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kissingghouls · 7 months

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A Late Night Call

Phantom Ghoul x GN!Reader - MORE FLUFF // no warnings. 1700 words. (ao3)

Summary: Phantom calls in the middle of the night while he's on tour. (Definitely the same universe as If You Remember & Little Ghost & Coming Home)

(banner by @ramblingoak)

-x-

It had been weeks, but you still couldn’t get used to sleeping alone. Part of you wonders—as you toss and turn for a solid hour—if you’ll ever be comfortable in bed without him ever again. The sleep aids eventually help at least, drawing you into a blurry state that made solving sudoku puzzles impossible. You fall asleep without much of a fight, sprawled out in the middle of the mattress. Defining his side of the bed and yours was just another entry on a long list of things the band’s unkind schedules had taken from you before you even knew to miss them.

Sometimes they keep you up at night, those tiny missing pieces of your relationship. Things that seem so, so small, grains of sand slowly filling up a desert that separates you just as much as the physical distance. You wonder if it’s all supposed to hurt this much and god how you hope it’s all temporary because you can’t take feeling like this much longer.

You’ve been using his soap and adding a dash of cinnamon to your coffee in the morning like he likes just to keep him around in whatever way you can. The memory of how it feels when he kisses you fades a little more each day and you tell yourself it’s one more day closer to him coming home. And it works sometimes in those moments when you can place an X on the calendar. But there are times when you count the other way and it feels like he’s been gone as long as you can remember.

Something rumbles under your pillow, the vibration aggressive enough to draw you out of a dead sleep. You blink a few times trying to get your eyes focus in a dark room you don’t immediately recognize. The sound is incessant, like the growl of a monster under the bed, making it hard to remember where the hell you were.

It hits you hard when you realize you’re in Phantom’s room and someone is calling you in the middle of the night.

You scramble to your feet, frantically searching for your phone under the mess of pillows and blankets piled on Phantom’s bed. Little Ghost, the stuffed dog he’d given you to keep you company falls to the floor with a heavy thud as the screen comes to life. The brightness blinds you but you manage to catch the caller’s name and photo before you squeeze your eyes shut.

“Phantom? What happened? Are you ok?” you ask in a worried tone in lieu of a hello.

You can hear him start to panic on the other end, fumbling over words as he rushes to assure you that everything is ok. “I’m fine I swear. I’m sorry, Bee. I didn’t think about what time it was.”

“Oh Bug, it’s ok,” you say softly. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“I, uh…” He sighs heavily down the line and you can hear him shuffle the phone from one hand to the other. “I’m sorry, I just…”

You grab Little Ghost from the floor and clutch him tight to your chest, trying to calm your nerves. It’s damn near freezing in his room—another thing that makes you miss him terribly. You climb back into the empty bed and bury yourself in the blankets before your teeth begin to chatter. “Hey,” you start gently. “Talk to me.”

He makes a frustrated sound, somewhere between a groan and a growl, but it could easily have been a word in a language you couldn’t begin to understand. Most of the ghouls had been on this plane long enough that they’d forgotten it too. It makes your heart hurt that he can’t tell you what he needs, that you can’t reach over and hold his hand until the words come.

“Miss you,” he manages after a beat. “I just…miss you.”

You bury your face in the back of the stuffed dog’s head to quiet your sob, though you’re not sure if it’s relief or sadness you feel.

“I miss you too,” you eventually admit and it makes you curl into a ball to try to soothe the ache in your stomach.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why it was so bad today, but I felt like…I don’t know. I just really needed to hear your voice.” There’s hurt and fear laced in his tone, something you imagined he had tried to shake all day and couldn’t. “I…I didn’t mean to wake you up or scare you. I just really, really fucking miss you.”

As much as it hurts, as much as it makes your heart feel like lead, it’s also the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to you.

“How is it there? Everything ok?” he asks.

“Yeah, it’s fine. It’s been…lonely,” you tell him honestly. “Hard to describe it, but I’m really glad you called.”

“Me too. I—oh for fuck’s sake!” His voice becomes distant for a moment, a stream of swears barely audible over a muffled clatter. “Oh, come on!”

You bring a hand to your mouth to hide a laugh as you look at your phone in confusion. The request for video pops up and you quickly accept, wondering if maybe he has finally figured out the FaceTime thing.

He hasn’t.

Your screen fills with the image of him from an odd angle, hair falling over his face as he bends to retrieve the runaway device. When he realizes he can see you on the other end, he smiles so wide it has to hurt. He whips the phone back up to a better angle as you reach over and turn on the lamp.

“Bee? I can see you!” The excitement and joy on his face almost makes you cry. “How did I even do that?”

“You must have hit the button when you dropped the phone. They have cameras in them and—“

“What? Wait! No! Dew said mine didn’t do any of the cool things!”

“I’m gonna kill him,” you say as your eyes narrow, but he misses it completely.

“We could have been talking like this the whole time?” he asks sadly, unable to hide the disappointment in the way his body sagged.

“Aw, Bug. It’s ok—it’s not always easy to talk like this. Especially when you’re not alone very often.”

“You better be alone,” he teases.

“Well…” You hold up Little Ghost and make him wave. “I’m mostly alone.”

He smiles brightly. “It’s so fucking good to see you, Bee. I really, really needed to see you.”

Your face feels hot and you hide in the little dog’s stuffed fur for a moment. All those things you were sure you were starting to forget come flooding back when he looks at you like that. Those moments you had collected and mourned weren’t gone—they were just put on pause like everything else. The taste of that first kiss and each one since, the way his body felt against yours when he held you close, the scent of him—not just in this room but the way you wore it on your skin after you’d been together. It was all still there and it was so overwhelming you began to cry.

