“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
repost from my old deleted account tobeholyistobeempty - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.
————-
it’s honestly not even your fault.
you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.
simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.
needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.
he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.
“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”
the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.
“tha right?”
“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”
simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.
maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.
hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.
“you’re drunk,” he breathes.
you grin. “so’re you.”
“not even half as much as you.”
you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. it’s quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t stripped mid-hallway. it’s just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.
“m’not that drunk,” you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. “i mean—i am, but not like…memory loss drunk. i’m still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.”
it’s only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.
“..and how insanely big your hands are,” you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. “like—biblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell y’that?”
and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth you’re beginning to feed.
“don’t.” he says, and it’s torn. “not now.”
he’s all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesn’t break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.
“y’ever choke a girl out with them?” you press, unfettered. “not like, unconscious, but like. in bed?”
he exhales. slow. almost a growl.
“jesus. stop talkin’.”
“why?” you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone who’s very much not being innocent. “am i makin’ you nervouuus?”
his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.
“no,” he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. “you’re makin’ me hard.”
he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply won’t let him keep inside.
and you?
you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.
“fuckin’ finally.” you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. “thought i’d have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit that—“
he doesn’t let you finish that thought.
“fuck’s sake, y’little minx.” he’s dragging you now, as if he’s realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point he’s half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. “y’need to stop talkin.”
“you like it,” you slur between unsteady steps. “y’like me like this cause you’re a freakkk—“
his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.
“i’d like you more if y’were unconscious.” he huffs, hard. “or duct-taped.”
that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.
“was that supposed t’be a threat?” you ask, lips glistening. “cause if so, it’s workingggg.”
he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. “bloody hell.”
by the time you make it to your door, he’s breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.
and you hardly even realize you’ve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.
your thighs tense. he notices.
“fuck, simon.” you can’t stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. “i’ve been into you for ages, y’know.”
he pauses. boot in hand.
“…what?”
he says it low. like a warning - like a don’t you fuckin start. but you’re too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while you’re flat on your back beneath him.
your lashes flutter.
“jus sayin- since, like. you’re in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.” you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. “thought y’should know.”
he looks at you like you’ve hit him with a brick.
your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. “used to think about it—you—when i couldn’t sleep.”
he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip he’s got on your ankle could shatter bone.
“….you tellin me y’think bout me when y’touch yourself?” he asks.
“god yes.” you don’t even realize you’ve said it. “you. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behave—“
“—fuck.” it punches out of him like it hurts.
the silence falls heavy. he doesn’t blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, it’s like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.
not fully, but enough.
you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. “d’you think about it?”
he doesn’t answer. not at first. then—
“only when i breathe.”
your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. “you mean that?”
he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.
he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. “i mean, if you don’t stop talkin, m’gonna fuckin’ fold.”
the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.
“tell me.” you murmur. “you think about fucking me? what i’d sound like moaning your—“
before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places — and he sees it.
“enough.” it’s barely a whisper. “christ. fuck. you’re gonna make me do somethin’ stupid.”
you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.
“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.
your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. “please.”
his eyes snap shut.
“y’dont know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. “ain’t gonna wake up with you hatin me.”
even drunk you realize he’s a man of morals.
“you think i’d regret it?” you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesn’t respond. “simon. i just told you i’ve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if it’d hurt—“
his palm tightens over your lips again.
“one more fuckin’ word and i’ll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldn’t touch you right now.” he spits. “if y’even remember this tomorrow, y’come say it to me sober. promise on every grave i’ve ever stood over i’ll bend y’over on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.”
then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.
“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”
“mhm.” he hums, take a step or two toward the door. “fuckin hope you will.”
The air in the pub was thick with the scent of cheap lager, woodsmoke, and the rowdy energy of off-duty soldiers. Your team, a ragtag squad of scouts, was currently six rounds deep and losing the battle against gravity.
You were slumped in a corner booth, your chin resting precariously on your palm. Across from you, Miller and Jax were arguing over the merits of the SAS, their voices rising over the jukebox.
"I’m telling you," Miller slurred, slamming a glass onto the sticky table. "Captain Price. It’s the beard. The man radiates... paternal authority."
Jax snorted, nearly spilling his drink. "Price? No way. Soap MacTavish. Have you seen that man move? Plus, the accent. I’d let him read me the phone book."
Across the room, at a much quieter, shadowed table, the 141 sat. They weren't drinking nearly as much, but they were close enough to hear the absolute chaos coming from your booth. You didn't notice Ghost—positioned with his back to the wall—stiffen slightly as Miller turned his blurry gaze toward you.
"Alright" Miller nudged your shoulder. "You've been quiet. We’re ranking the legends. Who’s it gonna be? Who would you... you know. Smash."
The word echoed a bit too loudly in the sudden lull of the pub’s music.
You blinked slowly, your brain feeling like it was swimming in molasses. You let out a long, hazy sigh and tipped your head back, staring at the cracked ceiling tiles.
"The Lieutenant," you murmured.
The table went dead silent. Even Jax stopped laughing. "Ghost?" he whispered, leaning in. "Are you serious? He’s terrifying. He’s like... a brick wall with a skull for a face."
You rolled your eyes, a lopsided, drunken grin spreading across your face. "Exactly," you hummed, your voice dropping into a conspiratorial, husky tone that carried further than you realized. "Do you have any idea what’s under all that gear? All that... brooding? It’s the quiet ones, Jax. I bet he’s got hands that could..."
You trailed off, making a vague, suggestive gesture with your hands before dropping your head onto the table with a dull thunk. "I’d climb him like a tree. Even if he didn’t say a word. Especially if he didn't."
Miller and Jax erupted into hooting and hollering, slapping the table. You just groaned into the wood, blissfully unaware of the heavy silence that had fallen over the 141's table.
