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halfmoth-halfman · 2 years

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our little secret

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Medic!Reader Synopsis: Soap finally gets all of his answers- and then some. Word Count: 7.4k Warnings: injury mention, pet death mention, child mention Disclaimer: I do not own modern warfare or any of the modern warfare characters. part one. part two. part three.

Soap has been in his fair share of safe houses.

He knows what to expect when he hears the words: a sparsely furnished studio stocked with the bare essentials. It’s not a problem for him. Safe houses aren’t meant to feel like houses; they’re there to do their job– to keep their inhabitants safe.

So his confusion is valid when Ghost mumbles something about a “safe house” nearby, only to lead him through the dense woods of the mountains they’re stuck in to the coziest-looking cottage Soap has ever seen.

Soap’s frozen, unable to stop staring at the two-story stone house with dark ivy creeping up the grey stonework and an actual babbling brook winding around the right side of the house where it runs into a small pond in the front yard. He doesn’t know where Ghost, of all people, found the one safe house to come straight out of a fairytale.

“Fuckin’ hell Johnny, stop staring like you’ve never seen a house before.” Ghost’s hand harshly shoves into Soap’s shoulder, and Soap stumbles forward, turning back swiftly to glare at Ghost.

The Lieutenant had been particularly testy for this mission, seeming almost reluctant to take part in any aspect of it; regret had oozed out of every inch of Ghost from the moment he and Soap had touched down here, and Soap can’t figure out, for the life of him, why. It wasn’t like they were forced to be here; Soap was in the room when Price asked for volunteers for this mission. He remembers with exceptional clarity how Ghost perked up– as much a man like him could– and how the masked man was on his feet the second Price asked for volunteers.

If he was so eager for this mission, why did he seem so resistant to everything about it?

Tired and impatient with Soap’s lack of action, Ghost starts up the dirt path toward the cottage. It’s not hard to notice how he drags his steps, leaving small trails behind his boots. Soap follows hesitantly, keeping his head on a swivel as they approach the front door. Ghost tries the doorknob only to find it locked; his eyes slide shut, hand tightening around the doorknob before he lets his hand slide from the brass.

“Maybe we can–” Soap doesn’t get to finish as Ghost steps back to turn his gaze to the black iron sconce hanging next to the door. He pops one of the glass panes out with practiced ease, reaching in where Soap’s only now noticing there’s no lightbulb to grab a small golden key. He pops the glass back into place, sliding the key into the lock and turning.

The door swings open, allowing them into the pitch black of the house. For such a quaint-looking home, the endless void that greets Soap when he walks in is something lifted from a horror movie. Ghost shuts the door behind him, leaving Soap standing in the entryway that’s illuminated only by the misty grey of what little of the sun’s setting light is able to reach through the thick cover of the towering pines and low, looming clouds outside to shine through the small squares of glass on the front door.

“Take your shoes off,” Ghost mutters behind him.

“What?” Soap turns around– ready to ask why he should bother with etiquette for a safe house– but finds Ghost already hunched over, one hand on the wall beside him for balance as he unlaces his boots.

Soap copies him, unsure and so so confused. Ghost is as unbothered as ever, disappearing into the darkness of the house while Soap toes out of his boots. He places them next to Ghost’s, standing up right as the house illuminates in a soft amber glow.

It’s just as cozy inside as it is outside, and Soap is stupefied. His mind can’t comprehend the shadowy figure of death and destruction that is his Lieutenant among the picturesque interior of wooden countertops and decorative plants.

Ghost is none the wiser to Soap’s internal crisis, heading to a large armoire composed of deep brown wood that stands against the cream-colored wall next to the entryway. He pauses, leaning back to look at Soap over the edge of the lacquered door. “Weapons go in here.”

Soap joins him as Ghost unloads his weapons into the cabinet. The outside is unassuming— a normal, if a little taller than usual, armoire— which is why the interior catches Soap so off guard. A second set of doors— grated black metal with a keypad in the center— hang open to give them access to an impressive weapons rack that’s already half-stocked. Soap can’t help but gawk as Ghost works on hanging his knives— arranging them by handle color, then length. It’s done so casually, so routine, as if Ghost has done this a million times.

He wants to ask, but he doesn’t know where to start. What the hell’s up with this “safe house”? How did Ghost find it? Did he set it up? It was hard enough picturing the masked giant in everyday civilian life, let alone browsing for the perfect rustic armoire or a faux fur rug fluffier than a cloud.

Ghost walks away, heading towards the kitchen with an unusual hesitance to his steps– like he’s trying to lighten his footsteps against the hardwood floor. Soap quickly stores his weapons, trailing behind Ghost with less caution.

The kitchen is just as immaculately decorated as the rest of the house– all creams and beiges, a large window above the sink with a collection of herbs growing on its sill, and little pops of color from the neatly organized pots, pans, and baskets sitting on the shelves.

Ghost rifles through the pantry with his back to Soap, and Soap can’t help himself.

“What’s-”

“Keep your voice down,” Ghost snaps, hushed and threatening.

“Why?” Soap huffs, gesturing to the empty space around them. “It’s not like there’s anyone else here!”

Ghost turns to face Soap with a swiftness that surprises the Sergeant, his shadowed eyes narrowed into a glare so fierce it sends an immediate shock of fight or flight through Soap.

“Simon?”

Your voice is soft and raspy and startles Soap so badly he swears his heart skips a beat. He whirls around to see you standing across the living room, one foot on the bottom step of the staircase. Dressed only in a hoodie that’s obviously too big for you— and the perfect size for a certain Lieutenant— and a set of fluffy pajama shorts, you rub your eye with the heel of your hand, clearly having just woken up.

Ghost groans behind him, and everything in Soap’s head suddenly clicks together: Ghost’s reason for volunteering for this mission so quickly, his expectation of working on it alone, why he dragged his feet to bring Soap here. All of the puzzle pieces floating around in his mind slide into place as he watches you stumble into the living room, still half-asleep.

After your rescue, you’d been confined to the infirmary for weeks. The team had come to see you, sometimes lucky to catch you for the few minutes you could stay conscious long enough to entertain small conversations. You were put on immediate leave once you were well enough, and in the three months since then, no one has heard from you.

Soap’s glad to see you despite his mild guilt for disturbing you.

You look much better than when you left— less like you’d been repeatedly hit by a bus— and well on your way to recovery. There’s still gauze wrapped around your right thigh, and a few of the worst bruises are still present on your skin, in the process of fading. The only lasting injury Soap can see is the deep scar that trails along the left edge of your jaw from your chin to your ear; you’d had trouble talking while in the infirmary, pain buzzing through your jaw anytime you moved your mouth, but now you’re yawning widely without a single care.

You make it halfway to the kitchen when your eyes land on Soap; you freeze, brows knitting together in confusion.

“Soap?”

“Doc.”

“What’re you….” You trail off, spotting Ghost behind him. Soap watches how you take in their clothes, the dirt and dried blood stained into the fabric, and how your eyes glance over to the open weapons cabinet near the front door. The shift to Doctor Mode is instant; you straighten up, already looking them over for any possible injuries as you hasten your way to the kitchen.

“I’m fine, Doc,” Soap smiles, seeing some of the tension ease from your shoulders. “Lt. got a little roughed up, though.” Your head snaps to Ghost, and Soap steps aside, setting a gentle hand on your back to guide you and your concern toward Ghost. The Lieutenant glares at him over your head, but this time Soap smiles back, a knowing grin plastered on his face as you fret.

“You shouldn’t be up,” Ghost sighs, pulling his angry gaze away from Soap to stare down at you. He’s trying to seem stern, frustrated that you’re up and about, but you pay him no mind. It’s almost sweet, the way his gaze softens the moment he looks at you; he’s concerned for you as much as you are for him.

“‘m fine,” you mumble stubbornly. Ghost rolls his eyes as he lets you look over him. His eyes briefly flick up from your face to Soap before back down to you. Soap’s known Ghost for a long time; he’s learned how to read the subtle changes in those dark eyes, and he can see the way Ghost fights with himself before letting his eyes slide shut in resigned conclusion.