“Oh no, Bee. I’m sorry. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to make you sad.”

You see the sparks of magic start to crackle around him, bright purple pops that fizzle outward as he worries his lip between his teeth.

“I’m ok,” you tell him quickly, wishing so badly you could just touch him. “It’s just really good to see you too.”

He grins. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you confirm with a smile of your own.

The conversation picks up as naturally as it would if he were sitting next to you. He catches you up on the latest band ghoul gossip—how Swiss has started to bite everyone including Copia and the techs, and how it took exactly one round of mad libs to get them banned forever. You tell him about the abbey’s current dramas—the unfortunate salt-sugar mixup in the kitchens and the glitterbomb that had been sent to a former Papa that was still under investigation. You both confess to getting less than stellar sleep without the other as you settle into your respective beds. You set your phones against the opposite pillows, staring back into the screens as though they were your lover’s eyes. It makes you feel happy and warm to have him there with you, even if it’s unconventional.

You trace the light from the tv over his features, everything a saturated in blue from whatever show he’d left on in the background. He watches you in the same way, a soft smile forming subconsciously as you clutch Little Ghost to your chest. Your eyelids are heavy, but you fight it because you’re not ready to be without him again. Not just yet.

“Are you sleepy, Bee?” he eventually asks through a stifled yawn. “Should I let you go?”

You shake your head and curl up under the blankets. “Just a little longer, ok?”

And it’s that look that he gives you, one you wish you could hold in your hands and keep forever. You’d wear it proudly like a badge of honor if you could, letting everyone see how when he simply looks at you it’s clear you are the most precious thing in the world to him.

“Anything for you, Bee,” he says, but it’s barely a whisper.

He doesn’t hang up when you drift off. Instead, he watches you for a little longer than he’d like to admit, feeling slightly foolish for finding so much comfort in having you next to him again. There are still so many feelings and emotions he doesn’t have human words for, but Cirrus made him some flash cards after that first night he’d spent with you. He’s studied every day, ignoring the good-natured taunts of the other ghouls as he tries to pin down just what it is you make him feel. He could ask someone—surely Papa would know—but it’s a mystery he really wants to solve for himself. But he knows—as he falls asleep with the phone propped up next to his head—that whatever it is, he knows you feel it too.

#my fics #my writing #phantom ghoul x reader #phantom ghoul x gn reader #the band ghost fanfiction #the band ghost fic #ghost band fanfic #nameless ghouls x reader #nameless ghouls fanfic #phantom club forever

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matchesarelit · 1 month

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Imagine If You Will... Scientists of an Absurd Field (Lars Pinfield x gn!Reader)

Featuring: #2 + #9 from @dumplingsjinson's prompt list (here)

W.C: ~1.3K

Warnings: teasing,

The new non-firehouse base for Ghost Corps was as clinical as it was scientific, and hence it wasn't your favorite place. Although being completely honest with yourself, your distaste for the space was most likely linked to the gangly scientist who remained tucked inside its walls seemingly 24/7.

He wasn't horrid by any means, he was an amazing scientist. you'd seen his work over the last year or so and it never failed to impress, yet when it came to your work he seemed unable, or at least unwilling, to comprehend your methods. He seemed to believe your more spiritual work regarding ghosts was quack-like, on one occasion he likened it to a band-aid on a bullet wound, it was at that point in the conversation you enjoyed reminding him that spirits were much more open to spiritual interactions than scientific attacks. Was your wording perhaps a bit judgmental? yes, but you know what they say about fighting fire with fire... it works.

Silently musing over the satisfaction of keeping your old office away from the over-tiled building, you trailed through the halls in search of Winston. A dense stack of files tucked under one arm, your phone in the other, browsing emails and DMs for any new cases, your focus only raised from the floor upon hearing an all too recognizable groan coming from somewhere ahead of you.

Despite your initial assumption, the sound that fell from Pinfield's lips was not directed at you, as per usual, but instead at whatever possessed item he was dealing with. His usually quaffed hair had become splayed and crazed, some strands drooping down over his goggles, he seemed completely engaged with the task at hand despite the chaos that was perpetually unfolding on the surrounding desks and there was truly no telling how long he'd been in that position.

Deciding it was best to continue your search in other areas of the facility, you slowly regained your previous pace, your own gaze now, however, stuck on the hunched man in the center of the space. Your few milliseconds of observation were, perhaps, not the best trade off for looking where you were going, as within a moment you felt your body collide with another. Snapping your head forward you were met with Winston's light smirk of amusement as he held your shoulders to keep you steady.

'Woah there,' The statement was pretty nonchalant and was followed by a small chuckle as he watched your eyes widen in embarrassment. 'You know in Ghostbusting, I've always found it helpful to look where I was going.' His tease made you roll your eyes, even so it pulled a small shy smile onto your face.

'Sorry Winston I-'

'Oh its really no bother, I get that way myself with all of this,' He turned glanced around the room at the machinery and containment cells, his observation of your intrigue clearly missed the specificity of your gaze. Even as your eyes flickered back to Lars, his posture now straightened, his goggles pulled atop his head and his hair pulled back beneath it, only to see his gaze already studying you, Winston seemed much too caught up in the room as a whole.

'Ghost corps has made such great achievements, so many scientific bounds leapt. And now with you, we have the more mystical side locked down as well. Nevertheless, I'll let you in on a secret...' The taller man leant in a little closer, cautiously looking side to side in feigned secrecy, 'Scientists, especially in such an absurd field, are pretty big show-offs, I'm pretty sure every one of them would be more than eager to explain their work, if you're willing to lend an ear that is.'

