with that quiet, studious expression that five year olds wore when they were trying to understand something big.
It started small. A look, a tilt of the head when John helped you ease onto the couch, one hand steady at your back, the other adjusting the pillows just right. Then came the little imitations—a small hand pressed to your knee when you sighed, a too-big glass of water pushed into your hands before you even asked for it.
Yeah. The boy was watching.
John saw it in the way his son trailed after him, his steps careful and deliberate, like he was trying to map out the rhythm of care he has always provided for you.
He didn’t just follow orders; he anticipated. When John pulled out a chair for you, the boy did the same at breakfast the next morning, brows drawn in concentration as he dragged the heavy thing across the floor. When John pressed a hand to your lower back in passing, the kid reached up later, tiny palm resting there for half a second before scampering off, satisfied with a smile that he made his mother feel comfortable.
And when you winced one evening, shifting uncomfortably, it was your son who slipped off the couch without a word, returning a minute later with one of your small heating pads from the bathroom. He set it down beside you, nudging it toward your hand before looking up expectantly.
John, sitting across from you, just huffed a quiet laugh.
Smart boy.
He didn’t tell him to do any of this. Didn’t have to.
The kid was simply learning straight from him. Picking up on the way his father moved around his mother, how he noticed things before you had to say them, how care wasn’t in grand gestures but in the easy, natural rhythm of love.
John caught his son’s eye, tilting his head just slightly. The boy straightened a little, waiting.
Good lad, he thought, with a small nod of approval.
simon ghost riley is sometimes a little blunt (warning: smut)
You adore him for who he is, but it still unnerves you with just how blunt he can be at times.
It usually happens privately with just you:
“In about 5 minutes, I’m gonna eat you out.” He says as you are in the middle of The Goblet of Fire on the couch. You almost choked on your popcorn.
Or you’re doing laundry in the morning. “We need pineapple juice next time we’re out, want you to enjoy swallowin next time you’re suckin me off.” Jaw dropped.
He does it in front of the team too- and sometimes it’s even worse:
You accidentally dropped your lip balm onto the bar floor while fishing it out of your purse and bend to pick it up.
“Haven’t seen that angle in a while, dove. It’s been too long since we done doggy.”
It’s a never-ending series of eyebrow raises when Simon decides to open up his mouth and you’re around, needless to say. You brunt all of the embarrassment and the deep blushes, Simon couldn’t give a shit. He didn’t even clock it when John, Johnny and Kyle would all give him shocked looks. Man just owns it. Completely unbothered.
“Youre wearin the skirt you wear when you wanna get fucked. That your goal?”
“Simon!” You hiss, you can feel the red hot heat rush to your face.
But he just stares back at you in earnest, waiting for your response. You can hardly believe how composed he is when his Captain is right there glaring at him.
“So?”
“I need another beer.” John excuses himself, he can’t even look you in the eyes right now. Kyle joins him shortly after making a run for it, but you’re left with a quiet Johnny patiently waiting for you to respond. Eager, almost. Joy.
“You can’t just say things like that in public, especially not in front of your friends!” You lecture, pulling down your skirt in the process.
“Why? If you wanted to fuck, you could’ve just said so, love. Give me 2 to down this pint and I’ll meet you in the toilets, yeah?”
“Simon!” You smack his thigh.
“Can I watch?” Johnny asks excitedly.
“No!-“ “Fine.”
Johnny’s face lights up while yours turns slowly to give Simon a death stare.
“Do you want it or not?” You roll your eyes and throw your purse over your shoulder.
“You two are ridiculous.” And they watch you walk away.
Simon only shrugs, pounding back his beer before coming after you. Doesn’t make a difference to him if he fucks you here and now or at home and later.
He loves pinning you against the wall or the mattress, feeling the air escape your lungs as the weight of his chest crushes your soft breasts. His voice gets even lower and dirtier.
"Open your legs for me, dear. I want to see how she swallows me."
He’ll pull your thighs up, opening you completely, just to admire how small and vulnerable you look beneath him.
He is obsessed with the sight of your small hands and flawless nails digging into his arms, trying to find support while he fucks you in place with his large, veiny cock. He squeezes your hips with a force bordering on painful, his large fingers sinking into your soft flesh. He loves seeing the marks the next day — a signature that no one else will see.
He’s addicted to the scent of your hair mixed with sweat. He’ll fuck you from behind just so he can bury his face in your neck, growing obscenities about how tight you are and how he plans to fill you.
He uses words that would make anyone blush.
"Look at you... so beautiful. And here you are, begging for me to ruin you... Do your parents know what a depraved slut they raised?"
He’ll call you sweet names while he watches you come, telling you that you did a good job, leaving you more confused, his hands holding your face with a violent possessiveness so that you are forced to look into his dark eyes. He wants to see the exact moment your eyes roll back and your mind goes blank.
After the peak passes and he finally empties everything inside you, he doesn’t pull away. He stays there, heavy and warm, making sure you feel every ounce of him. He’ll clean you up with a possessive bluntness, kissing the top of your head while his hands still map your hips, already planning how he’s going to fuck you again the next morning, unhurried, until you’re trembling and marked by his presence.
