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I played Growing Up this week then I played it again then I got the mobile version and why is no one talking about these little guys

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I went into hiding for like two weeks watching a TV show from like 15 years ago in its entirety and one character consumed me, no thoughts only this fictional man, and I didn't even look up anything because I didn't want to see spoilers but I just finished the show AND he died AND literally no one here is frothing over him like what am I doing. What was this all for. Give me my brain cells back I didn't have them to spare.

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Simon Riley who smiles appreciatively and tells you that you look pretty when you show off your new strawberry lip gloss. He loves when your lips look all plump and wet, but he loves it more when you’re feeling good about yourself.

That’s why later, when he takes you for a ride in his truck and you complain about your hair getting stuck in the gloss, he leans over at a red light, holds your face in his hands and licks it off.

He just wants you comfortable, love. Enjoy the ride.

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Price who (obviously) likes order, likes everything a certain way, even, or maybe especially, at home. Everything has its place, everything has a routine. It’s important to him, to feel in control.

And then you burst into his life, and it’s like he’s just holding on for the ride.

You spew color into his drab, muted home. Where there were once white bedsheets and a navy duvet, made every morning to regulation, there are now mismatched blankets in rainbow hues and more pillows than he knows what to do with. His drawers were once filled with carefully folded shirts in neutral colors and the exact same pair of jeans, multiple times over, with his uniforms and work gear in the closet. They’re still there, but condensed, as half the space is now stuffed with things like pretty sundresses with little strawberries on them and those little bike shorts that drive him insane.

The first time John went to your place after a date, he worried he might hate it, moving you in and losing the order that he’s always craved.

But now that he’s got you, he never wants you to leave. Sure, it’s an adjustment. He still puts your toothbrush in the holder when you leave it on the bathroom counter, and he still makes the bed, trying to find some way to arrange the frankly inconceivable amount of pillows.

And you’re worth every bit of it.

“John, baby, can we get a cat?” you call out one day as you come through the door.

“I’ve already got one pet, pet,” he answers from his spot in his office, going through some papers. “Don’t believe I need another.”

He looks up when you walk into his office, looking adorably apologetic. When he glances down to see the scruffy little stray cat in your arms, he sees why.

John sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, telling you, “I thought we agreed to no pets, sweetheart.”

“I know,” you say as you step closer. “But he was just sitting outside and he looked so sad and lonely and hungry and cold.”

He can’t help but give you a small smile — he never can.

“Sounds like quite the dire situation.”

You smile back, in that soft, sweet way that reminds him, every day, of why he chose you. Why, despite the subtle chaos you bring to his life, he chooses you, over and over again.

A few weeks later, John is dozing in his armchair, the cat, which of course you’d kept, curled up on his lap. You’re nearby on the couch, napping yourself, one of your shows playing quietly on the television.

Something wakes him — a distant clap of thunder, or maybe it was a particularly hearty purr from the cat. But it’s enough for him to open his eyes and take in the scene before him.

It’s beautiful. The empty takeout containers on the coffee table, the books stacked up next to them, the new yellow couch you somehow convinced him to replace his old brown one with and you, laying on it so peacefully.

He closes his eyes again, letting out a contented sigh. The movement jostles the cat, who digs his claws into his jeans in retaliation.

It’s not necessarily the home life he pictured himself having. But it’s one he’ll treasure for as long as he can.

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You ever write like an absolute banger of a line and get so proud before you realize that you have to actually write a whole bunch of other stuff to accompany it then get humbled real quick?

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Simon tinkers around with an old carburetor like a fidget toy. He disassembles and reassembles it for fun, something to keep his hands busy when you watch TV some evenings.

You'll stretch out on the couch and he'll sit in front of it, close enough to reach, an old towel spread out between his legs and his eyes dart from whatever you're watching back to his little project.

During ads, you lean over, your chin resting on his shoulder as he fiddles with the thing.

"Very nice job, Simon," you tell him, giving him a playful kiss on his neck. "Good boy working on those fine motor skills."

He turns his head towards you to give you a grin, and your chest aches at how perfect the moment is. You're home, with Simon, because he is your home. Just like you're his. It's perfect and simple and all you've ever wanted.

By the time the next ad break rolls around, he's got you spread out in front of him instead, the carburetor forgotten. He works you open slowly, teasingly, enough to keep you on edge but not enough to push you over just yet.