Nodding in understanding, you felt the need to move the conversation to a place, physically and topically, away from the current scene. 'I'll have to give that a try, but um... for now-' I tapped my fingers against the manilla folders still tucked under your arm, 'I've been quite busy.'

From there you'd spent over an hour of catching Winston up on your most recent jobs, different cases all over the country, resulting in a range of movings-alongs and trappings, despite the latter option being your last resort more often than not.

When you finally left his office, a few additional jobs assigned for the following weeks, you made your way back through the halls. Winston's words were clattering around in your head, and without noticing, your feet had brought you to the large machine in the center of the main lab.

You kind-of knew what it did, you'd handed in a few items you'd collected over the last few months for extraction, yet as you stood in it's shadow, hands tucked neatly away in your jacket pockets, as if afraid to touch any part of the machine even anything as minor as a brush of your knuckles, you realized you were completely in the dark over how it actually worked.

Eyes running along the tubing and cables you failed to notice the footsteps approaching from behind until they settled by your side.

'Thinking about getting into actual ghostbusting?' Your eyes had never before rolled like they did in that moment. Closing your eyes with a deep breath in, you stewed in the moment, uninterested in even acknowledging the man by your side.

'It's okay, I'm sure we could find something actually useful for you to do.' An unwitting sigh passed through your lips at his incendiary comment. Taking a moment and considering your options you settled on waiting for him to say more. After all, his comments were baseless, both of you were well aware of the others accomplishments, and more often than not that was the point of bickering betwixt the pair of you.

'I know how you love speaking to ghosts, so maybe you could use your special set of skills' -a phrase he entombed in air quotes- 'to get their names before we put them in containment... might make filing quicker.' He was so... infuriating, there was not one moment in his presence where you'd known a semblance of peace. You save his life... he thinks of a hundred ways you could have done it quicker...and proceeds to tell you them in detail. God forbid it ever came to it, you doubt he'd ever let up about it if he managed to save your life.

Turning to him slowly you cocked your head to the side, feigning a patronizing level of concern, as you placed a soft hand on his arm, 'The world still goes around if you don’t talk. You do realise that, right?' His brow tightened in what you expected to be his only response, but within moments he was scoffing and peeling your hand from his arm, holding it securely in both of his against his jumpsuit-clad chest as he met your condescending gaze with one of his own.

'I'm sure it would, still, the last time I did, you struggled to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. I'm just trying to help you stay upright, bub.' His gaze was darker now, nothing short of challenging you to contest, and yet when you did... he chuckled, cutting you off.

Squeezing your hand briefly between his own as he nodded knowingly 'I know, my kindness knows no bounds, its okay there's no need to thank me.' He was often cocky, at least around you, but this was next level, and despite him definitely having the upper hand, you felt the familiar and overwhelming need to push back.

Pulling your other hand up to join his and your other, you leant into him slightly, taking an almost invisible step forward as you drew your lips into a sickeningly sweet smile, 'Oh lars...'

You leaned in closer, eyes searching his for any hesitance, and when met simply by a wink, your lips met his. It was brief and by far the softest interaction the pair of you had had to date, however that of course did not last long as you soon parted your lips.

'What a shame... You sound better when you’re not talking.'

#lars pinfield #lars pinfield x reader #ghostbusters frozen empire #gbfe

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snootlestheangel · 6 months

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141 And Friends Allergy Headcanons

I've been convinced to post more of my own headcanon stuff and this is where I choose to start

Captain Price : severely allergic to cats, somewhat allergic to pears. I am such a cat person and this breaks my heart but something about this man when you really look at him screams "cannot be near a cat or I will die" to me.

Ghost: Thought he had no allergies until one time they had to move through a patch of poison ivy. That shit gave him such a mean rash that lasted too long for comfort. Also allergic to the adhesive on normal band-aids. If he leaves one on too long he'll break out into a rash. Yes, I speak from experience.

Soap: So many like pollen, dust type allergies so during the spring/fall where those are in plethora, it isn't uncommon to see him just pounding back all the allergy meds. Not enough to affect his work, but enough to make him miserable enough that he's annoying

Gaz: Baby wants to eat gluten so bad but it makes his tummy hurt :( . Also has some weird, like never heard of allergies like being allergic to chinchillas (yes, this is an actual allergy. No, I will not elaborate)

Roach: He's the peanut allergy kid. Fight me on this.

Alejandro: Has a lot of mild allergies to things. Like, if a dog licks him he breaks out into a rash but it's not bad and goes away quickly. This does not stop him from consuming anything with what he's allergic to. He'll always pay for it later, and will complain about it.

Rodolfo: Straight up allergic to a lot citrus things. I just have this feeling if he looks at a lemon wrong, his throat will swell up. He can handle a little bit of citrus in his food, but something like an orange slice would put him in medical :/

Laswell: Allergic to one really specific ingredient used commonly in a lot of skincare products. Hates it. So much. Wants a normal allergy.

Alex: So many medicinal allergies. He's that one person doctors struggle to find something he can have that won't kill him. Also allergic to fucking latex. Can't stand it.

Farah: Lactose intolerant. Does this stop her? No. As it should.

Nik: Deathly allergic to bees. Lives his life in a constant state of fear during the Bug Months TM

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the-fandom-abyss · 1 year

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Old Ghosts

Sam Carpenter x Reader

Genre: Angst ❀

Word Count: 1,346 words

Warning: mentions canon character death

Tara blissfully walked through the apartment, unaware of the looming dark clouds that hung over Sam’s head. They were conveniently the same clouds that effect your mood. Tara attempted to exchange a simple “good morning” and in return she received, a snappy and snarky remark from her sister. She shrugged her shoulders at the behaviour, seeking you out instead.

“What’s got her in such a foul mood?” Tara questioned, looking in the kitchen for a viable snack.

