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.
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.
"I Like'em Big" - Simon "GHOST" Riley x reader (sfw)
Summary: Y/N wears Simon's hoodie, wears her hair down for the first time, and Simon doesn't know what to do with himself.
Word Count: 2800+
Warnings: military reader, 141 interactions, bar shenanigans, alcohol consumption, reader has long hair, Simon being completely enamoured by reader, he's a big softie for her, fluff
a/n: not proofread. Hope this wasn't OOC for Ghost, I really tried to keep him as himself from the 2019 Modern Warfare game.
Main Masterlist
Surprisingly, the ride back to base wasn't filled with the usual silence that coincided with exhaustion. Instead, it was filled with the sounds of celebration and joking quips, mostly from Gaz and Soap but the others were listening, amused by their antics.
"I say we head to the bar, just outside the base." Soap suggested, giddiness clear in his tone.
Gaz nudged him, "That sounds good, brother."
Soap then turned his attention to Price, "What do ye say, Captain? You in?"
Price gave a little nod, exhaling the smoke from his cigar. "I could use a drink."
"What about you, L.T? Y/N? Fancy a drink?" Soap asked the pair, who sat next to each other.
The big, burly Brit gave a low hum which to anyone who didn't know him would've thought that was a clear no, but Soap laughed and Y/N smiled. "I say that's a yes."
He looked to Y/N, "That only leaves you, lass."
Y/N shook her head, waving a hand to brush off his proposal. "I think I'll pass." Ghost turned his head to look down at her.
"Oh come on." Gaz complained in the back while Soap crossed his arms.
"What do ya got to get back at base to that's so important that ya wouldn't want to go with us?" Soap argued, his voice laced with playful intent.
She snickered. "Take a shower for one."
"Are ya serious?" Soap huffed.
"Look, I know you might like walking around like a human dust cloud but I can feel the dirt in places I'd rather not mention." Y/N teased, and smirked his way.
She glanced over to Gaz who had let out a small laugh, which made her laugh quietly to herself.
Soap leaned forward, "Come on, we don't need another ghost disappearin on us."
Y/N shook her head, "I'm not disappearing on anybody."
"Then come with us." Soap continued to prod.
The two stared at each other for a long moment before Y/N sighed and threw her arms in the air in mock annoyance. "Fine, I guess I'll come but only if I can change first."
"Deal." Soap grinned as he held out a fist toward Y/N. She lifted a fist of her own, and bumped it against Soap's then leaned back in her spot in the plane.
Soon, the team made it back to base, filtering off the carrier plane one by one, and chatting amongst themselves. Price came off the plane first, followed shortly by Soap and Gaz then Ghost and Y/N. It was already dark out, the fluorescent lights from inside the base beaming out and onto the concrete floor that made up the helipad.
Once stepping inside, Y/N departed from the men, reassuring Soap that she would meet them in the parking lot once she changed out of her uniform. She b-lined for her room, locking the door behind her and heaving a sigh, letting her shoulders relax and allowing herself a moment to herself. Even though she agreed to go out with the guys, Y/N was utterly exhausted; it seemed to take great effort just to breathe. It was as if her lungs were beyond their limit and wanted to rest.
But Simon was going out too, while not rare, he never went out consistently. More often than not, he opted to stay behind and get some sleep. There were also occasions when he and Y/N would make tea in the break room and talk about everything and nothing in the lulling moments when the base was quiet.
She loved those moments, appreciating the fact that on their off time, Simon liked to share his time with her. As much as she loved the guys, Simon provided an unknown incentive to go to the bar.
Y/N sighed, trudging over to her cot to undress. She traded her grimy uniform for a pair of clean jeans, a white tank top, and her typical combat boots. However, it was a bit cold outside so she decided to grab a hoodie. Her eyes immediately found the one that she kept folded at the end of her bed.
It was a standard black hoodie, no flashy design or words, a simple color with nothing else. This hoodie was special though as it belonged to a certain 6'2" Lieutenant.