The Aftermath
Soap was vibrating with suppressed laughter, clutching his stomach as he looked at Ghost. Price was hiding a smirk behind his pint.
Ghost, however, sat perfectly still. His gloved fingers tightened around his glass until the ice rattled. His eyes, dark and unreadable behind the mask, were fixed firmly on the back of your messy head.
"Climb you like a tree, LT?" Soap whispered, his voice cracking with glee. "That's quite the compliment."
Ghost didn't respond. He stood up, the legs of his chair scraping harshly against the floor. He didn't look at his team as he began walking toward your booth.
"Oh, she’s dead," Miller whispered, seeing the massive shadow loom over your table. "She’s so dead."
A heavy, gloved hand landed on the table right next to your ear. You looked up, squinting through your fringe, and found yourself staring directly into the cold, dark lenses of Ghost’s mask.
"The Lieutenant, is it?" his voice was a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated right through your chest.
You didn't flinch. Instead, you gave him a slow, dizzy blink and a crooked smile. "Speak of the devil," you chirped, reaching out with a daring, drunken finger to poke his tactical vest. "You’re very... sturdy."
Ghost caught your wrist in mid-air. He didn't pull away.
"You're cut off," he muttered, though he didn't sound angry—just strangely strained. He looked over at your terrified teammates. "I’m taking her back to barracks before she says something she really regrets."
As he hauled you upward, throwing your arm over his massive shoulder to keep you upright, you leaned your head against his bicep and sighed contentedly.
"See?" you shot a look back at Miller. "Like a tree."
Ghost’s grip on your waist tightened significantly. "Shut up, Sergeant," he growled, but as he steered you toward the exit, Soap could have sworn he saw the skin around the Lieutenant's eyes crinkle just a fraction.
You’re Somebody Else | Ghost x Fem!Reader | Part I
Note: This is not a new part - haha I’m currently in my exam phase sooo yeahh, but I decided to split the prologue into two parts because I personally believes it flows better.
This fic has religious undertones at least in this part, I hope I don’t make anyone uncomfortable with this. I grew up Christian (tho I’m an atheist now) and I thought a bit about how I would react if I was suddenly in a parallel universe where I and several other people are supposed to be dead.
Warnings: Death, Mentions of Gore, Angst, COD Typical Violence, Mentions of Original Characters, Mention of Religion and Hell, Inaccurate Depiction of Medical Stuff, Injuries and prolly Military, Transmigration (lol)
Summary: You watched him die and yet he’s somehow still alive. You’re certain that you’ve died too and yet you’re still kicking. Is this a message from the universe? A second chance to make things right? To confess? You want to believe it but you quickly realize that he’s not the same man you knew and loved. Yet your heart is fluttering when he touches you. Can you love this new version of him?
Word Count: 3,8k
Taglist: -
If you want to be tagged in my stories send me a pm with the fandom/character name! Or comment on the fic :)
Masterlist
Prologue, Part II, Part III, …
When you open your eyes again the world is on fire and you’re looking at the ceiling of a helicopter.
Someone moves in your field of vision, but you can barely make out their features as the lights of the helicopter don’t seem to work. Your ears are ringing, and you can’t understand what the man is saying but based on his expression something bad is happening.
He’s a marine you realize belatedly when your eyes adjust to the dark environment and for a moment you wonder if you must continue to fight even after your death.
It was kind of stupid— no, really stupid. Stupid and pathetic to have a crush on your Lieutenant. You’re not entirely sure how you came to the realization that you had feelings for him. All you knew, was that one day, he gave you the nastiest ten second stare of his life before he sharply turned around and walked away.
Nasty as in: pure judgement.
Because unbeknownst to you, Simon had witnessed you (just before you saw him) smashing four slices of pizza together into your mouth after Johnny had dared you to for a full bottle of Cognac. Hey— you’ll take whatever it was as long as it could make you feel like heaven for five hours and sour when you wake up.
Since then, you’ve acknowledged your little feelings towards the cold, quiet and ruthless man (who were you kidding? You’re amazing at acknowledging your feelings). Johnny had picked up on it too. It was pretty obvious when you looked up at Simon like he was a sweet treat… Which, he is. But you won’t tell anyone how you feel.
The amount of times Johnny had witnessed you stumbling and hit the floor after seeing Simon for just a second, to the times he saw you choke on your own spit after Simon called for you; he’d consider you utterly desperate for the old hag (yes, Johnny considers Simon an old hag, even if it was directed towards older ladies. He practically acts like one so why not make a new nickname for him?)
Johnny doesn’t say a word though. He doesn’t tease, like he usually would’ve. He kept his mouth shut but his eyes wide every time he sees you interact with Simon. Honestly, he just wanted to see how long it’ll take for you to break. And… It was free entertainment.
You’ve done several things to try and get Simon’s attention. To dropping off paperwork that he could’ve gotten himself, making him tea even though he already had one in his office, even buying a fruit tart from the nearest bakery and claimed that “they gave me an extra one”.
And every time you walked away after giving Simon a delightful treat with the same lie, Simon always says the same thing.
“Pretty privilege,” he grumbles under his breath and slides over the brown box with the plastic opening at the top. He examines it like he always does; as though he was wary of poison being in there. But the truth was, he was just jealous that you happen to get a “free” dessert every time you go to his favorite bakery. He’s pretty sure the university student over the counter was terrified of him too. Yet, here you were, giving him your leftovers! Maybe you were doing this because you knew about his biggest secret… his favorite bakery shop. And you waltz in his office, dropping off an extra dessert because you wanted to bully antagonize him!
Simon was oblivious.
Very oblivious.
So oblivious that Kyle watched you “fix” Simon’s vest up before training. He stood there with Johnny with the flattest expression, watching you pat him down like you were some airport security guard. All while, Simon’s eyes were blank, staring ahead of him like a child waiting while their mother fixes up their hair before school. “Reckon he’ll fold?” he murmurs to Johnny.