“Don’t know” at the blunt response, she turned around, observing your features. You looked just as defeated as her sister, that’s when she started connecting the dots.

“What’s going on between you two?” A simple question for an outsider, a heavy question for those that knew the weight it carried.

“Just drop it”

“Did you fight?”

“Tara” just the tone of your voice made her hairs all stand on end. She could see how your eyes pleaded with unshed tears. All the pieces seemed to fall into place right in that moment. She moved closer to you, finding a seat to your left. She hoped she didn’t know the answer to her next question.

“Did you break up?” She saw the muscles in your body tense, a slight flinch at the concept. It was clear to her that her concerns were correct, that the power couple had split. Leaving her to ponder what the hell went wrong in the first place. She didn’t wait for a response, already receiving the answer that she needed. “You were so perfect together, what happened?” You let out a sigh, knowing Tara enough that she wouldn’t let this go. She was like a dog with a bone, not willing to bury it until it was all chewed up.

“After all the crazy shit that happened in Woodsboro, Amber and Richie still haunt her. She can’t look at me without thinking of Amber, it’s all she sees”

“That’s ridiculous, you are nothing like your sister. Sam should know that better than anyone”

“You would think”

“That is so stupid! Let me talk to her” Tara shifts in her seat, ready to take off after her sister. She obviously isn’t thinking straight, if she was willing to let go of the best thing she’s had in years.

“I know when you say ‘talk’” the use of air quotes was needed for the word talk, as the sisters don’t know the meaning of the word. “You actually mean argue”

“Yeah, you’re right” she moved off the chair, starting her journey. She was going to knock some sense into Sam because Tara was not going to sit idly by.

“Wait” your voice cut through her forward planning. You reached out to gently touch the younger girls arm. “She’s not coping, the last thing she needs is a reminder of what happened”

“Yeah bu-“ she was cut off by a squeeze to her arm, a signal to let it go. Something that Tara had a hard time doing.

"I'm going to leave” Tara’s eyes grew wide at your statement. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her sister had successfully ran you out of town. “We both need it" she visibly scoffed at you, not agreeing with your choice at all.

"You know that's a lie"

"You're right but that’s what she needs”

“She doesn’t know what she needs”

“I’ll be at a hotel down the street, I left the address, just in case. You have my number, call it if you need anything” you handed her a note with all the details on it. You were leaving to settle Sam’s nerves, that didn’t mean you still weren’t going to be there for them.

“You’re leaving now?” She only just discovered there was a problem, now she’s losing you minutes later. Her head was spinning from the strength of her emotions.

“It’s like a Band-Aid, you need to rip it off and move on”

“I’ll miss you” it was her turn to have tears in her eyes. She rushed towards you, enveloping you in a hug. Her arms wrapped around your waist, squeezing you for good measure.

“I’ll miss you too. Take good care of her for me”

“I will” you placed a kiss to the top of Tara’s head, reciprocating the tight squeeze she had on you. You could tell the younger girl was crying, by the wet patch that was growing on your shirt. You didn’t mind, it pained you just as much to leave them. It took all your willpower to remove your arms from around Tara. Even more to grab your bags and leave the apartment. The door clicked closed, signifying your departure. Tears stained Tara face as she marched down the hallway to Sam’s room. She roughly opened the door without any thought for Sam on the other side.

“You are such an idiot. How could you let them walk out?”

“Tara” she gave the same warning tone as you did earlier. It didn’t stop her before, so there is no way it will be stopping her now.

“No! Y/N was one of the best things to happen to us. They saved our lives and this is how you repay them? By telling them they remind you of the very person they killed”

“They’re too much like Amber” Sam had to admit, there was an eery likeliness between the siblings. There were times that you would say a certain word or phrase that would send her back to that night. She felt guilty every time she saw a glimpse of Amber. Sometimes she wondered if you could see it to, if you were haunted by the same old ghost she was.

“They are nothing like Amber! If that was the case, you wouldn’t have dated them in the first place. It was just a lame ass excuse so you could feel better about yourself”

“That’s not true”

“It is and you know it. You were just scared of getting your heart broken, so instead you push away the people that truly care for you” Tara waited for her sister to reply, she wanted to continue yelling. She wanted more fuel for the fire in which her anger burned. But all she received was a glassy stare, filled with heavy emotions she couldn’t quite pin point. “Amber was a low blow, couldn’t find anything better?”

“It’s the truth” Sam mumbled, knowing that she would not win against her sister. She was relentless and would find a way to have the final say whether Sam spoke or not.

“Well look where the truth got you. They left, they moved out, they are gone Sam”

“Wait” she wasn’t aware that you had left. She only broke up with you a day ago and it’s been a constant battle since. Argument followed by arguments, angry whispers in hallways while Tara was asleep. She wasn’t prepared for you to move so fast, she wasn’t prepared for a world without you.

“They thought that this would be for the best. After everything you’ve put them through, you were their top priority. I hope you’re happy” Tara slammed the door behind her, causing the old New York walls to rattle. She left Sam alone with her thoughts, in a newly empty room. She was right back to where she was before coming back to Woodsboro, alone and unsure of her choices.

That night, Sam curled up on her side of the bed, staring at the side you used to occupy. She wore a shirt that you left behind, finding comfort in its aroma. She cried and cried until there were no more tears to give. She spent the night, wondering if she had made the right choice. If she would be better off without you. Her mind screamed at her for being foolish, for letting a genuinely good person walk out of her life. While her heart soothed her nerves, reassuring her that this was the right decision. After all, it always ends with her heart being broken, so why would she wait for you to break hers?