Y/N smiled to herself as she grabbed it and pulled it over her head. It hung loose on her body, the hem of it touching her mid thigh and the sleeves engulfed her arms but she felt safe in it., protected. She couldn't help to thumb at the fabric of the collar, thinking for a second before she dipped her nose down to breathe in the smell of it.
Despite having worn the hoodie multiple times (mostly when she slept), the musky scent of Simon lingered there. It smelled of an earthy cologne that Simon wore, smoke with a twinge of metal. She hummed at the scent, but before she got too caught up in her own mind, she grabbed her phone, wallet, and headed out to the parking lot.
Y/N knew exactly where Soap parked his truck so she made a b-line straight for it, not too far from the front doors of the base. Walking out into the parking lot, she saw that the guys were already standing and waiting by the black pickup.
Soap was the first one to see, and as soon as he did, his eyes widened. "Jesus, lass! You look like yer gettin swallowed whole inside that thing!"
Simon whipped his head around to see what the commotion was about, his heart skipping a beat when he got a good look at Y/N, wearing his hoodie.
Y/N felt the slightest bit sheepish at Soap's comment, but tried not to let it show. "I do not." She retorted, "It's windy out here and I'm cold."
She walked past Soap to head towards Simon who stood beside the backdoor. Before she got in she glanced over her shoulder at the Scot. "Besides, I like'em big."
For a brief second, Y/N's eyes flicked from Soap to narrow in on Simon as she said that, picking up at the quick breath he took and held it in. She smirked then quickly climbed into the back seat.
Simon briefly locked eyes with Soap, seeing a boyish smirk on the Sergeant's face. He huffed, then followed Y/N into the truck.
He knew he shouldn't have let it slip to Johnny about his "admiration" for Y/N or else he wouldn't have that shit eating grin on his face.
Soap only laughed before climbing into his truck. Price sat up front with him while Simon, Y/N and Gaz sat in the back. It was a tad of a squeeze (mostly due to Simon's large stature), but it wasn't so bad. Though Gaz was the second to gawk at Y/N's ginormous hoodie, and she laughed saying that the bigger the hoodie, the more comfortable to which he then asked the rhetorical question of 'what is it with girls and hoodies?'
The team laughed, Simon on the other hand, kept peeking down at Y/N seeing her completely covered by the black fabric, remembering the night he gave it to her. It had been a night of hushed conversation, a shared moment of privacy among the chilled air, and as she shivered in her spot beside him, he took only a second to stop and pull off his sweatshirt then plop it in her lap.
She had been stunned, it was evident from the look she gave, but she wasted no time pulling the fabric over her head. Once it engulfed her figure, she let out a relieved hum, a smile and tucked her face into the collar of it.
Simon loved the way it hung around her, like she belonged inside of it.
On any given day, Simon would not have done something that was clearly so intimate to him, but this was a moment that Y/N and him shared alone, without the eyes of anyone on base. However, seeing Y/N wearing it now with everyone to see felt scandalous, if he had to label it; a deeper peek into his psyche.
He couldn’t decide if he liked that or not.
The sharp pause of the vehicle into a parking spot, provided Simon an escape from the suddenly hot air of the truck as he hopped out. Once everyone stepped out, following Soap, they all headed toward the bar. It was a small, modest place, nothing fancy but it would keep them busy for the next few hours. Soap walked up to the bars' counter to sit down, followed by all of 141.
Y/N sat beside Soap, who was already ordering a drink, and Simon came up to the empty seat to the right of Y/N with Price and Gaz sitting closer to Soap.
“Keep the drinks to a minimum, would you Soap? Last time you got drunk, we had to drag you back to the base.” Y/N pointedly suggested.
Soap scoffed, “Oi, are you my mother? I can handle myself.”
At that, Y/N let out an amused laugh coming from the gut. “No you can’t. You were so out of it that you thought you were being kidnapped when we hoisted you up into Price’s truck.”
Soap paused for a moment, eyes drifting upward as if he were searching through his memories of that night. “I don’t remember that.”
“You wouldn’t remember, mate.” Gaz chirped in, “You’d put a sailor to shame with as much drink as you had.”