“Just wanna make you proud, sweetheart,” he mutters, shoving two thick fingers deep inside before pulling them back out and running them through the wetness that’s accumulated between your legs. “Working on that dexterity like you said. Good boy get a gold star?”

He’s being a smug little asshole it — you know it and he knows it too. But after he gives you three orgasms, two with his fingers (“Wanna finish the movie, love, quiet down”) and one on his cock, you lay in bed together in the dark, picking out a chore chart to hang on the refrigerator, complete with a packet of star stickers.

Because it’s fun being with Simon. It’s home. You love that he feels comfortable enough with you to tease and be silly, and he loves that you let him, understanding the deep current of love and respect through every single thing he does.

Plus, he is, when it’s all said and done, a very, very good boy.

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Simon, while having a solid amount of sexual experience, has just never really done the whole relationship thing. He knows what he's like at work, he knows what he's like with friends, he knows what he's like in bed, but Boyfriend Simon? No clue who that guy is.

So when he falls hard enough for you to actually be convinced to give it a try, he just assumes he'll wear the pants in the relationship. He always wears the pants, so why would it be any different in this context? Not like a Whole Thing, like he's not picturing a lifestyle in which he's the big dominant man and you're submissive, obedient ... it's more like he just pictures himself taking care of things.

You picture it differently. And he is shocked by how much he loves your take on things.

"Simon, go wash your face and I'll put some moisturizer on you, you're getting a little dry." "We're having what you want for dinner tonight and I don't want to hear another word about it." "Just sit down and rest for a minute, I can handle it."

There are all these little things that you say and do -- little ways that show that you care, and that you think about him -- that all add up to something much bigger. It all makes him realize that maybe Boyfriend Simon is someone who can rest. Perhaps he doesn't need to be constantly, relentlessly in charge and on alert. Maybe this way, he can be cared for.

Of course, the feeling translates to the bedroom too. With his previous hookups, he'd always taken the lead. Strong hands putting his partner where he wanted them to go. Never too rough, never too demanding, but focused on his own pleasure, just like he always assumed the other person was focused on theirs.

Not on your watch.

He felt like he was being torn in two the first time you knelt before him and put your hands on his belt buckle, intention clear. It was like he was being split between the Simon he knew better, the one who might have greedily pulled down his jeans, tipped open your lips with a thumb on your chin and slid deep inside your hot mouth until tears rolled down your cheeks, and the Simon you'd somehow pulled out of him. The one who was too in love to imagine using you like that.

He told you as much that night. He stilled your hand over his belt with his own, his voice sounding strangled as he murmured, "Don't have to do that, love."

"Of course I don't have to," you'd told him. "I want to."

And you did. You unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his jeans then put your soft, warm hands on his hips, just under his shirt, and pushed his pants down, along with his boxers. You took his cock in your hand first, using slow, languid strokes, then gazed up at him.

“Is this ok?”

He began realizing, when you took him into your mouth only after he said yes, that this wasn’t him using you. It was clear in the little muffled whimpers you made as you pulled him close enough for his tip to hit the back of your throat and in the way your free hand gripped his thigh, like you were the one who needed grounding — you were enjoying this too. This was just another way for you to care for him.

Now, after days and weeks and months have passed of breaking down and rebuilding, learning and growing with you into something he never knew he could be, he trusts you. He values your judgment, he believes you what you tell him. If you think he needs to rest, he will. If you lead him, he'll follow.

Whatever you want, whatever you need, whether you let it be known with words or glances or your hands on him, guiding him, steady and sure ... now, Simon listens.

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Price doesn't want you asking for anything, not ever. When he put that ring on your finger, it wasn't just because he wanted you to have something pretty -- it was because he wanted you to know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, his intentions to take care of you, till death do you part.

So he anticipates things you want, things you need, before you can voice them. If you get a little snippy in the afternoon, he brings you a snack. If he catches you wincing and stretching in the morning, might be time for a new mattress.

And when it's summer and he sees you parked in a lounge chair in the yard, the legs a little uneven on the grass, well, time to go shopping for some lumber, because he's going to build you a porch.

John is strong, capable and knowledgeable -- this is hardly the first thing he's built -- so it goes pretty smoothly. He sets up his saw in the garage, parks his truck with the lumber near the entrance, and gets to work.