#sam carpenter #sam carpenter imagine #sam carpenter x reader #scream #scream imagine #scream x reader #scream 2022 #scream 5 #scream 6 #scream vi

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film-in-my-soul · 9 months

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steddie - writer’s choice ❤️

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Writer's Choice - Different First Meetings + Modern/Canon Divergence AU (because I don't want to have the period typical homophobia)

.⋆｡°✩ Steve takes the kids to a local concert and manages to get himself front and center when Corroded Coffin takes the stage. ✩°｡⋆.

Steve is going to kill Dustin. And Lucas, too, for that matter. Max he thinks he can forgive, seeing as she's a full head shorter than most of them and out of all the kids (practically adults now, but if Steve thinks about that for too long he'll want to throw up... or cry), she's the one who'll make sure the rest of the buttheads currently scattered throughout the too dark, overly-crowded concert space don't get themselves into trouble. But the fact remains that Dustin had said he'd stick with Steve if they got closer to the stage, that no one else wanted to go with him, and "C'mon Steve! You want to leave me alone with a bunch of metalheads?" only for Dustin to abandon him!

If there's a saving grace, and it's a marginal one at that, Steve's managed to force himself to the front of the slightly raised platform between the bands changing over so he's far enough away from the mini moshpits that keep breaking out. But it also leaves him closer to the more fanatic audience members who aren't particularly mindful of where they're throwing their elbows, and even with his hearing aid turned off, they're loud, a low chant of "Coffin, Coffin, Coffin!" growing in urgency and volume.

Still, it feels safer to be able to crawl along the stage to escape if he needs to, and Steve can admit to himself that he's not having the worst time. That doesn't mean he's not sending Robin passive-aggressive texts every half hour, seeing as she'd tricked him into being the chaperone. He steadfastly ignores the replies where she calls him out, knowing he would have offered himself up anyway.

He's just about to send her another, maybe even send a selfie of his slowly deflating hair and scowl, when the lights dim almost to the point of total darkness.

There's an immediate hush, and then, when the strobes at the back of the stage flair up, imitating lightning, silhouetting figures that weren't there a moment before, the crowd explodes into a roar. It's almost so intense that Steve's bad ear rings. A fog machine hisses to life from somewhere off the right of the stage, and when a good layer of the smoke has started spilling over the lip of it, ghosting over Steve's knees, the rest of the lights come back on, a mix of neon red and flickering white.

There's a bass line kicking up to match the pattern of the blinks, and something about its low sound matching that visual cue and vibrating Steve from his feet to the top of his head easily fights through the screaming people buddying up to Steve and catches his attention in a not so unpleasant way. The drums follow, and it's effortless to connect the hard hits, higher in pitch and almost imperceptible to Steve's fucked hearing, with the nodding head of the musician responsible for it. And then, like a siren call, a distant wail, a guitar comes to life, and Steve's eyes follow the invisible wave of sound only to stop when-

Holy hell.

Right in front of him, only five feet away, with his leg propped up on a pedal and his wild mane of dark frizzy curls shaking with the rock of his body, is the most gorgeous guy Steve's ever seen.

It could be a trick of the mood lighting, or maybe just the combination of envy-worthy hair and wicked, electric smile, but Steve's pretty sure it's the whole damn package.

The guitarist's in a cut-off tank top, the edges of it tattered and the arms slit so low down his sides that Steve can see the curve of black ink crawling across his ribs. His pants are black and leather, like his boots, and each time he moves, picking out a new cord or riff, the flash of the silver jewelry adorning his fingers, chunky, eye-catching rings, is a beacon for Steve to track. He looks like some 80's hard rocker transported right into the twenty-first century with the sole mission to remind everyone why they included 'Sex' in the phrase 'Sex & Drugs & Rock 'n Roll' and from the way he moves, large and confident, throwing off winks and grins, he knows it.

Some of the girls around Steve sound like they're crying, sobbing out the name 'Eddie,' and given that they only get louder when the guitarist swings his hips and hair in their general direction, Steve guesses that's the guy's name.

A lot of the music fades with his attention so readily captured, but Steve likes this band more than the one before, and not just because he has to check if he's drooling when Eddie drops to his knees halfway through a song for a ridiculously attractive guitar solo. The bass is hard, and it's not just senseless thrashing. There's an occasional mellowness to the musical breaks, and the lyrics are followable. It's still not Steve's kind of sound, but dumb as he is about metal music, he knows these guys are good.

There are a few moments where Steve thinks his and Eddie's eyes meet, where one of those winks or blown kisses might be for him. He's still right against the stage, but Steve likes to think he's gotten a grip on his habit of wishful thinking and shrugs it away. He tells himself it's the blonde with the big rack screaming herself shrill just behind his shoulder that's getting all the attention he kind of wants just for himself.

Steve can tell the end of their set is coming up because somehow the energy in the crowd grows tenfold, and there's a new rocking of bodies where every other note of the song currently howling from the amps bumps Steve up against the platform, harder and harder each time. Something's coming. He doesn't know what, couldn't even guess, but the atmosphere is ratcheting to positively feral levels as he's jerked left and right but managing to keep his feet planted. And when the drum solo kicks in, starting soft but growing into a steady crescendo, Steve's proven corrected.

The audience behind him gives one heaving shove, and he trips forward, barely catching himself on the lip of the stage with his palms but nearly smacking his face on it all the same. He curses under his breath and shakes the disorientation from his head when he realizes someone is right in front of him. Steve follows the leather-clad knee up to a leather-clad thigh to a black cut-off tank top until his gaze plants itself right on the smirking mouth of Eddie, the guitarist.

The drums are still going, still rising in intensity like the crowd that's becoming distant white noise to Steve the longer Eddie doesn't move away. Steve doesn't even realize that Eddie's getting closer until there's a hand cupping his cheek, a thumb pressed to the dip of his chin, and his face is tipped up.