“More like the whole ship.” Price added with a huffed smirk and then took a drink of his whiskey.
Y/N readjusted in her seat as she turned to slightly face the Scot, “I had to keep Ghost from killing you; you’d kicked him right in the ribs and you better believe you owe me.”
“Ah, Ghost woulda’ kill me. He’s too fond of my daring personality.” Soap teased, leaning forward to peer around Y/N to look at Simon.
“Don’t count yourself lucky, Johnny. A kick to the ribs makes a compelling argument for killin’ ya.” Simon simply stated, thick accent and husky voice making him sound serious.
Y/N chuckled to herself however at his obvious banter, taking a sip of her drink.
A loud pfft sound left Soap’s mouth, waving off Simon’s words and swallowing his bourbon down in one go.
Soap set his glass down onto the bar with a thud before he spoke again. “And of course, the only thing that could stop the giant was the fluttering eyes of our lass here.”
If she was honest with herself, that very idea made Y/N’s heart flutter and unconsciously, she bit her bottom lip, sparing a subtle glance up to Simon. His dark eyes glowed in the ambient light of the bar, casting a shadowed glare toward the Scot in an oddly defensive way.
He said nothing, but he didn’t have to. His expression said it all.
“Aww, don’t get bent out of shape LT. No man could resist such beauty.” Soap holds up his hands in fake surrender.
“Shove off, Soap.” Y/N playfully pushed the Scot at the same time he slipped off his bar stool.
“Anyone want to play a round of pool?” Soap offered, taking a step back from Y/N’s strong left hook.
Gaz nodded, quickly finishing his drink and ordering another. “I’m in.”
“I suppose I could weigh in.” Price says, slipping out of his seat and following Soap and Gaz to the empty pool table off to the corner.
Y/N leaves no time for Simon to give a definitive answer while she hops off her bar stool, leaving her cup behind. “May as well. You coming, Simon?”
She glances over her shoulder and It’s obvious that he is caught off-guard, making a great effort to look unaffected. However, he hums and gets up from his seat.
He seems to automatically trail behind Y/N in her path to the pool table, where the rest of the team is waiting.
“You and LT are a team; Gaz and I are a team. Alright with you two?” Soap automatically assigns, watching Y/N shrug.
“Sounds good to me.” Y/N smirked, already picking up a pool cue.
While Soap and Gaz grab their own pool cues, Y/N takes this opportunity to let her hair (literally), pulling the hair band from the tight bun she had it in and letting the tresses fall to her shoulders.
Simon watches as the thick strands fall from the bun, and lightly bounce once they hit her shoulders and back. The cool air of the bar wafting from outside, breezes past Y/N and into Simon; there’s a scent of gunpowder with an underlying smell of a fruity soap from her shampoo.
Those two types of scents don’t belong, Simon thinks, however, he cannot deny that it suits Y/N in an odd way and he takes a moment to commit it to memory.
“Woah, Y/N…” Gaz comments, looking up from the pool table.
Soap whips his head up from aligning the cue ball with the solid and striped ones. “How the hell do you keep all that wrapped up?”
“I’m just magic like that.” Y/N smirks, running her fingers through her hair to massage the soreness on her scalp.
“Teach me your magic?” Gaz teases Y/N as he steps over to her.
She hums, “I don’t know Gaz, you actually have hair in order to learn my ways.”
The group laughs as Gaz nudges her away from him, all in good fun of course.
She takes the opportunity to spare a glance up to Simon, seeing that he is staring down at her with a shine in his eyes that tells her only the good things about what he must be thinking. Before he catches it, she smirks and turns back to the others to begin their game.
From that moment on, for the rest of the evening, the tension grew with each passing second. Only ripening, the few times during their pool match, when Y/N leaned down to shoot her shot, and she would slide back to stand straight up, there Simon would be; looming shadow over her while keeping a respectful distance.
It was all palpable in a way that only Y/N and Simon knew, but not bursting at the seams. No, it was slowly simmering, waiting for the right opportunity to be released.