“You need to rest,” he sighs again, faint and gentle, as he lightly grabs your wandering hands and eases them off him. He glances up at Soap again, but Soap avoids his gaze, finding interest in the earthy green toaster and not even trying to hide his grin.

“I will, I will,” you huff. You step back from Ghost, pulling your hands from his to cross your arms over your chest. “Mission go okay?”

You’re talking to him now; Soap realizes when Ghost doesn’t answer. He turns to you with an easy, if a little cocky, smile and a half-shrug.

“Thought they could try and ambush us, but they were no match for us. Right, Lt.?” There’s a quiet, exasperated fuckin’ hell from Ghost, but you’re laughing— your smile not as wide on your left side— and Soap realizes how much he’s missed you.

“We needed a place to lie low for the night-” Ghost starts.

“And this was close by, I get it.” You maintain your smile, nudging Ghost’s arm with your elbow. “Surprised you got here before the storm started.”

“What? That poor excuse for cloud coverage outside? Hardly call that a storm,” Soap scoffs. You shrug, meandering to the cabinet that holds the cups and mugs.

“If that’s what you want to think,” you tease, but Soap is too busy watching Ghost as he watches you. “All I’m saying is-” The moment you reach up to grab a glass, there’s a hand on your waist and a sturdy body pressed against your back. “-Simon, I can reach just fine-”

He doesn’t listen, grabbing a glass and setting it in your hands while you pout up at him. You roll your eyes, stepping out from in front of him and smiling at Soap like nothing happened.

“All I’m saying is, I’ve lived here for a while; I think I can tell the difference between a little fog and a soon-to-be torrential downpour.” You fill your glass with water as you talk, batting Ghost away when he tries to take the full glass from you the minute you’ve filled it up.

“And since someone-” you send Ghost a pointed glare “-is in such a helpful mood, he can set you up in the guest room for tonight while I go back to sleep.” You saunter past Soap— as well as one can while healing— glass of water in hand.

“Good to see you again, Doc,” Soap laughs as you pass him. You send him a sly wink, playfully bumping his shoulder before heading upstairs.

A tense quiet looms over the kitchen as Soap and Ghost are left alone. Ghost is staring at him, and he’s staring back, neither one knowing how to break the awkward silence that surrounds them.

Until—

“So,” Soap starts, smug grin crawling across his face and vindication thrumming through his veins. “You and the Doc, eh?”

“Don’t fuckin’ start.”

With that, Ghost marches past him, heading for the stairs and, Soap decides this is going to be one of the top three missions of his life.

It’s 5:03 in the morning when Soap is awoken by the loudest clap of thunder he’s heard in his life.

It shocks him awake, shooting straight up from the bed, heart hammering and mind alert. It takes him a minute to realize there’s no immediate danger and that his biggest threat is the blue duvet tangled around his legs. Soap pauses, staring down at the soft blue blanket in confusion.

Why is he-

Oh.

Right.

Soap takes in the room— cozy just like the rest of the house— taking this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see if he can spot any clues, any slight hints that’ll give him insight on you and Ghost. The two of you are frustratingly thorough, as the only unusual thing he finds is the heavy blanket of rain pouring down the window.

Thunder rumbles above.

A door opens and shuts somewhere in the house.

Soap is of a curious mind— perhaps too curious for his own good— but that same intense inquisitiveness is what gave him enough of a glimpse to discover his Lieutenant’s secret marriage, so who is he to fight it?

He gets out of bed, ignoring the instant chill that comes with leaving the warm covers, and changes into the spare shirt and sweatpants you had Ghost give to him. As quietly as he can, he leaves the room, heading straight down the hall and toward the stairs.

The roll of thunder echoes above once more.

Something metal clatters downstairs.

Soap tiptoes down the steps, peering into the living room when he reaches the bottom step. The lights are off, save for the kitchen, where you sit at the small circular table, and Ghost stands at the counter near the sink, pouring boiling water from an old kettle into a black mug.

You’re still in your suspiciously oversized hoodie but have changed out of your fluffy shorts, trading them in for long pajama pants decorated with those colorful ghosts from pac-man. Ghost is dressed down significantly, only wearing a thin black t-shirt and matching sweatpants.

Soap should be surprised to see the balaclava still on, but he isn’t.

Ghost sets the mug on the table in front of you before he slides a chair over and sits down next to you. You sit up— almost dragging yourself into an upright position— looking far more exhausted than you had yesterday.

He watches you— attentive and alert in an almost too-intense way— shifting slightly with your every move. You either don’t notice or don’t care, messing with the tea bag and sipping from your cup. You wince when you swallow, and Ghost is leaning toward you, gloveless hand coming to rest just under your jaw. His thumb gently trails along the scar on your jawline, quiet murmurs exchanged and lost on Soap’s ears.

He should go back upstairs; it’s still early, and this seems like a moment he shouldn’t intrude on.

Soap takes one step backward, the woods beneath his foot whining under his weight and settling with a pop.

Your attention turns to the stairs, and Soap makes a snap decision. He stands up straight, heading down the stairs and into the living room, doing his best to seem casual and not like he was just spying on you.

Ghost pulls away from you, sitting back in his chair as you smile tiredly at Soap. Your voice is rough, more so than the tired rasp of someone who’s just woken up. “Mornin’, Soap.”

“Mornin’.”

“The storm wake you up?” you ask, setting your elbow on the table to set your chin in your hand. Soap shrugs, taking a seat across from you.

“I was already up,” he lies. You raise a brow, an amused smile that says you don’t believe him, but you don’t say anything. You lean back, grasping your mug with both hands and letting the warmth soak into your fingers.

He notices the mug first, streaks of the cartoon ghost with a crooked smile peering at him through your fingers. Then his gaze moves to your fingers, where he spots a solid black ring sitting comfortably on your left hand.

“You gonna ask about it?” you ask, grinning at him over the steam as you sip your tea. Soap coughs, rubbing his neck with enough sense to look sheepish. He chances a glance at Ghost, but the man’s eyes stay firmly on you. “It’s fine, Soap. I’m sure you have questions.”

He’ll probably never get this chance again.

Fuck it.

“I have a list,” Soap says, a little too eager, leaning forward on his elbows.

“You get three.” Ghost’s voice is flat and unamused– a stark contrast to your welcoming demeanor.

“Only three?”

“That’s one. You got two left.”

You scoff, reaching over to pinch Ghost’s arm. He grunts– more in annoyance than pain– giving you a half-hearted glare. It’s not ideal, but Soap will take what he can get. Sorting through the mental list of questions he’s been compiling since he first took notice of this little relationship, Soap tries to pick out the most important ones.

The group sits in silence while he thinks; you slowly work your way through your tea, grimacing around every swallow as the storm looms overhead. Thick raindrops assault the kitchen window, a steady waterfall pouring down the glass. Thunder booms overhead, less severe than before but startling all the same.

“Does Price know about…this?” he asks, gesturing to your ring.

“That’s your question?” Ghost scoffs.

It’s a question that’s confused him for months, so yes it is.

“He does,” you answer honestly. “So does my old Captain. They helped get all the legal stuff sorted out.”

“Legal stuff?”

“‘s a little difficult getting a marriage license for a dead man. Some strings had to be pulled.” You speak so casually as if that’s a normal thing to say. They’re around each other so often, Soap sometimes forgets that Ghost’s callsign is more than just a nickname; he’s a literal dead man walking, the living phantom of Simon Riley.

“Does anyone else know? Your old team? Laswell?” A cold chill shoots up his spine, “Did Shepherd know?”

“No,” Ghost sighs.

“My maiden name’s on all the paperwork. Price and Owens were thorough,” you explain. “No one knows but them…and now you, of course.”

Soap nods, fully understanding the weight of this secret he now bears, but he has to wonder-

“Would you've said anything? Eventually?”

You and Ghost share a look before you shrug, staring down into your half-empty mug.

“We talked about it.”

“After Las Almas,” Ghost adds. “Got too used to keepin’ it a secret and ended up never bringing it up.”