Johnny gives Kyle a glance and the evil-ist smirk he’s ever seen, “is the water green?”
Kyle scrunches his nose, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Wot?” he drags out the confusion.
“Like, is the sky blue but instead, is the water green— answer’s no. That’s your answer,” Johnny explains, watching Kyle as his face contorts into more confusion, a slight scowl on his lips.
“Why didn’t you just say no?”
When Johnny finally gets sick of rewatching season one, episode three-hundred-and-sixty-five of “When Will You Like Me”, directed by you, played by you and Simon, he finally bombards Simon with questions involving you. It’s not his fault his two favorite characters from his free entertainment won’t progress!
“Got yah ‘nother dessert, eh?” Johnny asks, leaning against the uncomfortable chair.
Simon strictly had one chair and one chair only in his office for a reason. How in the world did Johnny manage to find a chair and bring it into his office? He looks up from his paperwork, the office chair underneath him squeaking just a bit. “I’m working.”
Johnny smiles, the same cocky smiles he usually gives people when he knows that his presence is bothering them. “I see that,” he begins, watching Simon go back to filing paperwork like his job depends on it. It does, but right now, it shouldn’t. “I think yer bloody special. Never gives me desserts,” he says, talking about you.
Simon finally sets the pen down besides the paper and sighs through his nose. It was clear that his friend-slash-teammate wasn’t leaving anytime soon. “You want it?” he asks, sliding the box over. This time, filled with macaroons. “Dunno why they keep giving me treats. ‘s like they enjoy seeing me in agony.”
Yeah, Simon was very oblivious.
And so was Johnny.
“Tummy ache?” he questions.
Simon’s brows knitted together behind his balaclava and shook his head, “bloody hell- no—“ he began, shaking his head again as if the thought of getting an upset stomach over dessert was unheard of, “jus’ seems like they’re rubbin’ in my face ‘bout how they get free desserts,” he grumbles, taking the box back.
Funny thing about Simon; he offered Johnny the macaroons and immediately takes them back. Happens way too often.
“Ahh…” Johnny whispers out, mouth ajar as he watches Simon set the box in his secret drawer (definitely does not keep protein bars and snacks in there).
Simon sat there momentarily, side eyeing Johnny as he examines his office. He never stays too long in his room; says it’s too stuffy and gray. So why was he choosing to sit in here? It was pissing him off. But while he’s on the topic of you, he might as well vent a little. “Yah see that face of ‘em and jus’ can’t help but puke. Bloody lashes makes ‘em look innocent,” Simon says with a scoff.
Johnny blinks.
“Acts all proper ‘n all when I know they once hopped a fence and tore their uniform up. Arse was scraped up and who had to deal with the paperwork? Had the audacity to offer me dinner for the nuisance,” Simon shakes his head, “Don’ even get me started on that voice of theirs. Too bitterly sweet. No one in our field’ll take ‘em seriously.”
Johnny blinks again.
Then, he came to the realization.
In Simon’s weird way, he feels the same way you do. In a… ‘gosh, this person makes me so mad. I want to kiss them’ kind of way?
Maybe he’ll get a season two of this free show after all.
“Had to kiss ‘em once to shut that mouth of theirs.”
Johnny didn’t blink this time. His jaw though? Dropped. “WHAT?!” Somehow, he lost his Scottish accent.
Simon snapped his head over to look at his friend, realizing what he had said. “Drunk-“ he admitted. But the damage was already done. “Fucks sake! It happened once! Happened last week when you forced us all to go out to the pub! Little shit didn’t even remember a thing so don’t tell a soul before I request you to be sent off on a solo op!”
Oh, Johnny skipped a few episodes. Perhaps even a whole season!
Bone and Blossom Chapter One - Bloomcrest (Half-Giant König x Dryad Reader)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Rating: E
Category: F/M
Relationship: König x You (Reader)
Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Soft König (Call of Duty), Female Reader-Insert, Half-giants, Lich, Dryads - Freeform, Monstertober 2025, Monster Romance, Graphic Description of Injury, Major Character Injury, Mentions of Myth & Folklore, Language Barrier, Gentle König (Call of Duty), Slow Burn, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Size Difference, Size Kink, Tender Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Creampie, soft angst with a happy ending, poetic prose, Monsterfucking | Teratophilia, Opposites Attract, plot heavy, Magical Pregnancy, Hybrids, Worldbuilding
Length: 4,511 Words
—
In the heart of the dark woods lived a creature of old.
Eyes fiery blue, skin of alabaster and bones obsidian cold,
Born of a father, mountainous in form,
And a mother warped beyond nature’s norm —
A child of ruin veiled in shadows bold.
Beware, cried the villagers of the Wildes, beware!
Beware the hunger that waits in hallowed lair.
When dusk bleeds into the trees, call home your wandering young;
Bar your doors, shutter your windows, heed the warning sung.
For when the howl rides the wind, silent as the dead,
It takes what will never be found, leaving only dread.
You had taken this to heart at such a young age, wary of the unspeakable beings lurking in the dark. But as you grew older and wiser, you found that they were mere warnings, meant more to scare little ones into obedience.
With the years gone by, you’d hear the same warning repeated in academies and libraries, like an entertaining song spoken by travelling bards. The corner of your mouth would always quirk upward in amusement. There was nothing in the forest — of that you were certain.
You're a daughter of nature, a true Dryad in tune with the pulse of the earth itself. Leaves tangled in your hair and vines coiled around your limbs like living tattoos, the mark of your clan, proof of your closeness to the soil and root. The earth whispered its warnings to you long before danger ever came. The only creatures worth worrying over were the territorial Driders or Werefolk wandering through the thickets. Everything else was nothing more than an old wives’ tale.
Bloomcrest brought a variety of flora and wildlife through your land, including rare species that only bloomed only once every hundred years. You were determined to gather such rarities while you still could. Even with time on your side, another century is too long a wait, not when the world could change at any given moment, and war could once again threaten the lands.