And it is a sight to see.

Just him in cargo pants and a sweat-soaked t-shirt, spending what little free time he has doing something like this, all for you. You can't come in the garage unless you put on safety glasses and preferably some ear protection when the power tools are going, but him? He's used to it all. And when he starts putting down the posts, his biceps flexing as he works the nail gun ...

You start to think that maybe you might like some more home additions.

"Like what you see, pet?" he asks as you stand around, just watching. He lifts his arm to wipe the sweat from his brow and his shirt lifts enough for you to catch a glimpse of a sliver of his hairy stomach, soft but strong.

You do. You really, really do.

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Part Nine of Simon Riley x Single Mother <3

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight

Simon doesn't want a long engagement. He wants to be married to you immediately -- tomorrow would be good, ten years ago would be better. He's never been what anyone would describe as giddy, but thinking of the security marriage would bring ... it makes him smile.

But, as always, he follows your lead. Lets you consider what route makes the most sense for Charlie and Emma, how best to fully integrate him into their lives. It'll take some planning, but that's fine with him. He's got a mission coming up anyway, he figures you can use the time to figure out exactly how you want to play it.

He leaves, trying not to think about how it's getting harder every time to pack his things and walk away from you, from the life he's building. But when he comes back home, something's different.

It's in the way you rush outside when his heavy footsteps start up the steps on he porch, closing the door behind you and quickly pulling him in for a tight hug. There's something a little bit desperate about the way you move. A sort of anxiety he hasn't seen in you since he put that ring on your finger.

"I'm so glad you're home," you tell him, voice clipped. "You're ok?"

"Perfectly fine, sweetheart," he answers, eyes moving to the front window as if he could see through he curtains. "And you?"

Turns out, not so much.

You tell him a quick version of the story, all while your hands fidget with his collar -- your ex is in town, Charlie and Emma's father, and he's inside now with the children.

"I'm sorry," you tell him softly, wincing like you're worried he'll be upset with you. But before he can express just how ridiculous the notion is, the door swings open and out comes Charlie, howling with glee at the sight of Simon.

"There's the lad," he says, gruffly but fondly, as Charlie hugs him around his legs. "Been taking care of little sister like we talked about?"

Even as he says them, the words feel strangely domestic -- a bit of a conversation that he could never have imagined himself having just a year ago. As always, Charlie distracts him from getting into his head too much with sheer, unbridled energy.

"Come inside, Daddy," he says, pulling on his arm. "I mean, Simon."

It's the first time Charlie's ever corrected himself when he slips up and calls him that, and Simon tries to push down the strange little bit of hurt he feels when the boy opens the door and leads him inside.

The hurt is replaced by another darker feeling, some mix of anger and jealousy and fear, when he sees a man sitting on your couch, watching Emma play with blocks on the floor. When the man looks up and sees Simon, he smirks. It almost looks like a challenge.

"So, this is the guy that's been playing house with my family while I was away?" he asks you.

Simon already knew, but this is another piece of proof that you and your children have made him a better man, because the old him would have torn him apart for that remark.

You step up beside him, hands on your hips with a disapproving glare as you say, "Robert, really?"

The man, or Robert, apparently, laughs -- a grating rumble with no humor in it.

"Come on, I'm just joking. Relax."

You sigh, taking a step closer to Simon. His fingers twitch. It's not a possessive anger, not really, because he knows that at some point, you'd had feelings for this man, and it was his blood that ran through your children's veins. Not Simon's.

Still, you're upset, and he's belittling your feelings, and Simon doesn't care for it. But before he can say anything, you ask Charlie to take Emma to go play in their room.

Once the door closes behind them, there's a fire in your eyes as you turn to Robert, telling him, "You can't say that stuff in front of them, they're just little."

"Yeah? And what'd I say that was so wrong?"

"Everything!"

Simon watches the exchange with a clenched jaw. At this point, he knows all about the man on your couch -- he knows how poorly he treated you, and how you tried to give him love that he let squander. You tried to make it work with him for Charlie, so much that you carry a bit of guilt for just how long you tried to make him into someone you could depend on. And then when you found out Emma was coming, it was a wakeup call. You kicked him out, changed the locks, and learned pretty quickly that he was not interested in being a father if he couldn't take advantage of you in the process.