“Old habits,” you laugh softly. There’s a swell in Soap’s chest at the thought of you two trusting him enough to tell him about your marriage, even if it never actually happened. There were times when he wasn’t sure if Ghost even liked him, but after Mexico…there was a bond there that he’s realized wasn’t as one-sided as he may have assumed.

Your laugh dissolves into a hoarse cough, and Ghost is instantly on his feet.

“Back to bed, let’s go,” he orders, no room for negotiation. You roll your eyes, standing up slowly and favoring your right side.

“Make yourself at home, Soap,” you say in your gravelly voice, glancing out to the endless rain. “It looks like you might be stuck here a while.”

The storm doesn’t lessen for the rest of the morning and only worsens the following day; it’s clear he and Ghost will be here longer than initially intended.

Soap doesn’t mind, though.

He’s been given almost completely free rein of the house, presented with the rare opportunity to snoop without worrying about getting caught.

He notices the pictures on the third day as he’s coming down the stairs. There’s a tall, thin bookshelf on the wall opposite the bottom step filled to the brim with a vast collection of novels and a few picture frames.

He checks the top picture first, carefully pulling it from the top shelf of the bookcase. It’s a picture of Ghost standing in full gear, sunglasses on over his balaclava, holding a fully grown German Shephard over his right shoulder. The dog is looking to the side where you’re standing in matching gear, hands scratching behind its ears as you make a silly face with your lips pursed.

“Aw, I miss that dog.”

Soap jumps, nearly dropping the picture frame as you appear next to him, looking over his shoulder at the photo.

“Christ, you need a bell or something,” he mutters, setting the frame back on the shelf.

“Maybe you shouldn’t let yourself get so distracted,” you tease. You turn to the bookcase, a fond sigh as you look over the various photos. You let yourself sit in nostalgia for only a minute before glancing at Soap with a slight grin.

“You wanna see more?”

“I’ve never wanted anything more.”

You gather the pictures in your arms, leading Soap to the living room. You set the photos down on the coffee table and gesture for Soap to make himself comfortable on the sofa while you disappear into the hallway next to the kitchen. Soap sorts through the pictures. There’s one of Ghost sitting uncomfortably rigid in the back of a helicopter as you and Trip sleep on either side of him with your heads resting on Ghost’s shoulders. Another shows you with your old team, everyone dressed in civvies and sat around a bar table covered in empty glasses. The third is a duplicate of the one Soap had found in your desk in pristine condition.

“I have this if you want to look through it,” you say as you return a large black book in your hands. You hand it to Soap, and he flips it open while you make yourself comfortable next to him.

It’s a photo album.

An entire photo album of you and Ghost– and sometimes the dog and your old team, but that’s not important.

Soap flips through it in wonder and awe. “Who took all these?”

“My old Captain, mostly. Some were me or one of the others. I think there’s a couple Simon took in there, too.”

“What did I take?” Ghost wanders down the steps, stopping when he sees the album in Soap’s hands. “For fuck’s sake, why does he have that?”

“Don’t mind him,” you huff. You lean over a peer into the photo album, pointing at one in the bottom left corner. “That’s one of my favorites!”

It’s a picture of Ghost passed out on a tattered sofa, exhausted, with the German Shephard curled around his head as he uses it for a pillow.

“Riley was such a good dog,” you sigh wistfully. Soap snorts, glancing over to Ghost.

“Riley?”

“Wasn't my idea,” Ghost grumbles, looking directly at you.

“Didn’t think you worked on a team before, Lt.,” Soap says, handing the album over to you so you can flip through the pictures, pulling out ones you want to show Soap.

“It happened on occasion,” Ghost shrugs, thick arms folded across his chest. “Worked with Owens once before, and she was impressed enough to ask for me on certain missions.”

“And because he had a crush on the doctor,” you mumble, laughing to yourself as you slide another picture out. Ghost seems less than amused, but he doesn’t deny it.

“You were a doctor back then?” Soap questions. That doesn’t sound right. He’s seen you in the field with the 141, your uniform completely different from what you’re wearing in those pictures.

You hesitate, pausing in your picture collecting to knit your fingers together and pick at your nails.

“Of sorts.” Is all you say.

“It was a specialized position,” Ghost cuts in, walking around the back of the sofa to set his hands on your shoulders. “Interrogation Specialist.”

“So, you questioned people?”

“I tortured people.” You look up from the photos, meeting Soap’s eyes with a distant gaze he’s seen many times on Ghost.

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Is that why they called you Hornet?” Is what comes out of his mouth. It’s absurd enough to shock you out of whatever memory you were stuck in, tilting your head in confusion.

“No? Who told you that?”

“Grizzly. He said something about you being like a hornet in a beehive.”

You have to bite into your cheek to keep from laughing, and even then, a few giggles escape you. You relax into the couch, craning your head up to look at Ghost, “I mean, I guess that works.”

“If that’s not it, then why-”

“We didn't have a medic, so I had to stitch everyone up a lot. And most of the time, we didn’t have any kind of anesthesia, and I didn’t give any warning before I started poking with the sewing needle. Grizzly complained that I was like an aggressive bee, Trip told him those were called hornets, and that was that. Not as cool, right?” Soap wants to reassure you, but your attention is back to the book in your lap.

You gasp, pulling out a photo to hold it up to Ghost, “Remember this?”

Ghost’s answer is immediate, “Don’t show him that.”

Well, now Soap has to know.

You laugh, sliding the picture back into its place, but briefly look over to Soap, mouthing later with a wink.

Over the next few days, Soap learns more about your relationship with Ghost.

He learns that you met during a black-ops mission, where Ghost was meant to help escort your team– and more specifically, you– to a remote base to question some high-profile prisoner.

He learns that the two of you worked so well together for that first mission that Captain Owens made Ghost her go-to for any outside help if the team ever needed it.

He learns you spent years working together before the thought of becoming a couple even entered your minds.

And he learns that after that first time together, you and Ghost developed a specific set of rules for your relationship that’s only grown since.

You’ve told him a couple: no obvious affection in public, don’t compromise a mission for the other’s safety, respect each other’s space and the occasional need to spend time apart, no letters or phone calls unless it’s an absolute emergency.

Most were proposed by Ghost, but you agreed that it was for the safety of both of you.

He puts together clues about some of the other– possibly unspoken– rules when he watches the two of you interact. Ghost takes your health very seriously, and sometimes his tone borders on commanding when he tries to get you to rest or take medicine or drink tea without anything added to it. You sass him and roll your eyes, but do whatever he says every time. It’s the same when you ask him to get you something or try to get him to be a little nicer to Soap when he asks about some aspect of your marriage: Ghost will groan or roll his eyes but always bends to your will.

You don’t ask about each other’s missions, either. Soap watches you reorganize the weapon cabinet one day, noticing the blood on a few of Ghost’s knives. You ask if it’s his or Soap’s and if either of them needs to be looked at, but when they assure you they’re fine, you drop the subject.

The biggest question for him, though: the rings.

Ghost’s has found its way onto his finger– the first time Soap has seen it there, while you switch between wearing yours on your finger and on that thin chain around your neck.

It’s on your finger this morning, and Soap is fixated on watching you twirl it around your finger absentmindedly while you stare over the back of the couch at Ghost’s back as he makes breakfast.

(That’s another thing– Ghost has done most, if not all, of the cooking since they got here.)

“It’s weird to see him with a ring on,” Soap quietly laughs. You turn to him, pulled out of your husband-watching trance.

“Yeah, it’s not often we get to actually wear them.”

“One of his rules?”

“One of mine,” you sigh, gaze drifting back to Ghost. You fidget with your ring again, picking at its smooth, rounded edges with your nails.

“No wearing them where anyone can see ‘em, if one of us leaves for a mission then whoever’s staying behind keeps both of them, and if we both have to leave, the rings go in a small safe in my office.”

“That sounds-” Exhausting. “-thorough.”

“You’d be surprised how many captives forget about jewelry. It’s a whole lot easier to get information out of someone the minute you realize they might have someone they want to protect from you.”

There’s an edge to your voice, some kind of mix of nostalgia and resentment and regret.

But Ghost finishes breakfast and Soap decides it’s better not to ask.