The journey would be a long way from home, so you grabbed whatever you needed: a waterskin, some herbs and berries, all packed in your knapsack.
So, once dawn arrives, you set out.
—
The Wildes had changed over the years. On your walk, you noticed that borders are now off-limits and that portions of the land are scarred by war. Yet despite it all, it was still a place you roamed, its familiarity giving you confidence even as danger lingered in the scars of its past.
Travelling through the Wildes alone might seem unwise to some, but centuries of walking its paths — even during the war, when you slipped between territories to gather supplies — had taught you its patterns and hidden safe routes.
As you walked, the sun barely filtered through the thick canopy. The forest was very much alive, birds drifting through the air and echoing their songs to one another — a language you understood, each note marking the life blooming all around.
You often paused to rest or to gather herbs you discovered along the way, wrapping each one in wax paper to preserve them. When your journey brought you to a clearing adorned with wildflowers, you couldn’t help but scream with joy upon discovering an abundance of rare finds.
The clearing was vast, yet the trees around it bent inward, forming a natural dome above, their branches weaving together to cradle the sky. In the very center, the faintest circle of sunlight spilled through, illuminating the wildflowers like a spotlight on a hidden stage, and in that spotlight lay a small patch of grass with a monument.
As you approached, you saw two ancient texts engraved side by side into the stone. You didn’t know what they meant, but the way the light touched them filled you with reverence. You knelt in front of it, brushing a few patches of moss from the stone before conjuring a couple of lavender stalks and placing them gently at its base.
You uttered a small prayer, hoping the gods above would bless your journey before you resumed collecting.
—
In the midst of your gathering, you heard a rustling sound, accompanied by the wind echoing through a hollow structure, reminiscent of a whistle. It felt as though a cave was nearby, yet there were no hills or mountains in sight where an entrance could be. The rustling sounded too intentional to be merely the wind.
Your leaves bristled, and the vines on your limbs coiled tighter, a subtle warning from the earth itself. You stood still, scanning the clearing carefully, leaning close to the soil and listening to the faint pulse of life beneath your feet. The forest spoke to you, whispering caution, yet nothing revealed itself.
You stepped lightly, your vines brushing gently over flowers and ferns as you moved through the clearing. The usual sounds of birds and rustling leaves filled the air, and you paused every so often to breathe in the damp, earthy scent of the soil.
Something about the ground beneath your feet felt…softer than usual, almost like it was shifting under your weight. You frowned and tested the earth carefully with your toes, finding it spongy in places, but there was no way to know how deep the softness went.
Cautiously, you moved toward a small patch of sun-dappled ground until the light caught a subtle glimmer tucked between two stones, half-hidden among ordinary plants. You crouched closer, examining the shape.
You have found the rarest flower, spoken of by the elders from the Dryadic Temple. A flower that blooms upon the death of a Lich, with its roots feeding on the bones of old. It had petals of deep crimson flecked with black and white, golden bulbs clustered in its center, and leaves a vivid emerald green. You let your fingers trace the edges of the petals, admiring their delicate shimmer. Carefully, you wrapped your vines around its stem, lifting it gently from the earth without disturbing the fragile roots.
Just as the flower was free, a faint groan rumbled beneath your foot. You froze, eyes widening as a patch of soil wobbled, shifted violently, then gave way. Instinctively, your Dryadic powers shot outward, clutching at roots, moss, and vines, trying to hold the earth together. But it was too late. The ground collapsed into darkness beneath you. You flailed, your powers barely slowing the fall, leaves and dirt scattering in every direction. You hit hard, pain lancing through your limbs, and the void swallowed you whole.
There was scuttling in the dark, a dragging noise that grew louder by the second until it stopped just above your head. Dizzy from the fall, you thought you were dreaming, until something lifted you from the ground, your vines dangling limply from your limbs.
You barely heard a murmur, unintelligible, sounding like two or three voices intermingled together. You ached everywhere, the pain making you black out again as you floated away, a weightless breath caught in your throat.
—
The sound of a log clattering reverberated in the air, waking you up from your slumber.
As your eyes adjusted, you noticed a bonfire blazing in the middle of the dark expanse. You tried to turn but felt a sharp pain course through your left leg.
A voice rose, high yet hollow, and the language spoken was foreign to you, bouncing off the walls with a strange cadence that felt almost…unnatural. You sought the source, eyes scanning until you saw a dark mass sitting in the corner, away from the firelight, as if cowering from it.
“Where am I?” you asked, wincing as you tried to lift your upper body. Soft furs caressed your skin beneath you. The dark mass beside you shifted and moved to the side, and you followed its form.
You didn’t receive an answer; instead, the mass moved further into the cave.
“Wait!” you exclaimed unintentionally, panic blooming in your chest. It’s not like you were afraid of the dark, but you couldn’t deny that you felt uneasy.
A high-pitched whisper echoed around you. Were there others? Before you could ponder the thought, it disappeared, leaving you alone in the firelight.
You didn’t know how long it had been gone, but you must have fallen back asleep, exhausted from your journey and the injury on your leg.
When you came to once again, it was from the sound of footfalls, and it took a moment for your vision to clear.
A figure stood before you, its long arms marked with intriguing mottling and its back slightly hunched over. A dark, burlap sack covered its face. When it turned to look at you, your breath caught in your throat at the sight of its piercing blue eyes glowing through two holes in the burlap. Surprisingly gentle, the eyes held a hint of humanity, and its expression conveyed an emotion that could only be described as fear.