When Robert stands, Simon takes a step forward -- not a threat, just a warning. The man lets out that cold, annoying little laugh again and glances at him before he looks down at you.

"Got yourself a guard dog now, huh? This is the guy you've been begging me to sign adoption papers for?"

It's as if Simon can feel all the blood rushing from his face. You're shocked too, he can feel it in the way you tense beside him, but it's like your reaction is happening through the fog of the bombshell your ex just dropped.

A few things happen all at once, and he's only distantly aware of them. You step forward, saying something to Robert in a very displeased tone, and you usher him to your front door. He protests, and Simon is on alert, but you don't need him to handle this. A moment later, he's gone and it's just you and him, the children still playing down the hall in their shared bedroom.

"I didn't ..." you begin, but trail off. "It's just ..."

You stop and start a few more times, and finally he's able to pull himself out of the stupor he'd been in. He takes a breath, and puts his hands on your waist, strong and steady as always, even though he feels anything but.

"It's all right, love," he says quietly. "Don't have to explain anything to me, you know that."

"No, I do," you insist. "Because I don't want you to think the wrong thing, about all that."

"About the ..." Simon says, but it's his turn for his words to fall off -- he can't say the word "adoption," not yet. "What's the right thing?"

You gaze up at him with anxious eyes, your face lined with worry, and he can't help but lean down and press a gentle kiss to your forehead.

"Told you, it's all right," he says again, landing another kiss, this time on your temple. "Don't look so concerned."

"How is it all right? Now you think I've been talking to my ex about... about you adopting the kids, and that's not what it was, not really."

The way you say the word makes it clear that you're struggling with it too. Which makes sense — it’s a heavy concept, he thinks. A formal process, paperwork and he's honestly not sure what else, all so that he'd be Charlie and Emma's father, legally. It's a lot to take in, but it's certainly not an unwelcome thought. An adoption would provide more security. He could get benefits for them more easily through the job; he could —

“Simon?”

You pull him out of his thoughts, and he fixes his eyes on you.

He’s steady now.

“If I say it’s all right, sweetheart, it’s all right,” he tells you, his voice a murmur and his eyes soft. “You think I’d think you’re scheming somehow? That I haven’t considered it myself?”

He sees your smooth neck work as you swallow your nerves, and you say, “I was just asking him about it for the future … if he’d do it. I just wanted to know, that’s all.”

“And what’d he say?”

“He said no, but he’s just being difficult.” You glance down the hallway before looking back at him and lowering your voice. “He doesn’t care about them, he never has. Not really. Not like …”

He looks at you, waiting, wanting to hear you say it.

Finally, you do, your fingers toying with his collar as you say, “he doesn’t love them like you do.”

It’s not the first time Simon has felt this feeling with you: a rush of pride, a strange wonder at doing something so important, so delicate, and somehow doing it right. He’d never known he had it in him, any of this, but now it’s his favorite part of himself. He can take care of you, and he can take care of Charlie and Emma, and he can do it well. Well enough that you’ve been thinking about making it even more permanent.

He smiles, only realizing it when your lips turn up too, then he presses his forehead to yours. It’s sweet, but that’s not why he’s doing it. He’s doing it because he wants to make sure you hear him.

“We’ll figure it out, yeah?” he says, his eyes glued on yours. “If that’s what you want, if that’s what they want, then that’s what’ll happen.”

“Promise?”

He grins, and he moves a hand from his waist to find yours. He links your pinky with his, something he learned from Charlie.

“You only do this when you really, really mean something,” the boy had told him earnestly. “Because this means you can’t take it back.”

And Simon doesn’t know if he’s ever meant anything more.

“Promise.”

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Happy birthday Baxter Ward I’ll love you forever 🎂❤️🎂

These days, Baxter doesn't really mind Mondays. With the wedding planning, he often works weekends, which means he usually gets that dreaded first day of the typical work week off. Mondays for him mean sleeping in, staying in his pajamas, coffee on the balcony.

It's a day of leisure, and one he greatly enjoys. Sometimes he plans an elaborate dinner and walks to the nearby market to get supplies, and sometimes he takes a book on the balcony with his coffee, getting lost in some novel and the sounds of the waves crashing not too far off. They don't scare him, not like they used to.