"Careful there, big boy," Steve thinks is what Eddie says, mostly reading his still sharply amused lips, and then he's not thinking much of anything because the cymbals of the drums crash, and Eddie is kissing him.

It's deep and messy and so full of blatant showmanship that it's mostly gross. It also has Steve's toes curling and a startled sort of moan forcing itself from his chest. It's quick also. Too quick if he's being honest. He doesn't even get a chance to close his eyes and feel it before Eddie separates from him with a wet pop and before jumping right back into the music.

He blows a kiss right at Steve and punctuates it with a hard-strummed chord on his guitar. Then he's gone, leaving Steve in a momentarily senseless vacuum until the room comes pouring back into his brain, and he's forced to acknowledge the people shaking him in some weird display of congratulations.

Steve's not sure how he's supposed to feel, but he thinks the next time Eddie throws a grin his way, he won't be as quick to dismiss it as being for him.

Ficlet Bingo!

#steddie #steve/eddie #stranger things ficlet #steddie ficlet #ficlet #got a little carried away with this one

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babygirlgh0st · 9 months

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Modern Leper

Summary; Despite living with Simon Riley for several months now, the intricacies of his mind still find ways to surprise you; Tonight is nothing new for either of you. Word count; 2,245 A/N; This is the first fic I’ve actually finished and decided to post for CoD! I rarely ever post my writing, so forgive me if it isn’t the best. I just really love Ghost, and my fiance deals with night terrors and I saw an outlet and decided to run it into the ground with this. The relationship dynamic for them is something I cherish and is loosely inspired by this song. I could write a three hour power-point on all the trauma this man struggles with, but for now y’all gotta deal with my drabbling instead lmao. No beta we die like men.

I’m also open to taking requests, if you have anything to offer me :> Warnings; Vague mentions of past trauma/gore/death, night terrors, ambiguous and complex situationships, minor physical harm (unintentional), hurt/comfort.

It had taken you months to finally convince Simon to move in with you, just like it had taken nearly a year for him to admit to your not-quite relationship. It was based on understanding more than love or romance; The common knowledge that you shared the same weight as the other, that your weird quirks were complimentary despite their usually volatile state.

You both understood each other's needs, traumas, the baggage you both carried within yourselves that you’d yet to find the space to put down. He needed space and quiet, a silent companion who never seemed to judge him for whatever ailed him at any moment, and you had a supernatural ability to read him like a book and offer what you could when he needed it without a word being exchanged. It was an invaluable bond you two shared, not quite love, but not quite friendship. You just knew each other like you were one and the same, and found safety in that fact. He had grown to trust you, and you found solace with him, and you were relieved when he relented to moving into your sad one bedroom apartment. Filling some empty void that always seemed to follow you in life.

You had been having such a nice dream, something warm and soft and honey sweet for once, when the yelling started. It dredged you from the depths of sleep, like ripping off a band-aid or throwing ice water down your shirt, and you blearily shot up in bed in surprise as you blinked into the dark of your shared bedroom, seeking its source.

Simon had warned you about his night terrors, but you hadn’t fully comprehended just how bad they could get sometimes. Yelling, screaming, pained moans and thrashing like he was an animal caged, feral and in desperate need to escape himself. He’d told you that there wasn’t much to do about them, and apologized when he said to just let him be until they were over. He’d even insisted on sleeping on the couch for several months upon moving in under the concern that he’d hurt you or cost you sleep, or god forbid traumatize you even further than your shared line of work already had.

It took you a few moments to process that it was happening again, blinking the sleep out of your eyes as you watched Simon jerk in his sleep across the bed, sheets twisted around his limbs in a way that you found both angelic and heartbreaking in the moonlight from the window. You were sure there wasn’t a single way he could appear to you that you wouldn’t find beautiful, though you knew better than to voice those thoughts out loud.

He remembered everything if he was woken up in the middle of a night terror, though waking him up while in one of his fits was a feat of its own. You had relented to leave him be and fight his demons in his dreams undisturbed, until the neighbors started to complain about the noise. It killed you to see the haunted, distant look he would always get the following morning if he didn’t sleep through it, but he understood that it couldn’t continue, not in your subpar apartment. After a few too many noise complaints, things had to change.

“Simon?” You called softly, voice heavy with sleep as you shifted to face him, watching him for a few moments. You knew that pinched expression, visible even through his balaclava that his face was an image of agony. You’d never learned what he had been through- never anticipated you’d get to know- but it still made you question the poor man’s past as you watched him squirm and groan in pain in your sheets.

“Simon,” you call his name more loudly this time, shifting closer to him on the bed as you did.

You had never let go of the hope that maybe one day, you’d be able to soothe away his nightmares with just your voice. That your presence alone could banish the horrors that he hid inside of himself, the things he fought back during the day that he couldn’t run from at night. You prayed for a day when you could simply whisper sweet nothings to him, and ease his pain without having to wake him.

It had yet to work despite your insistent efforts, and after a couple more minutes of soft crooning and attempts to console him with no changes in his behavior, you relented to the one trick you and Ghost had found to wake him up; Sternum rubs.

“I’m so sorry,” you said as you always did, before shifting to get out of bed and walk around to his side of the mattress. He’d attempted to grab or punch you the few times you’d had to resort to this specific method in the past, and you couldn’t blame him for it; it was an agonizing sensation to experience, and he had always been adverse to physical contact regardless of whether or not he had just suffered a night terror. You couldn’t fault him for lashing out when you woke him from painful dreams in an equally as painful way, even if it cost you a few bruises. At least if you were standing, you had a better chance of moving out of reach when he did come to. With a sharp breath in, you lowered your knuckles down onto the solid muscle and bone of his sternum and pressed, dragging your fist across his chest.