You found his fear curious, almost endearing. Yet there was something more — a subtle flicker of magic you couldn’t name. Not entirely mortal, but something older, stranger. It felt as though he held secrets that even the cave itself had never revealed.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sound was the steady crackle of the fire and the faint hum of the cave breathing around you. You stayed still, studying the figure as he lingered just beyond the light’s reach. He made no move to harm you, only shifting his weight from one leg to the other, as if uncertain whether to stay or flee. When he finally stepped closer, his movements were careful, almost hesitant — and only then did you truly notice how massive he was, towering over the firelight, broad-shouldered and hulking, scars adorning his torso. Yet despite his size, every motion he made was careful, almost meek, a stark contrast to the strength his body possessed.
You watched as he set two stone slabs at the edges of the bonfire, then lifted a wide, flat slab to rest across them. A moment later, he laid a large chunk of meat on the heated surface, and it began to sizzle. The cave quickly filled with a nutty, savoury aroma, one that would have made your stomach growl, if it could. Your lineage wasn’t of the Carnivorous Dryads of Shadoweald; you survived on berries gathered from the wilds or through sunbasking, a communal feast similar to the ones the humans host in Farrhaven, feeding thousands.
But in a dark cave, it poses risks, especially if you stay longer, and with your current condition, you're worried about your well-being.
You tried to sit up but failed, and the figure turned and noticed you struggling. He grew a little wary, his body language portraying his discomfort, or pity, as he whispered words you didn’t understand. You also realized his voice was rather high-pitched than you expected, a sound that you expected to come from a man your size, not a Half-Giant.
When you tried sitting up again, he closed the distance in a matter of seconds, but not intruding, his blue eyes carefully studying your leg.
He spoke again, but you only shook your head as his words were only gibberish to your hearing. “I’m hurt…need a splint,” you say, but it was fruitless as both of you couldn’t understand each other. You needed something to straighten your leg in order for your magic to heal the damage. The twigs and sticks you’re able to conjure up were unfortunately too flimsy to carry your weight, not unless you exerted more energy.
You didn’t want to risk it, afraid it would drain your life force, given your current state. Instead, you gestured for a piece of wood, your fingers forming a hook as you traced its imaginary outline, then pointed to your injured leg. You repeated this once or twice, saying, “Splint…wood,” before the figure seemed to understand and went to the neatly stacked firewood.
When he got back, he had found a perfectly thin yet sturdy piece and carefully slid the splint beside your injured leg. You used your vines to secure it in place, sweat beading down your forehead. You caught sight of his reaction, intrigued by your power.
Once you were finished, you lay back against the furs, panting and exhausted. He didn’t move away as he studied you, but when you looked back at him, he recoiled slightly, his eyes wide as if he had somehow offended you. You found this reaction comical, but you buried your laughter deep within, not wanting to be cruel.
—
The sizzling of the meat and the crackling of the fire were the only sounds reverberating through the air.
When the meat was ready, he offered you a small piece. However, you shook your head in refusal.
“I don’t eat meat,” you said simply. His eyes went wide and got a little glassy at your tone, and you almost laughed — not because you thought it hilarious, but because the reaction caught you off guard.
You pointed toward the ceiling. “Sun.” Then, folding your fingers as if plucking food from the air, you brought them to your mouth. “Eat.” You hoped the gesture would convey that you fed on solar nourishment. He watched carefully, head tilted as the wheels turned in his head.
You sighed and decided to show him a symbol on the ground using a conjured-up stick. You drew him a visual of a plant and the sun. You pointed at the plant, then to yourself. He nodded, letting you go on, and you did as you suggested at the sun, and then gestured the movement for ‘eating’ again. Immediately, his eyes lit up, and he understood.
“Need sunlight, or I’ll die,” you said, groaning, but it was more of an exaggeration; you wouldn’t perish immediately, but the slow process would’ve been devastating and could damage your life force. Oh, to be a Mushroom Dryad, where you thrive at any time of day, more so in a cave, but alas, you were but a mere Plant Dryad reliant on sunlight.
—
He carried you carefully, and at first, you thought he was taking you outside. But as you went deeper into the cave, patches of light began seeping through. He avoided them, maneuvering his body this way and that, and you didn’t understand why until he reached a vast chamber. A skylight stretched above, and soil, grass, and flowers carpeted the middle of the floor. This was where you must have fallen through, and you couldn’t help but whistle at how far up it was.
Judging by the sunlight’s angle, it was just past midday. He stepped further into the chamber but stopped just before the sun could touch him.
Gently, he set you down and helped you to your feet. You stared at each other awkwardly for a moment.
He gestured the Commonfolk word “eat,” and you used your vines to guide yourself forward, limping into the sunlight with shaky breath.
When you almost tripped, he lunged forward. The sunlight hit his arm, instantly steaming his skin and reddening it, and he recoiled with a hiss.
It dawned on you — he wasn’t a sun-born like you. He was an offspring of darkness, a creature moulded by shadows rather than light. The thought intrigued you, and you found yourself studying him more closely. He was clearly a Half-Giant, but something in his blood hinted at a different kind of magic, something you barely understood.
You shifted slightly, allowing the sun to warm your skin. The leaves in your hair and the vines coiling around your limbs seemed to absorb the light, rejuvenating you. Even as your body soaked in the nourishment, your mind kept drifting back to him and the strong yet oddly vulnerable presence he radiated.
He watched you feed, and you could hear his stomach growl. A pang of guilt seared through you, but he remained patient, waiting as you finished.
The wind whistled somewhere in the distance, and you hummed absentmindedly, lost in thought.
Finally, you broke the silence. “What’s your name?” you asked, curiosity spilling out a little too fast. He stared at you blankly, not understanding.
You pressed a hand to your chest and spoke your name slowly, introducing yourself.
His eyes lit up, and he repeated your name, letting it roll off his tongue with excitement.
You smiled and waited for him to respond.
Again, you asked, “What’s your name?” pointing toward him. He mirrored your gesture, pressing a hand to his broad chest, “König,” he said softly, his voice shy.
“König,” you echoed, curiosity tugging at you over the meaning of his name.
“Thank you, König,” you added with a smile. You noticed his eyes crinkling, as if he were smiling behind the burlap.