It's been almost ten years since he met you, nearly four since he met you again and gathered the nerve to keep you. And now, fear looks a lot different.

He's not scared of the ocean. He's not scared of being seen, of being important. He doesn’t even process fear in the same way — not when he has you to hold his hand.

That small, scared little boy he used to be still lives inside him, and he's sure he always will, but he lives as a memory now, not as a dictator. A reminder of how things were, and a push to make sure things never get that bad again. Because he wants to be important now. He wants to be seen.

He wants you to see him.

On this particular Monday, a balmy, breezy May afternoon, he’s sitting primly but comfortably outside, stealing glances at his watch as he stares out to the horizon.

Soon enough, what he’s waiting for arrives: you, bustling in through the front door. You’ve been sharing the apartment for a few years now, and he waits as he hears your familiar footsteps roam around the space. Even after all this time, he still feels a rush knowing that he’s what you’re looking for.

Finally, the door to the balcony slides open, and you move to stand in front of him, nudging his knee with yours.

“Birthday boy couldn’t make his presence known?” you ask, a teasing smirk gracing your pretty face

He gives you back a smirk of his own, his hands coming up to rest on your hips, pulling you just a little closer.

Baxter is 28 today. He’s had 28 birthdays, some bad, some worse. He’s spent some alone, too trapped in his own head to even consider the possibility of ever having a reason to celebrate anything, let alone himself. He spent plenty with the people who were supposed to love him but could never quite seem to get the hang of it.

But he’s also had a few truly remarkable birthdays — a disaster of a surfing lesson in Sunset Bird with Cove, followed by a cookout at your parents’ house. A day trip to Los Angeles to see a show that turned into a weeklong adventure to keep heading north to see the redwoods. Another surprise party at Jude and Scott’s, the whole gang in attendance, and unlike the first surprise party, he didn’t hate himself so much then that he thought he didn’t deserve it.

The through line of all the good birthdays, of course, was you. The biggest gift of his life that he never could have imagined getting, wrapped up all pretty for him — not only on his birthday, but every day. Every day, he woke with you in his arms, every night he fell asleep the same way.

Now, you reach out, gentle as ever, to pull him back to the present with the tuck of an errant wave of dark grey hair behind his ear.

“Ready for your present?” you ask.

He squeezes your hips gently, gazing up at you through long lashes, and says, “I’ve already gotten my present, darling.”

It’s cheesy, but it’s true. With you here with him looking at him like he’s someone worth loving, he has all he needs. More than he ever thought he’d have.

“Happy birthday, Baxter,” you tell him.

And when you lean in for a kiss, soft and sweet and familiar, he knows that this will be another good one.

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Hey guys did you know that if you have to get a rabies shot they also put a bunch of little baby shots all around the wound even if you have like 20 of them? They’ll just do it like 60 times if they need to lol I didn’t know but I LEARNED TODAY

Anyway working on Simon Riley x Single Mom and also something for Baxter’s birthday but my hands are killlling me, but see you soon ❤️❤️❤️

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Will you ever add onto Single Mother x Simon Riley ? just curious, no pressure !!

Yes! I have probably like half the next part written, I just got in my head about it because people have been so nice about it lol, but currently trying to get over myself so will hopefully have it done soon <3

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Simon knows growing pains. He remembers them from childhood -- a deep ache in his legs, sometimes so intense that it woke him in the night. Looking back on it now, it's clear what was happening and what the pain was doing. But at the time, it felt pointless.

He didn't know that his body was changing. He just knew it hurt.

And it hurts now, in a way, with you. A sweet agony, a shifting of his bones and muscles as they grow and stretch to accommodate something new. It doesn't feel pointless this time, though it does feel pointed. He's old enough to understand the concept that sometimes a thing has to break to change, but jaded enough to resent it.

He wants, so badly, to be ready-made for you. He wants for things to just work, to know the right things to say and do. He wants to know how to love you without second-guessing, and without it reminding of him of why it's all so hard for him. But he's long-since learned that just wanting something doesn't make it yours.

So Simon suffers the aches. With every kiss, every kind word, every time you hold him through the night with a touch so soft it undoes him, he lets himself feel the pain. Because he knows, down to his bones, that the pain will get him to where he's supposed to be.