In my mind, this man is so cocky and confident; he looks like the kind of guy who could have sex with you and then stare at you the next day as if he hadn't made you cry the night before.
I hope you like the personality I've given Simon; I don't see him as a heartless wall, quite the opposite! 😭 I think he's so sentimental! Definitely: a kind and horny boyfriend.
I started writing (I have SO MANY unfinished thoughts 😭) about him being a boyfriend with a rough but very sentimental side, it's taking shape and I'm liking it! I'll post it soon!
artist in the photo
Being a camgirl comes with its fair share of ups and downs, but you never expected one of the downs to be one of your unboxings from a fan going horribly wrong during a live stream—the proof of it still buzzing between your thighs beyond your finger's reach.
A rush of embarrassment comes with knocking on your roommate’s bedroom door and asking him for help because you’re nearing the brink of overstimulation and can’t think straight enough to get the words out. It’s worse when he stands there and says nothing—all imposing with two tattooed arms crossed over his chest—while you try to get through a sentence without moaning.
Simon looks at you with a cocked brow and something akin to amusement as he watches you squirm in his doorway.
Then he finally says, “Get on the bed,” in a steady and low voice, opening his bedroom door wider.
You fidget under his scrutinizing gaze as you settle back against his pillows, biting back whimpers with a too-hot face and sweat dripping down your back.
Him settling a knee on the bed makes you jump, “Let’s take a look, love.”
Simon crawls up the bed, forcing your knees open, and you’re suddenly very aware of how broad and big he looks, towering over you—every part of you laid bare for him to see. A large hand presses right below your belly button, jostling the toy inside you, and this time, you can’t hold back the squeal that rips from your chest.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice imperceptibly deeper, his lips twitching like he’s trying to hold back a smile. “Okay, you’re going to feel a slight stretch.”
You bite your lip. “A-alright—”
Slight doesn’t even come close to the fingers sliding into you, spearing your sensitive walls open and pressing into a spot where you’ve never been able to reach with startling precision. You remind yourself that he has to do this, that he’s just being…friendly, or whatever makes the lines less blurred.
None of this stops the fact your lower stomach burns with the promise of another orgasm when his fingers brush against the egg vibrator before accidentally pressing it deeper inside.
“Ah, there it is.”
At the sight of your scrunched nose, he asks if it hurts. You shake your head; eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to hold back the stinging pleasure racing up your spine. “N-no,” you whimper.
“Relax, okay?”
Simon doesn’t comment on how you’re implying that it feels good. So good, you think, his thumb just barely touching your clit as he twists his hand to try a different angle. Then he pushes down on your belly again, and his long fingers finally grip the vibrator.
“Oh!” you moan at the feel of it dragging down your front wall, your fingers gripping the sheets.
He has to tell you to relax again, his voice cracking, but you hardly hear it over your heart beating loudly in your ears. His fingers drag the toy out slowly, almost too slow that you can feel it bumping against every slippery ridge inside you.
“Ah, sorry,” he says when you twitch—unapologetic—using his thumb to rub soothing circles into your stomach. “You’re so wet. I need to make sure I don’t lose it again.”
You nod, cunt clenching down at his words.
And then Simon’s fingers curl up: your thighs start quivering, breath caught in your throat, and your jaw locks up until your orgasm ripples through you. It’s unending, the strongest one yet, and just when you think it’s over, you feel the press of his palm against your clit.
“W-wait! Simon,” you moan, pushing at his hand. “No more, I‘m sensitive!”
He gets you to fall over the edge one more time before finally slipping the vibrator out of you, letting it hum softly on the bed, and your exhausted body sinks into the mattress once again. Simon gathers you into his lap, rocking you back and forth.
You swallow lungfuls of air against his chest, head still spinning and walls spasming from the aftershocks.
He murmurs in your ear about how good you are, kisses your temple, and rubs your sides, and it’s… enlightening. Moments pass before you finally return to yourself, and when he pulls back, his brows furrow at your pout.
“All good?”
You shake your head and go with honesty. “I didn’t think you’d cuddle me afterward.”
He smiles, thumb flicking your bottom lip. “You wanted me to fuck you?”
Your mouth falls open. “N-no—”
Then he leans down, lips brushing against your ear: “Don’t worry, love. Good girls get fucked hard.”
nothing just thinking about big, scary men who bend to the will of their wife without a second thought.
he's a cop, a marine, a badass military man, and yet the second he gets home, he's just "baby, honey, sweetheart," and his favorite, "big strong man."
if you ask him to stand, he'll stand. sit? he's down on the couch with his legs spread open and his head thrown back. ask him to massage you as you two watch television best believe his big hands are sliding all over your brown skin.
it's not because he's afraid of you or intimidated, either. well, except for a few specific times and looks on your face. but besides that, he knows you're his mostly harmless sweet wife who just knows what she wants and how to get it. which is easy since he's wrapped around your finger tight.
he does whatever you ask, no matter how strenuous. "it's no big deal, sweetheart." "let me help with that, doll." "you've got enough on your plate, sugar." he's incredibly eager for a task, you're barely on your feet when he's home.