Day six of waiting out this seemingly never-ending storm and the three of you are sitting in the living room cleaning your array of guns.

You’re wearing your own clothes for once, a dark cotton tank top and black sweatpants that lets Soap see the full extent of bruising and bandages around your arms. A long bruise stretches across your neck, still purple and blue, and Soap suddenly understands the uneven hoarseness of your voice.

Your hair is up, pulled out of your face so you can focus on your work. Soap can see the scar from the humvee on the side of your head as it disappears behind your ear.

The ear that hides your tattoo.

It’s a quiet afternoon; it’d be a shame to break the peace.

“When did you get the tattoo?” he asks anyway. You don’t answer until you look up and find him staring back at you.

“What tattoo?” you ask in genuine confusion.

“The little ghost behind your ear.”

Ghost freezes, head slowly turning to look at you. “What ghost?”

“Oh, that. I got it after Russia,” you shrug. “Whole mission was a total shitshow, but it reminded me how easily you can lose someone, so, after, I found the nearest shop and got it done.”

You return to your guns, but Ghost’s eyes are trained on you. Soap can see the gears in his head turning, and he briefly worries that maybe he shouldn’t have said anything.

“Thought we agreed: no marks, symbols, or tattoos.”

A sharp laugh escapes your mouth, eyes flicking up to Ghost in disbelief. “So if I check out that chaotic sleeve of yours, you’re telling me I won’t find a little hornet hidden somewhere in there?”

A beat of silence.

Ghost grunts and returns to his guns and you grin victoriously at Soap.

The power goes out on day nine.

Ghost is messing around with the fuse box. At the same time, you and Soap have decided to follow “sleepover law”, lighting the house up with candles, moving the sofa and coffee table to build a nest of pillows and blankets in front of the lit fireplace, and piling a collection of snacks nearby.

He can hear the two of you laughing in the living room, you exchanging old mission tales for stories about Soap’s nieces and nephews. Ghost sighs, his fourth and last idea to get the power back on failing miserably. He’s frustrated and annoyed and can feel that itch just under his skin that tells him to isolate.

To do that, he’d have to go upstairs.

And to get upstairs, he’d have to go through the living room and pass by-

Your laugh echoes down the hallway, and Ghost can feel some of the tension ease from his bones. The itch is still there– the immediate need to run and hide to deal with any sort of negative emotion by himself– but it lessens when he remembers you’re nearby.

He shuts the fuse box, deciding he’s not going to get anything fixed right now. Instead, he wanders down the hall, stopping just before he reaches the living room to lean against the wall and listen to you and Soap.

“I have to ask-” Soap starts, mischief laced in his voice, “-the mask. Does he ever take it off?”

“If he wants to,” you reply through gentle laughter.

“Really? So what if he doesn’t want to? Does he sleep with it on?”

“Sometimes.”

“What about when you two…”

There’s a brief pause before you snort and answer in a quiet purr, “Sometimes.”

“Nah, yer bum’s oot the windae!”

“...I don’t know what that means, but you asked!”

“You’re not serious!”

“Totally am! I mean…I wouldn’t’ve married him if I wasn’t into it.”

Ghost loves you more than anything in the world, but there’s nothing more he wants right now than for a hole to open up in the ground and swallow him whole.

It’s late, almost reaching into the early morning hours, and Soap cannot sleep. He doesn’t know what’s keeping him awake; he just knows that no matter what he tries, he can’t fall asleep.

After the third hour of tossing and turning and grumbling, he gets out of bed and heads to the kitchen. He does his best to keep quiet, all his stealth training kicking in.

He’s halfway across the living room when–

“Watch your step.”

It takes everything in him not to scream as your voice travels up from the floor. Soap looks down to find you lying on your back on the fluffy brown rug, your legs outstretched and resting atop the coffee table.

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus! What the hell are you doing on the floor?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Came down here for some floor time.”

“Floor time?”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.” You raise your brows at him, reaching out to pat the empty spot next to you.

He stares down at you, but you meet his gaze, eyes wide and unblinking to the point it almost freaks him out. Soap relents, bending down to lay next to you. You clap your hands in victory, scooting over to give him more room.

Soap gets himself comfortable, crossing his feet on top of the coffee table next to yours. You two lay in silence, staring up at the ceiling in the quiet dark.

It is kind of calming, he has to admit.

“I used to do this with Riley,” you speak softly, barely above a whisper. “I’d lay down, and then he’d lay on me. At first, I thought he just wanted to use me as a pillow, but I think it was more of a grounding thing…he was a smart one, that dog.”

“What…happened to him?”

“He got old. K9 unit retired him, and Simon and I took care of him until…Simon was devastated when we had him put down. He refused to come back here for months after. Said the house was ‘too quiet’.”

“Could always have a kid or two,” Soap jokes. “House wouldn’t be quiet for a long while.”

“No,” you snap.

He sits up, propping himself on his elbows so he can face you. “Sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“It’s not…you’re fine, Soap.” You release a long sigh, pulling your feet off the coffee table and sitting up straight. You stretch, back popping painfully from too much time on the ground.

“We’ve talked about kids,” you mumble, fingers moving to fidget with your ring. You look back at him– grey moonlight reflecting off your watery eyes. “Maybe in another life.”

Soap pushes himself to sit up completely, reaching out to settle a comforting hand on your shoulder. You flinch at the contact– relaxing when you realize you’re alright– and Soap pulls his hand away with an apologetic smile.

“Another dog, then? Or a cat? Ghost seems like a cat person.”

You make a sound, some sort of half-scoff, half-laugh that’s muddled by the knot in your throat.

“How 'bout a fish?”

“A fish it is, then.” Soap hears your watery laugh as you wipe your eyes with your sleeve. You scoot back to sit next to him, leaning over to rest your head on his shoulder.

“I’ll name him Soap, just for you.”

"Thanks, Doc."

It’s a whole two weeks later from the day they arrived when the water has eased enough outside for Ghost and Soap to go out and check the roads.

You sit on the porch, tucked into a dry chair and another one of Ghost’s hoodies with a hot mug of tea warming your hands. Initially, you wanted to go with them, but Ghost refused swiftly and sternly. You argued that you needed the fresh air, and the compromise was made that you could settle on the porch and keep an eye out while they walked down the road.

Everything looked good, no mudslides, no floods, no fallen trees, so he and Ghost decided to head back and get ready to leave.

Soap spots you as they near the house, staring off towards the brook near the house. You look so calm, so serene that he almost hates to disturb you. But Ghost has no qualms about interrupting your peace as he marches straight up to the house. You don’t seem to mind, judging by the way your face lights up at the sight of him.

He’s had almost every question answered, Soap realizes as he watches Ghost offer you a hand to help you out of your chair, and you use the momentum to pull yourself up and kiss him on the cheek.

There’s only question left-

“Hey, Ghost?” he asks, once the three of you are back inside.

Ghost pauses his cooking, looking back at him over his right shoulder.

“How did you propose?”

“What?”

Soap expected that, but he hadn’t expected you to start snickering from where you’re perched on the counter next to Ghost with your head resting on his left shoulder.

“It’s just…I’ve been thinking about it for a while. And there’s no engagement pictures in that photo album so-”

“I didn’t.”

“You…what?”

“I didn’t propose,” Ghost sighs.

Oh…

Oh!

Soap turns to you and your triumphant– if a bit smug– grin. “I beat him to it.”

“By two days,” Ghost huffs, turning back to the food on the stove. “Patience is a virtue, but not one of yours.” You giggle, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder over his shirt. Ghost nudges you away with a grunt. You lean back for a few seconds before setting your chin on his shoulder so you can stare lovingly at the side of his face. Ghost sighs, letting it happen and turning briefly to lightly tap his head against yours.

“How did you know?”

The question spills from Soap’s lips the moment he catches that little interaction.

“Know what?” you ask, turning to lay your head down, smushing your cheek on Ghost’s shoulder.

“That you wanted to propose. How’d you know you were the ones for each other?”

You sit up, eyes never leaving Ghost, who’s gone unusually still. An uncomfortable tension fills the air, swelling like a balloon ready to burst.