It didn’t take long for him to let out a shuddering gasp, a choked yell of “Get the fuck off me!” following after. It left you flinching, startled by the outburst despite this situation not being a new one. His eyes flew open in shock as his hand locked tight, too tight around your wrist in a grip that brought a squeal to your lips. You knew by now it would leave bruises, the skin tight and twisted under his calloused palm as he ripped your hand off of him.

“G-ghost! It’s me, it’s me,” you chanted, fear evident in your words as you tried to not struggle against his grip. You had never been able to get used to the violence in his awakenings, the way he would shudder and heave like he’d been shot. His eyes were frantic, manic as he stared at the room around him, at himself, at you as if he had never seen you before in his life, your words foreign in his ears.

“Simon… It’s okay. You’re okay, you’re at ho-”

“Shut up.”

He panted heavily, releasing your wrist from his ironclad grip as he shifted to sit up in the bed. His eyes were squeezed tight, hands reaching to cover his face as he tried to reorient himself to the waking world. His body shuddered and rattled as if still stuck inside of his dream, somewhere else, experiencing who knows what. You stood silently beside the bed as you watched him, letting him calm down in his own time.

It felt like a century before he spoke, but his words were much softer despite the way his hands trembled against himself.

“...I’m sorry, love,” he mumbled, fingers rubbing at his eyes as he forced everything in his mind down into the trenches of himself. Hiding away from your concerned eyes as you watched him like a hawk. His scars throbbed, his skin still clinging to the feeling of blood and dirt and rot as if he had never showered since everything had happened to him.

“It’s okay, Si,” you said quietly, finally letting yourself move, breathe, as you made your way back to your side of the bed and settled back into the sheets there.

“You… Can I get you anything?” You offered, always trying to be helpful after an episode. Always supportive and gentle and quiet in his presence as he struggled to hold everything down like bile in the back of his throat, threatening to spill out. A mug of tea, an ear, a shoulder, a warm bath, it was always the same with you despite him always pushing you away every time. He usually settled for silence and nothing more, and this time didn’t seem any different.

Simon finally pulled his hands from his face, blue eyes exhausted as he stared down at your red wrist with a look of heartbreaking guilt. You knew he was staring; he always did when he’d hurt you after this happened, guilty and pained as he struggled to chew and swallow the reality of once again doing the one thing he always told himself he wouldn’t.

“I’ll get you some ice,” he offered, no room for argument in his words as he shifted out of bed with a groan and disappeared from the bedroom. Your hand cradled your inflamed wrist, and as you looked down at it you could already see the angry, finger-shaped signs of a bruise forming under your skin.

He’d always shown his care through action, insisting he was bad with words and worse with touch, so he settled on the little things to try and bring his affections across to you. Grabbing things that were too high for you to reach, doing the extra steps to make whatever task you had at hand that much easier, bringing you small souvenirs when he went on an assignment that you couldn’t follow him on.

He returns with a deep rooted sadness in his eyes, silently asking for your injured hand as he goes to wrap a bag of frozen peas around it like you were made of glass; something so fragile, so delicate. It felt wrong to feel you in his hands, no matter how careful he swore to be with you, the feeling of staining or breaking you never leaving the back of his mind as he iced the wound he’d caused.

“Really, it’s okay,” you reassured him a second time, offering him a gentle smile as you let him ice your wrist for you. It felt like he was licking a wound like a dog, trying to erase the accidental damage he caused like he always tried with himself. He only offers you a curt nod at your words, and once he’s decided your wrist is sufficiently encased in the frozen peas does he let you go and return to his spot in the bed.

“It was the coffin, this time,” he says in a low voice, rough from yelling and the cigarettes he tended to chain-smoke every second he was off base and out of your shared home.

You turn to stare at him in surprise, not expecting him to be open about what happened as your mind reeled from just that one sentence. He stares down at his hands in his lap as he speaks, but you can tell his eyes are looking at something beyond your gaze.

“It… Isn’t the worst one, but it’s still not great.” Simon laughs bitterly, shaking his head to try and rid his mind of the memories. Some part of him still felt like he was stuck down there trying to claw himself out, nothing but the rotten bones of someone else to help him along.

You aren’t sure what to say in response. A part of you wants to pry, to take the mile he’s offered with the inch given and see what horrible things seem to follow him like a shadow, but you can’t bring yourself to respond. Instead, you open your arms to him, head cocked to the side in question.

A hug. Simple, easy, comforting- For you at least. He looks up at you quietly for a few moments, the air easy and calmer in the space between you both as he considers your offer. His eyes are raw and wet when he finally relents, folding himself easily into your arms.

You make a point of ignoring the way his shoulders silently shake as he presses himself against you, his own arms going to loop around your waist with that same fragile care he’s always given to just you. An olive branch in the distance he always held between you, for his safety or your own you weren’t sure. You accept it all the same though, hands light and gentle as they go to rest against the back of his head, his shoulders, his spine; petting him like a wounded dog, some poor pet dying on the side of the road.

“You’re safe now, love,” You whisper in hesitance, body wound tight like a live wire as you wait to do something you shouldn't, cross some unspoken boundary you weren’t able to pick up on in this uncharted territory; But the moment never comes. His shoulders still shake, his face finding refuge in the pulse point between shoulder and throat, and you both act like your skin isn’t damp as you let him hide inside of you.

You don’t think you’ll ever find the right word for what you two have. It felt like something too delicate, too raw and wounded to be love, but it felt like it went deeper than just simple understanding. Beyond the realms of your minds or bodies, beyond the atrocities the two of you had both committed and been subjected to.