You could tell it was morning again when König gently nudged you awake, his touch light and warm. When you glanced at him, he was motioning for the word “eat,” though he stumbled over it in his attempts to speak Commonfolk.
“Eht,” he said, the sound muffled beneath the burlap.
A giggle slipped out before you could stop it. “It’s eat, but that’s close enough!” you replied with a playful grin.
He carried you back to the chamber but settled you near the entrance, where the morning light stretched in at a low, golden angle, preventing him from going any further. There was a flicker of guilt in his eyes for how far you had to limp, but you reassured him you were fine, using your vines to slowly propel yourself forward.
This time, he had brought food, and the two of you ate in silence, facing each other like old friends sharing a cozy meal.
You noticed that instead of removing the burlap, he merely pulled the bottom part a bit forward, shovelling little pieces into his mouth in a curious manner. It was an odd gesture, but one you chose not to question. If he preferred to keep his face a secret, it was not your place to pry. Still, a part of you was intrigued, wondering what lay beneath that fabric.
When it was time for you to return, the sun had danced a few feet higher in the sky, and he was able to escort you out of the chamber.
As he carried you, you couldn’t help but gaze at the burlap, which had frayed at the edges, adorned with a small tear at one corner. There were also strange red ochre marks where the eyeholes were, and you found yourself wondering if it was a stylistic choice or if he had cried blood at one point. The latter thought felt too morbid, and you quickly decided against dwelling on it.
—
It had become routine for König to carry you back to the chamber whenever it was time for you to feed. The space had begun to feel almost familiar. He always set you down near the light, careful not to jostle your injured leg, and waited until you were settled before stepping back into the shadows.
As night fell — or at least you assumed it was night, judging by the way König’s movements had slowed and his posture had begun to sag — he eventually drifted into a deep, heavy sleep. The fire crackled softly, throwing faint light over the stone walls. You busied yourself with readjusting the splint and tightening the vines, wincing each time your fingers slipped or brushed against tender skin.
A low grunt escaped you without meaning to. König stirred almost immediately, his head lifting from where he’d been resting against the wall. His eyes glowed faintly in the dimness as he blinked at you, then shifted closer. With a careful hand, he assisted, his large fingers guiding the splint upward while you secured it tight.
Afterwards, you thanked him, but he only let out a soft hum, his gaze lingering a moment longer than usual.
—
In the days that followed, besides König assisting with your recovery, you tried to teach him how to speak Commonfolk.
You had taught him words like sun, eat, splint, take, sleep, and berries. Every time he tried to repeat your words, he stumbled or mispronounced them entirely, but you still praised his efforts, the corners of your lips curling in amusement and warmth. Each attempt seemed to make him shine a little brighter in your eyes, and you couldn’t help but lean closer when he hesitated over a sound, wanting to offer him encouragement.
One night, you found a small bundle of berries beside the furs. You had wondered where he had gone, only to realize he had ventured outside to hunt and gather food. The thought that he had cared enough to risk the outdoors for you stirred something unexpected in your chest — a flutter of appreciation, tinged with a sweetness that made your heart beat a little faster.
There were times you caught him watching you sleep, his gaze gentle, almost reverent. And you noticed the occasional dreamy sigh that slipped from him, quiet but unmistakable, as though your presence alone brought him comfort. It made you feel...seen, in a way that went beyond the ordinary.
You couldn’t deny that his eyes were captivating—how they softened when you spoke, how his hands lingered just a moment longer than necessary. His attention was constant, subtle, yet entirely consuming.
You weren’t blind, nor were you foolish. Although you didn’t have an inflated ego, you couldn’t ignore the truth: König might be infatuated with you. Just as undeniable was the way your heart warmed whenever he was near, the faint electricity that tingled along your fingertips whenever they brushed against his. Every gesture, every glance, seemed to etch itself into your memory, leaving you with a sense of anticipation that made the thought of leaving the cave increasingly unbearable.
He was beginning to leave his mark on you as well, and with each passing day, each shared meal, each gentle touch, the bond between you grew stronger, fragile yet undeniably real.
—
König grows quieter and more withdrawn as he senses your time together is coming to an end.
You were able to walk now, although with a limp, but you chose to spend another night to be with him. You convinced yourself it was because you weren’t ready for the long journey back to the village, but deep down, you knew it was really because you weren’t prepared to leave just yet.
You caught him looking again, although this time, his eyes showed a bit of sadness, aware that you were leaving sooner than he wanted.
You sat him down by the fire, caressing his hands, and there was a slight tremor when you touched them.
“König,” you began, removing your hands briefly on top of his as you conjured up a circlet made of vines. You offered it to him and wrapped it around his left wrist.
“Thank you,” you said, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. Before you could pull away, he slowly wrapped his arms around you, holding you flush against him. It caught you by surprise, but you let him, wrapping your arms around his neck. His form was solid against you, radiating a warmth that seeped through your skin. You hadn’t realized until that moment just how safe he made you feel.
You heard him whisper in his language, an unearthly undertone barely audible, but it was there, trembling as he held you close.
“I…I can’t stay,” you admitted, wishing you didn’t have to leave. He held you tighter, as if the word itself had anchored him to you. “Can’t stay,” he echoed softly, the syllables heavy with understanding. You felt the weight of his need, and your chest ached at the thought of leaving him alone. When he pulled away slightly, his eyes searched yours, full of longing, and you wondered if this cavern — this fragile warmth of firelight — was all he had.
When he placed you back down, you lingered in his arms a little longer, studying his eyes. You felt the pulse of connection between you, something that tethered you to him. You weren’t sure what it was, but you didn’t want it to fade.
Morning came, and there was a hint of sunlight at the end of the tunnel, glaring like white light. The sound of nature echoed into the cave, with birds chirping and the wind rustling through the trees. You could almost feel the sun on your skin, drawing you out, not because you were eager to leave, but because your body had been craving proper sunlight for a week, and your leg needed tending to.