“It was after Sweden,” Ghost mumbles minutes later. He puts the stove on low heat and turns to you, your eyes meeting as he steadily holds your gaze. “We were clearing out that abandoned building, and you found this kid, couldn’t have been more than five…maybe six? They were so scared, but you managed to get them to calm down and come with us. We cleared the place but got ambushed as we were leaving. You gave me the kid and shoved me out of the back exit and-”

“Took a bullet meant for you,” you finish softly. Your hand comes up to graze just below your stomach, absentmindedly clenching the fabric over the spot.

The face you made when he’d brought up children flashes through Soap’s mind.

Maybe in another life.

“Didn’t realize how scared I was of losing you until that moment. You always seemed so sure, so indestructible, like there wasn’t anything that could kill you, like you’d always be there. And then you weren’t, and I thought that was the end until you finally got out of surgery. Wasn’t gonna let you get away after that.”

Tears well up in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks. You try your best to wipe them away, a smile of a million different emotions directed at Ghost. Ghost reaches out, sets a hand on your knee, and you meet his eyes before glancing over and realizing Soap is still there– grinning like an idiot.

“Well, I knew the day we met,” you laugh through your tears. Ghost scoffs, playfully squeezing your knee before returning his attention to the food. “It’s true; you can ask Firefly. Moment you started training with us and flipped Grizzly on his ass, I told her, ‘I’m gonna marry that man’.”

“Fuck off.”

They’re packed and ready to leave the next morning.

Soap’s tugging on his boots while Ghost locks up the weapons cabinet, and you stand off to the side, watching. You haven’t said a word all morning, just leaning against the wall with your eyes fixated on Ghost.

Ghost shuts the cabinet with a sigh as Soap finishes lacing up his boots. Ghost glances at him, different this time– a silent ask for a moment alone with his wife.

Soap gets the message, loud and clear.

“Don’t worry, Doc. You’ll be back in your infirmary treating our stab wounds soon enough.” You huff in amusement, giving him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“I’ll see you soon, Soap.” He nods at you and turns to head out the door.

He leans against the wall just outside the front door, staring at the clear brook water that washes over smooth stones until he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. He looks over and realizes he can see straight through the glass of the door where you and Ghost stand, feet apart from each other.

He should look away, get a head start down the road.

But when has he ever done that?

Instead, he watches Ghost slide the mask from his face, giving you a single nod before you launch forward and attach yourself to him. He holds you close like he’s trying to absorb you into his body, keeping you as close as physically possible. You pull back from him– only slightly– and Ghost wipes away the tears falling down your face. He reaches behind your neck, messing with the clasp of your necklace before his ring slides down the silver metal to meet yours at the bottom.

Your hands wind their way around the collar of his jacket, pulling him forward into a kiss he eagerly accepts. There’s no such thing as a goodbye kiss in the Riley household; goodbyes imply never seeing each other again, and that is a future neither you will accept. Instead, it’s a promise.

A promise to stay alive, to come back.

A promise either of you has yet to break.

You pull away, murmuring something against his lips. Soap’s never been a great lip reader, but it’s not hard to tell what you’re saying.

You better come back to me, Simon Riley.

Always.

Another kiss, and the mask is back on, slid into place by your steady hands. Ghost sets his forehead against yours, one last moment together before the inevitable separation.

Soap turns away when Ghost steps back from you, focusing his gaze on a small leaf on the ground until Ghost walks out of the house, shutting the door behind him.

“Let’s go, Sergeant.”

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley #modern warfare #modern warfare 2 #mw fics #moth writes #private

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spooky-pomegranate · 3 months

Text

Eyes on Fire (pt 2)

*Enemies to Lovers inspired by the Year Zero music video*

Papa Emeritus II x Reader (18+)Word Count: 3.4k (Part 1) (Read on AO3) (Part 3)

Summary: Hoping to escape the headaches of Imperatrix's life you spend time in a forbidden section of the Abbey. Meanwhile, a sleepless Papa Secondo goes for a walk in the early morning hours to clear his mind.

(Dividers by @wrathofrats)

There was only one place you wanted to be...

A place far away from Papa’s dining room, the bustling great hall, and the dormitories flooded with siblings preparing for a night full of debauchery and sin. You wanted to be in the one place that felt most like home with the people who felt most like family. So you climbed. Stride by stride you moved down ancient and worn stone steps covered in cobwebs and dust as you made your way toward the ghoul dens.

The Abbey had stood on the same grounds for hundreds of years. In that time many improvements had been made. A swimming pool was added in the 1890s, the great hall was expanded in the 1920s, and more recently the kitchens had gone under a total rehaul, with new top-of-the-line appliances and expresso machines flown in from Italy. But the one place the ministry hadn’t touched in all those years was the space below.

The basement of the Abbey was a restricted section for all siblings. Partially because it was a bit unsafe and partially because the ghouls were too much of a handful to be trusted with nice things. There was no electrical power down below. The stone walls in the basement were lit only by candle sconces that threw around long casting and eerie shadows. To those unfamiliar, the basement probably looked more like a crypt than it did a home for hell-spawn creatures. But the ghouls liked it that way and so did you.

At the bottom of the stairs, you snatched a candle from one of the wall scones. For some reason lately, there had been an influx of rats scurrying around the Abbey. The last thing you needed was to accidentally step on one. That might just send you to orbit.

By candlelit, you followed the halls through their maze of twists and turns before stopping in front of a massive set of wooden double doors. A large bronze knocker cast in His image hung from the center. You picked it up and slammed it against the splintering wood door three times.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

“Yeah. Yeah,” you heard a familiar voice call from the other side. “Hold onto your granny panties would ya.”

The door groaned in a heavy sigh as it opened. A scrawny maskless ghoul stood in the entryway. Two white horns protruded from the crown of his head and ashen black skin covered his body. When his orange eyes met yours his spaded tail flicked from side to side.

“Hey! What’s up little snack pack?”

“Hey, Dew,” you sighed. “Can I come in?”

“Sure thing babe.” The fire ghoul bowed with a flourish and waved for you to enter. “Right this way little lady. You look like shit by the way.”

You rolled your eyes as you stepped past the ghoul. The main room of the ghoul den was decorated in what a generous person might call an “eclectic style.” Mix-matched furniture from varying decades was strewn around the room in random places. A few soft carpets were layered on top of one another to confront the cold that seeped into the stone floors during the winter months and much like the stairs leading to the basement, candles burned on the walls basking the place in a soothing warm and yellow light. It wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t even that clean. But maybe because this was the only place in the Abbey that wasn’t dripping in opulence, it felt like being wrapped in a warm hug. And you needed that right now.

In the center of the room, Cumulus and Auoroa lounged on a lime-green sofa. On a small coffee table in front of them, snacks and drinks were laid out. They waved for you to join them.

“Hey guys,” you said, plopping down on the couch between them with a huff. Dew grabbed a guitar from a table by the door and sat in a chair across from you. Aimlessly he started picking at its strings.

“Hey, love,” Cumulus said smiling from your left. Like Dew, her skin was the color of burnt embers but her eyes differed. They were a beautiful soft gray. The same color as the sky before an evening storm or the pebbles on the beach by the lake south of the Abbey. “What are you doing down here? Shouldn’t you be in that shiny new suite of yours? Mountain told us it was real pretty.”

“Honestly today’s been a day,” you answered, sinking further into the couch. “Just wanted to hang out if that’s alright. Unless you guys had plans. Then I can fuck off.”

“Nah. No plans,” Aurora assured you, popping a chip into her mouth before offering you one. “We were just gonna practice for a bit. Unless you wanna talk about your day?”

“God no,” you answered, taking the chip. “Listening to you guys sounds really nice actually.”

“Oh thank Satan,” Dew huffed. Both Cumulus and Aurua shot the fire ghoul daggers and he stopped strumming the black and white guitar in his lap. “What?! Don’t lie you both wanna sing. You have been begginggggggg me to practice with you. ‘Dew please play with us,’” He impishly sang. “’Dew no one plays like you. Please Dew. You’re so talented with your fingers Dew.’”