By the time the night ended, the boys buzzed and chipper, the squad made it back to base with little to no problems, from Soap that is who made it apparent that he was perfectly consciousness.
It got a laugh out of them, as Simon and Y/N departed and were finally alone.
They were heading to their respective rooms, the heavy thud of their boots hitting the ground, the only sound between them as they walked down a long corridor. It remained that way until Y/N broke the silence.
“Did you have fun, Simon?”
He looked to her from the invisible spot on the ground that he’d been watching, “As much fun as I could, I suppose.”
“Me too. It’s nice to relax every once in a while.” She hums contently.
“I imagine it’s not difficult to relax when you have a sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big.” Simon remarks, hearing Y/N laugh as he does.
“You have a point there!”
There’s a brief pause before Simon speaks up again, “Do you fancy wearing clothes that swallow you whole?”
She stops in her path, suddenly standing in front of her room door, one that Simon almost missed as he came to an abrupt stop. “Only when I’m attached to it.”
They stand and stare, soaking in the implications, and reveling in the secret between them.
Simon, in a moment of courage he’s not sure where it came from, raises a calloused hand to gently slide his index finger against the skin of her cheek. “Well, I’d say it suits you.”
Y/N smiles, eyes crinkling at the edges in a softness that she doesn’t direct to just anyone. No, this is only for him because despite all the teasing and flirting, that is not where her affection stops. Not when her heart is thundering beneath her ribcage with her skin completely flushed with desire.
Without much thought, Y/N leans forward, forcing herself up onto her tippy toes and plants the softest of kisses to his cheek. Though it's covered by his balaclava, he feels the pressures of her lips against him, the warmth of them seeping past the mask and into his skin so much so, that when Y/N eventually pulls away, he leans forward the slightest bit to keep her there.
Her eyes flick up to meet his, shining with something unspoken yet recognized as wanting. However, she doesn’t act on it, instead she keeps the small distance between their bodies and whispers three simple words.
You find him in the bedroom, sitting on the floor with his back against the bed, legs stretched out, a shoebox balanced on his thigh. And, scattered around him—like fallen leaves—are photographs.
You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Planning a scrapbook?”
Simon doesn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Just recognition.
"He’s gotten so big now," he mutters, lifting a picture between his fingers. He turns it toward you—your son, a newborn, swaddled tight, impossibly small in his arms. "Look at this—head barely bigger than my palm."
You step inside, lowering yourself beside him. The photos form a mosaic across the carpet—a timeline of a life measured in firsts.
First ultrasound. First bath. First wobbly steps.
His first birthday, cake frosting, smeared across chubby cheeks, fingers reaching for Simon’s.
His first time on Simon’s shoulders, tiny hands gripping his head, giggling like he’d never known a world without laughter.
You pick up a more recent one—your son at five, sitting on Simon’s lap, eyes bright, smile wide. He looks just like him. Same sharp gaze, same shape of the mouth. It’s almost funny how undeniable it is.
Simon exhales, slow and steady, his thumb tracing over the glossy surface.
"Simon ...do you want me to - "
His jaw tightens, just for a second, before he lets out a quiet huff. “No, it’s fine. Thinkin’ of puttin’ some in an album.”
You don’t catch him on the lie.
Because what you don’t know—what you won’t know for a long time—is that there will be no album.
The photos will go back into the box. Just like they always do.
And later that night, after the house has settled into quiet, after you’ve both gone to bed, he’ll slip the box under his side of the nightstand—within reach, always.
And when it’s time—when the bags are packed, when his boots are laced, when the house is still dark with sleep—he’ll take the smallest, most recent one.
-- where your son is missing a front tooth, grinning wide, arms thrown around your neck like he never wants to let go.
He’ll fold it carefully, tuck it into the pocket of his gear.
Because the thought of not having it, of not carrying that proof of life with him, is unbearable.
So he keeps them.
And sometimes, when he’s halfway across the world, when the silence stretches too long and the weight in his chest feels too heavy to bear, he’ll take that photo out.