You looked behind you, to König, and saw him hesitate. You could hear the wind blow outside as the gusts carried the clouds above, and soon the chamber in the cave was filled with specks of light from the cavern openings above. One lit König on the shoulder, and his skin immediately steamed; he jerked away from the light as if burned. You could see red marks on his skin, and you understood that he wouldn’t be seeing you off at the end of the tunnel.
You walked back to where he was, his frame towering over yours easily. You held out your hand for him to take, and he stared at your open palm before he looked at your face, searching your eyes.
“Can’t stay?” he echoed softly, the words fragile on his tongue. You smiled faintly and shook your head, reaching for his hand. Despite his palms dwarfing yours, his grasp was gentle, as if he feared that letting go would make you disappear.
“I’ll make sure to return, alright?” You said, tracing a lazy circle into his palm. You could see him tremble, like he didn’t want you to leave, but you’ve been deprived of sunlight, and you needed sustenance and aid.
"I'll be back, I promise," you reassure him again, but he won't let go of your hand. He hunched over and carefully pulled you in for a hug, his body shaking. You felt something warm and wet trail down your back, and you realized he was crying.
“König…I’ll come back, I promise I will,” you say, patting his shoulder. When he finally let you go, you could see the burlap soaked through; his blue eyes held a wistfulness to them.
You gesture for him to lean down, and when he did, you gave him a quick kiss on his covered cheek.
When you pulled away, you held his hand for a moment longer before you slowly limped back outside.
He couldn’t follow; the sunlight would destroy him. Yet you heard the faint whispers he uttered behind you. The words were foreign to your ears, but their meaning reached you all the same — a quiet sorrow, a plea carried on the tremor of his voice.
When you finally stepped into the light, you looked back. König’s shape was already fading into the depths of the cave, swallowed by shadow.
You swear, you can feel him shooting daggers at you in any room. A heavy weight that settles onto your skin.
In the mess, during training, sparring, or even just walking through hallways. His eyes are locked onto you, something that your friends love to joke about but mostly it just unsettles you.
You think he hates you.
It's frustrating. You've worked your ass off to get into this task force, and he acts like you're a damn rookie. You know his scope is always on you in missions, grunting out warnings before the enemy even registers to you. During spars, his eyes are locked onto your form, mentally picking out the flaws. It pisses you off.
So on a particularly bad day when he practically babysits you from across the range, carefully watching you load your gun and aim, you talk to Price.
"Can you fuckin call your lieutenant off?" Then, at the single raised brow price gives you, "...captain."
Price looks both extremely unimpressed and irritated, he mutters something under his breath about proper socialization before addressing you "No, Sergeant. You have issues with ghost you speak to him first, if that doesn't work come back to me."
You are many things, but 5 not stupid enough to confront the guy that gleefully whispers ten points when his throwing knives hit someone's neck.
Unfortunately, no one else seems to think this, because after another week of avoiding him, Kyle drags you into the rec room. The rec room that Soap just hauled Ghost into. They say sort this shit out and lock the door.
"lieutenan-"
'Sergean-"
You both pause, stare at each other. Ghost nods to you and you sigh, run a hand through your hair in frustration "Look, L.t., I know you hate me but it's really interfering wi‐"
"Hate?!" Ghost cuts you off. Voice raised a pitch. "You think I hate you? Seriously?"
The sheer incredulity in his voice has you pausing your practiced speech to stare at him like he's an idiot. "Yes. Hate. You don't exactly try to hide it, what with how you're staring and me all the time."
Ghost is quiet for a very long moment. Before forcing out "I don't."
"Yeah?" You're tired of this shit, honestly "Then what's with the staring?"
Ghost mumbles something under your breath, and when you just look unimpressed he manages "you're pretty. I like lookin' at ya, and most people refuse to look at me so I didn't think you'd notice"
...oh god. Your lieutenant isn't an asshole, he's a fucking dumbass.
Never in a million years did you expect to call him
Never in a million years did he expect you to call
You were drunk, alone, walking home after a night out with your girls and way too many shots. Your vision was blurry, your hands were trembling, and your belly was aching. You were scared, it was dark, and no one was there. So, you tried to call everybody you knew, but no one answered.
Your only chance was the guy from Tinder, an app long deleted and forgotten, and you gave him your number out of boredom. Furthermore, he did not bother texting you a lot, so after he did not answer for a couple of days, you threw him out of your life. He has been out of your sight and out of your mind, now he was within your scope.
“Hello?” A deep voice questioned. It was 4.50 in the morning, and he miraculously picked up.
“Hi there…. What's up?” You blurted, this was everything except subtle.
“Work, what are you doing?” He questioned further. His voice was as flat as it was deep.
“I am walking home, look, I am so sorry.” You apologized in rapid-fire speed.
“It's ok, continue.” He ordered with a hint of softness in his voice.
“I am scared, and I wanted to have someone who protects me when I go home. Wait work? What do you do for work?” You weren't entirely sure which language you were speaking, since your senses had been poisoned.
“Military, just stay on call.” His voice wasn't commanding anymore; it was guiding you.
You kept on waffling. “ I am so sorry, sir. I don't want to disturb any military operations……. Even though the military is hot.”
“Focus on the mission, you need to get home.” You could have sworn that you could hear his smile.
“Yes, Sir, are you smiling right now?” You questioned….trying to flirt in your hopeless state.
“No.”
“Tough crowd.” You smiled seductively for no one to see.
A few minutes passed, and you fell into your sheets alone.
“Did you make it home? Safely…” The deep voice interrupted you just before you could fall asleep.
“Yes, thank you, good night, Sir, I mean……”
“Simon.” Your soft voice purred into the microphone as you hung up.