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Big big fan of Simon doing literally anything if his little love wants him to. No shame, no embarrassment -- he's got someone like you loving him and caring enough about him to want to do things with him/have him to things for you? What's he got to be embarrassed about?

Holding your purse at the store while you try on clothes -- what, you've never seen a man with a purse before? He wears the dumb little Crocs you bought him with the stupid little charms on walks around the neighborhood and it doesn't faze him in the least. He takes you to the fair and you look at him with big eyes, asking him if he'll get his face painted with you, put those eyes away, sweetheart. You don't have to beg for anything, not ever, not with him.

It's because all at once Simon is a Grade A Yearner, comfortable enough in his masculinity not to let things that would run all over smaller men bother him in the slightest, and so actively thankful, always, to have someone like you care for him. Nothing with you is a burden and everything is a gift. He'll never stop thanking you for it.

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Simon couldn't tell you the first thing he noticed about you, because he didn't notice you in small little pieces -- it was an explosion of awareness. He didn't see your eyes from across the way, your smile didn't stand out in a crowd. He just looked up one day, and there you were, and his world turned upside down.

But once he gets to know you, once he does see all of your individual parts laid out for him, there is one thing attribute that stands out just a hair above the rest, and that's just how soft you are.

You're so soft that it feels like a luxury to hold you. It's some extravagance that he somehow gets to indulge in, and he always takes advantage of it. When you're getting ready in the morning, he'll stand just behind you in the bathroom, brushing his teeth with one hand while his other rests under your shirt, absently stroking your stomach. Or when you're washing the dishes, he'll stand behind you there too, his arms wrapped around you and his chin on your shoulder, his face pressed against your neck.

He likes when you wear something a little short, not because he really cares what you wear, just because it's nice to be able to feel your bare skin when he keeps his hand on your thigh on drives. And when he gives you a random little grope, just a big paw of a hand on your chest squeezing, sometimes he's being fresh, sure, but sometimes he'll tell you with a look so sincere it almost hurts that it's not about being sexual, it's just comforting.

Because all his life, Simon has known hard things. He's lived in his own skin and felt only the rough scrape of his own fingers over scarred flesh and solid muscle for what feels like far too long. So now that he gets the plush warmth of you to wrap himself up in?

It's no wonder he can't keep his hands to himself.

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I just want somebody to hold my hand and listen to me talk for like three hours about these stupid country songs I think work as little biographical snippets for Ghost and I really don't think that's too much to ask for.

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Simon, though he'll never tell you, daydreams during quiet moments. A lull in a mission, a night when he just can't seem to fall asleep despite the warmth of you in his arms. And it's not about fantastical things, nothing bizarre at all.

It's just about you. About how things could be different.

Things now are wonderful, absolute perfection. The life you have given him is more than he ever could have imagined ... but he does imagine, from time to time, how much he wishes he could have found you sooner.

He pictures meeting you when he was a child and how you'd be a bright spot during those dark days. He thinks of those photos he's seen of you as a kid, toothless smiles and bright eyes, and he just wishes he could have known you then. He wishes you could have been childhood sweethearts, that you could have been his first kiss, that he could have proposed to you when you were young, with a paper ring but real promises.

Simon daydreams about the moments that could have been: sneaking into your room while your parents were asleep, just to talk and be together, taking you for a drive when he got his license. And he wonders just how different he would have turned out if you'd have been there to love him when no one else did.

Would he still be a soldier? Would he have ever felt like he needed the mask? Who would he be, if he would have met you sooner?

And on darker days, he focuses in on the time. He knows it's silly because it doesn't matter anyway -- he can't go back and change things, he can't magically make it so that he's known you all his life -- but sometimes he wants it so much he can't stand it. When he met you, he was already knocking on 40, and with the way he's lived, he'd be lucky to squeeze out another 40 years. Even then, it's just not enough time.

In the end, no matter what route his train of thought takes, it always ends the same way. He thinks of you, you as you are now, the you he knows better than he knows anything. Your hands and eyes and lips, the thing you told him on your first date, the way you smiled at him the first time you woke up in his bed -- he breaks all of it down, all of your parts and all your history, into little tiny pieces until the nagging thoughts are gone and all that's left is an ocean of you. He drowns in it. Beautiful oblivion.

You are the best part of him. But he's been starved for so long, it's no wonder he gets a little greedy.