“No one said that,” Aurura grumbled, throwing a chip at him. It landed squarely in between his eyes.

“Also we don’t sound like that. Plus if she’s having a bad day some humans like to talk about their feelings,” Cumulus added, picking up another chip and throwing it at Dew. “It’s called empathy dipshit.”

Dew stuck out his tongue and you laughed. You were surrounded by idiots. Sweet and loveable idiots. You were feeling better already. After a few more minutes of juvenile bickering, the hellspawns eventually settled down and started to play.

For as long as you’d known Dew he’d been a cocky shit, always bragging about his skills with a guitar. But as you listened to him play you knew he’d earned every brag he’d ever boasted. He was a magician with strings. Plucking and picking with a mesmerizing mastery that had to have been a gift from Satan himself. But the ghoulettes were just as spellbinding. Their harmonizing voices bounced off the high-bowed walls like sirens, lulling you into easy relaxation. At some point, you decided to crawl off the couch and lie on the floor, curling up in a pile of pillows and blankets and letting the music soothe you.

“That’s really pretty…” you murmured half-asleep, during a short break in the music.

“Mhmm. It is,” Cumulus purred from her spot on the couch.

“What’s it mean?”

“You don’t speak Latin?” Dew asked incredulously, before taking a long draw of some water Aurora had passed him.

You propped yourself up on your elbow and looked back at the fire ghoul. “Eh. I’m a little rusty.”

“Through hardships to hell.”

“What?”

“That’s what it means,” Dew answered, setting his water aside. “Per aspera ad inferi. It means through hardships to hell.”

“Oh,” you said shirking back to the floor and into your covers. It hadn’t occurred to you that this song might be incredibly personal to the three ghouls. They had quite literally crawled through hell to be here in this Abbey and serve the ministry. They had come from the real below.

“Did you guys come up with that?” You didn’t know much about their journey. You’d always assumed it wasn’t your place to ask or to know, but the song… it had been so haunting and yet… so strangely familiar. Even though you hadn’t understood the words, the music had clung to you. Like thick sticky syrup, it had swirled into your blood and mixed in your veins. You felt an inexplicable connection that was as old as time.

“No. We didn’t write it,” Cumulus said quietly.

“Who did?”

The three ghouls looked at one another. Seconds passed like minutes.

“Papa.”

There wasn’t much point in staying in the dens after that. You’d come down here to escape thoughts of Secondo only to be reminded of him all over again.

The climb back toward your suite didn’t take long. The Abbey was quiet this late at night. The hallways were empty of their regular hustle and bustle. Most siblings were asleep in their beds or tangled up in the sheets of another. You reached your door in record time. You pulled out your brass key and slid it into the door... but it was already unlocked.

You heard the crackling of your fireplace before you saw him. He was seated with his back to you in one of the tufted leather armchairs across the room. There were no lights on and you couldn’t see his face from the doorway, but none of that mattered. You knew who it was. Only one person owned the tense curve of those broad shoulders. It was him. It was Secondo. He was here in your room.

“Do I repulse you, sorella?” His voice boomed over the fire.

You froze in the doorway. Legs cemented to the ground, heart ready to bound out of your chest. What was he doing here? Had he come to expel you from the church? Was he going to smile as he tossed you out on your ass?

“Speak up sorella,” Secondo commanded. “I will repeat my question. Do I repulse you?”

“N-no, Papa,” you managed to squeak.

“Come here. I want to look at you while we have this conversation.”

Fuck. So this was it. The sadist was going to make you leave right here and now in the middle of the night. You moved across the room and into the dancing firelight.

After what had happened in the dining room you weren’t prepared to meet Secondo’s eye line again. So you delayed it. Slowly you looked him over, starting at his feet and working your way north.

Secondo wore a pair of black Oxfords, buffed and polished so pristinely that you saw your reflection staring back at you. A few inches higher black socks peaked out from underneath a pair of crisp black slacks. And on his steadily rising and falling chest, he’d opted for a button-down of a matching color. A black and emerald Grucifix hung from his neck. Head to toe he was dressed in black.

He looked like an undertaker. You closed your eyes. You weren’t ready to be laid out on his slab.

“You will answer me honestly, sorrella. No lies to your Papa.” It wasn’t a question but you nodded anyway.

You opened your eyes and looked at Secondo’s face. Since dinner, he’d washed away his sacred paints. A pair of dark aviators were perched on his crooked nose. He looked every bit like the Papa the siblings whispered about. An angry, bitter man, full of rage waiting for a spark to ignite his fire.

“You won’t partake in the offerings?” He questioned.

“No, Papa.”

“It is late, sorrella. I will not drag this out. Tell me your reason and do not lie.”

Secondo was right.

It was late. The clock in the corner of your room had finished its 24-hour cycle and the hours had reached into the early morning. But you were sick of having this conversation. You were sick of defending yourself. Fuck it. If Sister Imperator hadn’t told him you would—cards on the table.

“I don’t like to be so casual about who I have sex with.”

For a moment Secondo looked confused before he burst into a fit of laughter. Bending at the hip, he slapped his gloved hands on the arms of your chair. “Say that again sorella. That is the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.”

You wanted to slap him. Anger pooled in your stomach. Your fist clenched at your side. “I believe sex means something more when there’s more than just a physical connection.”

Secondo laughed again and you bit your cheek. “You know you sound like a Catholic when you say these things. ‘Means something more.’ Are you going to tell me that the next sister I sleep with I should marry and that I should make as many babies with her as possible?”

Secondo rose from the chair and stepped toward you. Inches separated you. You could smell his cologne. Rich and deep. Sacramental incense lingered on his clothes. He stared down at you over the ridge of his nose. His brows cast long, and angry shadows over his already glowering features.

“Do not confuse our rituals for something deeper, sorrella.”

“Of course, you would misunderstand me.”

The words slipped from your tongue before you could think twice. But you didn’t want them back. You meant it.

You’d seen Secondo.

You’d watched him as he moved through the Abbey every day and every night. He only ever thought of himself. He was a taker, never minding what others needed. What others wanted. So why would a conversation here and now be any different? Why would he consider any other person’s perspective but his own? He didn’t even remember what he’d said to you. How he’d hurt you.

“Watch your tone diavolessa,” he growled. “I am your Papa.”

Exactly right, you thought. You are my Papa but you are not my owner. My maker. My master. You have no right to claim me or to force me to do anything. I own my destiny. Not you. You took another step closer to Secondo, the front of your habit brushed against his dress shirt. Unafraid you tilted your chin up. Fire blazed in your eyes. Heat emanated from his chest.

“Apologies, your dark excellency. I will ask Sister Imperator to move me back to my former post in the gardens.” You didn’t want to give up your new apartment but you’d rather fight for lukewarm water in the communal showers than deal with him another day longer.

“That is…” Secondo paused and you closed your eyes bracing for the blow. Send me away. Do it. Send me back to the land of the undeserving and misguided. Do it now. I’d take them over you. I’d take anything over you. “Thatisunnecessary. I will see you tomorrow.”

Without another word, Secondo brushed past you and walked out your door.

There was no point in going back to his quarters. Secondo wouldn’t sleep. He hadn’t slept well in days. Tonight would be no different. There was too much on his mind.

He needed to clear his head.

So Secondo stepped out into the night.

The air was crisp and cool. Fall would be here soon and the flowers would shrivel. But for now, life still breathed in the grounds and the air still smelled sweet. Secondo followed the dirt path from the south entrance of the Abbey down to the gardens. His older brother had taken meticulous care of them since his retirement, practically spending every waking hour pruning and pampering his beloved piccoli fiori. Primo’s obsession had grown so strong that he’d even moved out of the Abbey’s suites and into a small log cabin on the edge of the ministry’s grounds so he could be closer to his work.

But Secondo hadn’t minded.

It made Primo happy and he could still find his brother for a chat whenever he needed to. If it weren’t for the early morning hour he would have sought out Primo for one of those talks now. The old man was more of a comfort than his father had ever been and his mind had been a mess for weeks. But the sun was almost up. Surely Primo in his old age was sound asleep somewhere. So Secondo chose to stroll the grounds alone and linger in the messiness of his mind.