Ghost looked at the blue screen of his phone. Soap's mouth was on the floor. They sat in the barracks in the middle of the night, drinking bourbon and playing cards. Ghost picked up in front of the 141.
“Thank you, Sir, I mean Simon.” Soap tried to imitate your sleepy purr, as he theatrically put his hands towards his forehead like a damsel in distress.
“One word, McTavish, and you will learn what a real damsel in distress looks like.” Ghost retorted.
“Who was that L.T.?” Soap questioned, curious. His blue eyes fixated on Simons phone.
“None of your business.” Ghost answered coldly.
It was none of Soap's business until Ghost picked up his phone on their following drunken adventure to call you.
Fungus has done so much for humanity. Penicillin. Radiation cleanup. Delicious mushrooms. Deadly mushrooms. Psychadelic mushrooms. And now my boy RA has chosen the humble mold spores as his vessel through which to cure cancer.
I wish Ghost took off his mask in *that* scene. My man, you're scattering the ashes of your best friend, please… good thing I can draw it myself, I guess 🥲
(Important disclaimer: I don't think he'd actually throw away their masks, I just wanted to make this comic extra sad)
I do respect what the devs and actors managed to pull off despite misguided executive decisions. It's disappointing that they didn't get to tell the story they originally wanted to, but I'm sure they did their best. 🫡
Anyway, now that this is out of my system, I'll just pretend MWZ Soap will hop through a portal and rejoin the MW crew in a retconned future. Anything goes in the multiverse, after all ;)
Okay, back to my (ir)regularly scheduled GhostSoap posting 🧡
Johnny wakes up at 7 o'clock sharp. It's his day off, so he has time to run his errands. He has a little list on a sticky note so he doesn't forget anything.
Get the mail
Get gas for the car
Pick up my prescription
Grocery store!! Need bread and eggs!
Getting the mail is easy. His mailbox is just at the end of his driveway. He has the paper, junk mail, a bill, a letter from his sister, and... a light blue envelope. The envelope has a dark blue wax skull stamp on it. Johnny tucks the rest of his mail under his arm, cracking the wax and pulling the card out.
"You are cordially invited to the wedding of Mr. Simon Riley and..." he mutters. "No fuckin' way!! I told those bloody arseholes! She's real!"
Johnny turns the card over in his hand, a picture of you kissing Simon's cheek, both of you dressed in black. Johnny's surprised Simon let his face be on this. Even though your eyes are closed, he can tell that you love him more than anything in the world.
"Good for him." Johnny grins. "I better be the best man."
He hangs the card on his fridge, marking the date down in his calendar on his phone. The rest of the day seems mundane now.
--
Kyle has been putting off getting the mail for about two weeks now. His little P.O. box is flooding with papers of all shapes and sizes. This morning, he finally picked it up. When he gets back to his apartment, he flops onto the sofa and sorts through it.
"Junk, junk, junk, bill, magazine, coupon, coupon..." he mumbles, tossing each item into its respective pile. "What's this?"
In his hands - the last thing in his absolutely monstrous pile of mail - is a baby blue envelope. Sealing the envelope is almost a TARDIS blue wax seal. The seal depicts a small skull with its mouth open. He gently opens the envelope, brows furrowed. Inside is a black card with gold lettering
"You are cordially invited to the wedding of Mr. Simon Riley..." Kyle reads aloud. "Holy shit. Soap wasn't lying!"
He flips the card over, only to see a picture of a beautiful woman kissing the bloody Ghost! Kyle can tell by the light in Simon's eyes that he has found someone who truly loves him. And she's just as pretty as Soap said!
"Good for them," he chuckles, pinning the card to his corkboard. Kyle scrawls the date down on his calendar, smiling the whole time.
--
Price needs to go through the mail. It's been sitting on his kitchen counter for three days, accumulating more and more shit. He doesn't know why he even gets half this shit. It's all ads, ads, ads. Ocassionally, he'll get a useful coupon here and there. He likes Go Outdoors coupons the most. He needs a new hat, he thinks.
While he's idly looking through his mail, he spots a blue envelope. It has a wax seal on it. Price narrows his eyes at the envelope. He doesn't recognize the address, but it has Simon's name on it. With little ceremony, he opens the envelope. He pulls out a gold-on-black card. "You are cordially invited to the wedding of Mr. Simon Riley," he grunts. "Well, shit. I owe Soap an apology."
On the back of the card is a gorgeous lady kissing Simon's cheek. Simon's brown eyes are shining with pride, and he can see the woman is hiding a smile. Price rarely sees Simon without his mask on, but he seems to do it so freely with this girl. "Good for the bloke," he chuckles, putting the invitation on his office desk.
Simon deserves something good in his life, Price thinks, a hint of sadness behind the thought. He's had the hardest life out of any man Price has ever met. It's about damn time something happy happens to him.
--
"Simon, I cannot believe you didn't tell them about me until we sent out those invitations!" you exclaim, swatting his thigh.
Simon shrugs. "I was protecting you. Didn't want the bad guys to find my lady, now did I?"
"Well, I think you should have still told them!" you huff, crossing your arms. "It's a lot to drop on someone, you asshole. If one of my friends suddenly sent me a wedding invitation when I thought they were single, I'd have a bloody cow!"
"It's different for men, love," he replies softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your crown. "I didn't even know Johnny had sisters until a couple of weeks ago."
"That's ridiculous," you scoff. Simon pulls you into his lap, smoothing his hand over the curve of your spine. You melt immediately, resting your chin on his shoulder. He kisses the side of your head, which makes you go even softer.
"I think I would've kept you all to myself forever, if I could have," he says against your hair. "But I think being able to call you my wife outweighs that."
You sigh softly. "I still think you should've told them."
He chuckles, a low rumble deep in his chest. "I think it's more fun this way."
"Maybe," you giggle. "I hope they liked the invitations."
"They were perfect, baby," he promises, kissing the corner of your mouth. "You did a good job."