He wandered through rows of vibrant roses and multicolored hydrangeas, passing various fruit trees and flowering cherry blossoms until he reached something he had not seen before. Underneath a centuries-old weeping willow, Primo had planted something new. In tightly packed rows narrow plots of spectacular white and pink flowers bloomed amongst leathery deep green shrubs. It was beautiful. The shrubbery looked like rhododendrons, but the flowers… Secondo had never seen anything like it. They resembled the cooper bells that hung in the Abbey’s highest towers.

He needed to smell them.

Secondo crouched down on the dirt path and reached for their pretty petals.

“Careful fratello.” Secondo quickly dropped his hand. “She is not so friendly this one.”

Clad in a red robe, Primo emerged from the dark path. His hands were clasped behind his back and he eyed his younger brother with a loving smile.

“Shouldn't you be asleep fratello?” Secondo asked, pushing off the ground with a groan that denoted his age and stood to his full height. “The sun will be up soon.”

“Ah, I was going to ask you the same,” Primo’s smile widened, strolling over to stand next to Secondo. “Do you like the fiori? They are beautiful, no?”

“Si. They are,” Secondo answered truthfully. “New additions?”

“Not entirely fratellino. Many moons ago these flowers used to surround our little Abbey. If you would indulge un vecchio uomo I would like to tell you their story.”

Secondo nodded, “Of course, Primo.”

The elder Emeritus led his younger brother to a stone bench under the willow tree. They sat down together. Secondo looked over the rows of flowers as his brother began to tell his story.

“Before you and I, walked these grounds there was a beautiful sibling who cared for the fiori and impianti. She came to the church with an extensive knowledge of botany and quickly thrived here. From the things she grew, she established the first apothecary in the ministry. She helped many siblings. She was happy and content. Eventually, she fell in love with a brother and he with her. But one day when the sister walked these grounds she witnessed a betrayal. Her mate with another. Her heart was broken. But the sister would not let this indignity stand. She introduced a colony of bees to the garden and let them feed on the nectar of these very beautiful fiori.” Primo’s gloved hand pointed to the rows of pink and white bell flowers in front of them.

“And then the ever-patient sister waited. She waited and pretended everything with her lover was bene, while in the night he continued to be with another. But after a time she returned to the garden and to her bees. She collected their honey knowing their nectar had been poisoned by these beautiful fiori. One evening the sister made her lover a pot of tea and added a spoonful of her wicked honey. As he drank the brother’s lips began to burn. Pain flamed his mouth and throat. He withered and convulsed in pain for hours. The legend diverges here. Some say the brother died. While others claim he recovered but fled the ministry in fear of his beloved’s vengeful wrath. In both versions of the tale these flowers were ripped from our grounds.”

Secondo sat quietly trying to make sense of his brother’s story. Ever since he could remember his elder brother had used longwinded tales to teach him lessons of the world or of the church. But tonight for the life of him, he could not figure out what Primo was to say. What did these poisonous flowers have to do with anything?

He was too tired. A puzzle was the last thing he wanted. He couldn’t hide his annoyance.

“Why are you telling me this brother?” Secondo asked exasperatedly. “You know I don’t care about these plants the way you do.”

“Ahh,” Primo hummed. “That may be true but tastes change fratellino. Things we once thought were insignificant can become valuable to us, no?”

“Primo I don’t under-”

“It’s nice to have beautiful things around, even if we cannot touch, si? Even if we cannot taste?”

Secondo raised an eyebrow. “What have you seen fratello?”

“It should not matter what I’ve seen. You must see for yourself.”

Secondo angered. Standing quickly he spun and stared down at his brother. “How quickly you forget what it is like Primo!” he shouted. “I need guidance. I don’t need this. I don’t know why I bother when you only speak in riddles.”

Secondo turned his back and stormed away from Primo, but before he got lost amongst the roses he heard his brother's voice.

“He has not forgotten you nor have I. Patience fratellino. Plans are already in motion. You will not be denied.”

(Follow along on AO3 here)

(Part 3) (Back to Part 1)

#secondo x reader #papa secondo #daddy secondo #secondo #secondo emeritus #ghost secondo #ghost #ghost band #the band ghost #ghost bc #ghost the band #papa emeritus ii x reader #papa emeritus ii fanfiction #papa emeritus ii #papa emeritus ii x female reader #papa emeritus secondo

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vintagehomecollection · 2 years

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Designing with Tile, Stone & Brick, 1995

#vintage #vintage interior #1990s #interior design #home decor #hallway #entryway #terracotta #tile #flooring #antique #Mission #furniture #tapestry #wall sconce #traditional #style #home #architecture

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charlessumnerscane · 1 year

Text

Christmas at Gaunt Manor | F!MC x Ominis Gaunt / F!MC x Sebastian Sallow

Synopsis: A mini fic based on my obsession with Christmastime and the idea of being nursed back to health :3. Both Ominis and Sebastian care for MC after she arrives during a snowstorm. I'm planning on writing endings for whichever character the reader would like MC to end up with hehe. tags: hurt/comfort, Christmastime wheeee, eventual nsfw, consensual undressing, fluff, eventual angst

Three raps on the main entryway door startled Ominis and his companion from their respective novels. The young men set their books down on the table before them, stood, and fixed their appearances before heading to the main corridor adjacent to the drawing room they had been lounging in.

With most of its inhabitants elsewhere for the fortnights before and after Yule, the Gaunt estate appeared vacant and dark, save for the fire burning in the drawing room. It had been lit to banish the chill emanating from the passing snowstorm that sent the wind whipping against the windows. Ominis’s companion, Sebastian Sallow, worked quickly to light the sconces adorning the hall’s walls as his friend strode to greet their guest at the door.

This would be Ominis and Sebastian’s first holiday spent outside of Feldcroft in years. Every Christmas since their first year at Hogwarts had been spent at Sebastian’s Uncle’s house. However, Ominis had been convinced by his friends that an empty manor would provide more space to be comfortable than a small farming home. On top of that, the girl at the door had privately expressed her desire to give Ominis at least one happy memory in his family’s home.

Ominis, and even Sebastian for that matter, could never seem to deny her. She was the newest addition to their friend group and yet both felt a great debt to her; Sebastian for her help with finding a cure for his twin sister Anne, and Ominis for her help in steering Sebastian away from a path of ruin.

She was scheduled to arrive three days before Christmas. Sebastian and Ominis had occupied the house since the end of the term a few days earlier. Both managed to get up to nothing at all, except reading and waiting for their friend to arrive. Sebastian insisted that the first game of gobstones not be played until her arrival. Ominis agreed, eager to avoid any stench spraying on the expensive furnishings of his family’s home.

All of his anxieties surrounding the wrecking of his family’s house melted away when he heard the three raps at the door.

As Sebastian finished lighting the sconces, Ominis reached for the door. He was so excited to welcome his friend that he jerked the door open quickly, causing the heavy hinges to squeak. Given his lack of sight, he couldn’t know what to expect when he opened the door. He instinctively reached both of his arms out to greet MC with a hug as it was her favorite form of greeting.

“Oi, don’t let the cold in!” Sebastian called out behind him as he lit the last candle in the hallway.

For a second, Ominis sensed MC leaning in and braced himself for their greeting. However, he did not prepare for the way her body slammed into his and began to sag as if she was falling. And why was she wet?

“MC?,” Ominis questioned as he adjusted his footing to hold her up properly. “Sebastian come quick, something's wrong!”

It was moments like these where Ominis cursed his blindness. If he could simply see, he would know what the bloody hell was wrong with the girl sagging in his arms.

Sebastian arrived to provide backup in an instant. “MC! Why is she wet?”

Ominis felt some of her weight fall off of him as Sebastian hooked one arm under her shoulder. Ominis, taking the other, spoke with urgency. “We must get her to fire. Quick, help me bring her to the drawing room.”

The boys moved in a hurry. Sebastian slammed the cold back outside by closing the entry door with a kick. They carried their friend toward the only fire in the house, her garments feeling like ice beneath their fingers. They set her down carefully on the floor in front of the fire, noticing how her teeth clattered with every shiver.

“MC, what happened?” Sebastian asked as he knelt toward her. Ominis took a similar position on her other side. Both supported her to a sitting position with a hand behind her shoulders.

MC inhaled deeper and began to speak through clattering teeth. Sebastian and Ominis remained transfixed on her the entire time.

“Ah, well,- decided to fly… out of nowhere a storm… everything was white - couldn't see… a mile back my broom snapped- walked here.”

Both young men remained silent for a beat after she had finished recounting her story. It was as if time itself had been sucked from the room. Everything lay still as they absorbed what their friend told them.

Ominis was the first to break. “You- you walked here!” He sounded angrier than he was. He was never cross with MC, but this entered into Sebastian-level idiocy.

“You should’ve sent for us!” Sebastian chimed in, also sounding more aggravated than he let on.

MC chuckled to herself. Even in times of great peril she could not take either of them seriously. This must have been a first - both Sebastian and Ominis berating her at the same time. Her chuckling was quickly replaced by shivering, and the sharp sting that had taken over her whole body.

Ominis had deduced that their friend was currently experiencing hypothermia, and possibly some madness induced by it, and thought back to what he’d learned about the cold. “We have to get these clothes off her.” He told Sebastian.

For the first time since getting MC in front of the fire, Sebastian’s gaze tore from her to his friend. “We can’t do that!” he said in a panicked tone. Ominis started to send a disapproving look toward him before he added, “She’s a girl!”

“Very well aware.” MC managed to interject.

“Sebastian, we have to. Her clothes are wet and keeping the cold on her.”

Sebastian peered back down at his friend shivering helplessly. “Okay,” he said while still having his reservations about the plan.

Ominis’s hand moved to unclasp her cloak before he stopped himself. “We need to undress you, MC. It’s the only way we ca-”

“Oh for Merlin’s sake just help me get out of these sopping rags!” she exclaimed, sitting up straighter and using all the energy she had left to make it easier for them.

Wordlessly, Sebastian and Ominis’s hands moved quickly to remove her outer layers first, starting with her cloak and overcoat. They made quick work of undressing her, both boys trying to not focus too hard on what they were doing and rather that they had to help their friend. Soon, the only layer left was her cotton chemise and drawers.

Sebastian had halted and looked away, but without the gift of sight Ominis kept reaching for her clothing until he felt the thin lacy fabric as the only layer between his fingers and her skin. He stopped himself and instinctively pulled his hand away. This was not how he planned to welcome MC to his home.

Sebastian found himself in a similar predicament, unsure of what to do next. He cleared his throat in hopes that it would prompt some action, hopefully one to get him out of this room.

“Blankets! I’ll grab the blankets!” Ominis suddenly choked out before quickly exiting the room. Sebastian instinctively glanced back down at MC’s shivering body before he could stop himself. He quickly re-fcoused his gaze to above her neck and noticed how pale her lips looked. Without second thought, he pulled his own green wool jumper off of his body and slipped it onto hers.

Any other circumstance would have had MC swat Sebastian’s helping hands away, but all she felt strong enough to do was wiggle her arms through the sleeves of the jumper and shiver.

“That’s made from real highland wool,” Sebastian said proudly. “Good for keeping the cold out on days like these.”

Outside, the wind accompanying the snowstorm howled as it brushed along the stone exterior of the house. Barren tree limbs danced as the wind tore them to and fro. This type of weather was expected at Hogwarts, but in Little Hangleton? This would be considered the storm of the century.

Ominis entered the drawing room with his hands full of blankets. Still, he felt the need to apologize as he began helping MC to wrap herself. “Apologies for the lack of blankets. My family has never been bothered by the chill in this house.”

Sebastian almost let out a laugh at the truth of that statement. He knew Ominis despised being here almost as much as he despised his family. They shared the same sentiment toward him, enough to not even bother to invite him to join them on holiday this year. Ominis didn’t care of course. He’d rather be anywhere else but with his family, forced to hear them prattle on about the superiority of purebloods. Sebastian knew MC had talked to him about spending Christmas here, and he wondered what she could have said to make him agree to set foot in this house.

“You must be exhausted,” Ominis stated as he finished placing the blankets over his friend. “I’ll go prepare your room.”

“Need help?” Sebastian asked as he glanced up toward his worrisome friend. He had noticed how MC began to regain color and shiver less. He was still worried about her catching sickness, but clearly the stress of playing host was adding to his friend’s already frail nerves.

“Actually, yes.” Ominis answered. “Would you mind grabbing some kindling to get a fire started in the guest chambers while I prepare the bed?”

“Not at all.”

Sebastian and Ominis agreed to help move MC from the floor to the settee before they departed the drawing room, albeit nervously on account of their frail friend. The guest chamber was a large room at the end of the upstairs corridor that boasted a four poster bed canopied with dark emerald fabric, a vanity area, a fireplace, and a bathroom with a clawfoot tub big enough for a hippogriff.

“Hold on!” Sebastian scoffed, offended at the size of this room compared to the one he had been given. “So I get the smaller room, is that right?” He set the kindling into the fireplace before turning back to Ominis with his hands on his hips, indicating a crossness that was only reserved for special occasions.

Luckily for Ominis, he didn’t have to bear witness to his friend’s minor tantrum as he began setting the sheets on the bed.

“Ugh. Fine. But only because she nearly died getting here,” Sebastian spat as he whirled around to begin arranging the kindling. Truthfully he wasn’t mad at all. If the comforts of this room eased his friend back into health then so be it, he’d take the smaller room.

“Are you done grumbling over there?” Ominis asked from the bedside. Sebastian took the matches he’d stored in his pocket from earlier and tossed one into the fire, immediately giving the room a cozy glow. “Now I am.” He answered. The fire quickly gained strength and began to throw heat from its flames. He hoped it would be enough to warm MC through the night.

The young men headed back down the grand staircase and main parlor to fetch their friend. She lay reclined on the settee, still wrapped in the blankets.

“Are you able to stand?” Ominis asked gently, his face morphing to one of concern.

MC nodded weakly. “I can try, but I think I’ll be able to do it.” Taking her time, MC slowly rose from her horizontal position and scooted to the edge of the cushion before attempting to stand. Her legs gave out almost halfway up, and she fell back onto her bottom with a frustrated sigh.

Both Sebastian and Ominis instinctively took a step closer and reached out to catch her if she had fallen forward. Ominis looked to his friend with worry. “She’ll never be able to get up the stairs.”

Without a second thought, Sebastian bent at the waist and hooked his arms beneath MC, one beneath her knees, the other around her back. He was expecting MC to fight him off and insist she could walk, but no resistance came from her. She must have been weaker than he believed, Sebastian mused.

Ominis led the two back upstairs and opened the bedchamber door for them. Sebastian walked her over to the bed while Ominis pulled the sheets back. She was still wrapped in the blankets, but neither Ominis nor Sebastian even considered removing them from her given the warmth and modesty they simultaneously provided.

They stepped back from the bed as she made herself comfortable, adjusting the pillow and sheets to her liking. She immediately felt herself being drawn from consciousness and would probably last no longer than a minute being awake.

Sebastian was the first one to bid both of them a goodnight before returning downstairs to extinguish the candles in the house before heading to his own bed. Ominis lingered, worried that his invitation here had been the root cause of his friend’s misfortune. He was about to bid her goodnight as well before he heard her whisper his name.

“Ominis…”

He stepped closer to her bedside at complete attention. “What is it, MC? I’m right here.”

MC fought through a yawn as she attempted to speak through her drowsy state. “Ominis,” she began again, “I’m sorry about tonight.”

Ominis felt his face fall as his friend expressed her sorrow for “ruining” the evening. “Don’t say that.” he whispered. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

He couldn’t see if MC had fallen asleep or not, but judging by her silence, he assumed she had succumbed to slumber. “Goodnight.” he whispered before slipping out of her room and shutting the door behind him with a click.

#hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #ominis gaunt #hogwarts legacy fanfic #hl fanfiction #sebastian sallow x mc #ominis gaunt x mc #hp fandom #my first story plz be nice!

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