All that really matters to you though is that he trusts you, and you trust him, and you decide that that is all that matters.

#simon ghost riley #ghost cod #simon riley #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x you #ghost x soap #ghost/reader #simon riley/reader #call of duty #simon riley cod #ghost call of duty #my writing

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bittersweetresilience · 10 months

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miraculous masterpost 🦚

writing

sentitwin soulmate au (Félix and Adrien are soulmates. Amélie and Emilie used to be just as close. Ongoing.) ghost félix au (Félix just wanted it to stop hurting. Ongoing.) sentitwin omori au (Adrien wakes up. Emilie is home. Ongoing.)

never been in love (Félix comes to terms with being aromantic.) metempsychosis (Félix is in a time loop.) i've drowned and dreamt this (Adrien has a problem.) no one listens to the dead (Félix and Adrien switch places.) oh, no, not again (For Félix, time travel is a dangerous thing.) band-aid (Adrien helps Félix through a panic attack.) for what we've done (During Emotion, Marinette chooses differently.) garden of dreams (Adrien takes care of Félix when he dissociates.) loose leaves (Marinette shares a morning with Félix and Kagami.) come alive when the light dies (Ladybug remembers Patte de Velours in the Burrow.) in certain light, i can plainly see (Félix lets Marinette kiss his hand.) handle with care (Félix takes Adrien to meet his horse.) aftertaste (Ladybug brings Adrien to a picnic date.)

better left unsaid (Snake Noir visits Félix after Réplique.) brave, truthful, and unselfish (Five times Félix lied to Adrien.) ephialtes / reverie (Félix survives the night of the Diamonds' Dance.) sleep (Runaway Chat Noir and Félix have a conversation.)

and a couple others i haven't made posts for which you can find here!

analysis

aromantic félix fathom just me going insane about him why félix would go by his father's last name random félix defenses in my stash timeline of félix events

songs from my playlist kitty section would listen to adrien agreste and borderline personality disorder félix and flairmidable as pandora's myth félix as a classical or method actor sentitwin sun and moon symbolism

sentitwin soulmate au meta / more meta fear of rejection with émilie and colt

every scene where the miraculous theme song plays in minor definitely not every scene where in the rain plays

french history and gabriel's color palette plikki at the end of the world 成语 and miraculous

exaltation and chat blanc being called a monster bet you don't have a lot of friends parallels between marinette, adrien, gabriel, and émilie

art

félix fathom webweave amélie graham de vanily webweave felinette webweave / more weave philosophy webweave / more weave the whiteness of the whale webweave hearth and thirteen webweave paris special webweave twins webweave team is a four letter word webweave feligami webweave ladyvelours webweave

thirteen poem félix poem

felinette gifs / more gifs / more gifs / more gifs feligami gifs / more gifs félix fathom gifs wish gifs

(i draw sometimes.)

videos

i could fight on a wall 🌷 ladynoir emperor's new clothes 🌷 félix fathom i can't decide 🌷 félix fathom end credits 🌷 felinette this side of paradise 🌷 ladrien savior 🌷 ladyblanc tightrope 🌷 djwifi are you bored yet? 🌷 kuro neko way down we go 🌷 félix fathom

compilation 🌷 le bulleur compilation 🌷 animaestro

other

miraculous frozen au miraculous infinity train au

murder at the graham de vanily dinner party birds of a feather

as time goes by podfic émilie agreste playlist

félix fic recs sentitwins fic recs feligami fic recs ladynoir fic recs

#🌃#← mine or my favorites #sentitwin soulmate au #ghost félix au #sentitwin omori au #thefelixzine #← brainchildren #any other emoji #← people i talk to

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lance-thunder-reporting-live · 1 year

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Good morning Amity Park, I'm your weatherman, Lance Thunder. Today's Thursday, January 5, and there is a 60% chance of rain and a high chance of light snow. Highs are in the mid thirties while lows are in the low thirties.

A large boar ghost attacked Casper High yesterday. Luckily, students have not yet returned from break, but the marching band was in the building for practice. No students sustained any major injuries though, as Danny Phantom was quick to fight off the boar. The boar was able to stab Danny Phantom through the chest before it was captured, but before any of the students could offer aid to him, he disappeared from the area.

Casper High plans to install a ghost shield for extra protection from high powered ghosts. Rather than keep ghosts out, this shield will be used to trap them inside to ensure safety after evacuation from the building. This is because it would take far too much energy to power the shield for more than a few hours at a time. This shield will likely be installed before school starts back up again for the spring semester.

The Fentons will likely not be driving today so the roads are safe.

#amity park #danny phantom #lance thunder #unreality #daily report #01/05/06

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sadwizardlover · 7 months

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No Hope in Hell

Summary: The ambush on the tieflings in the Shadow-Cursed Lands and its aftermath, from Rolan's perspective Tags: Hurt, angst, absolutely no comfort or light whatsoever TW: This story contains descriptions of violence and torture

Link on AO3

"Hope hurts. That's what you need to learn, and fast, if you don't want it to cut you open from the inside out. Hope is bad. Hope means you keep on holding to things that won't ever be so again, and so you bleed an inch at a time until there's nothing left." --Seanan McGuire, Every Heart a Doorway

"Surrender in the name of the Absolute, or die."

It's a voice that will haunt Rolan's nightmares for weeks to come, long after they've left the Shadow-Cursed Lands and he can no longer place a face to it. A voice devoid of any emotion or inflection, it sounds almost bored, as if condemning an entire caravan of people to their deaths is as commonplace as discussing the weather.

Everything changed so quickly. One minute, they were on the road to Baldur’s Gate: wary but not yet terrified of the shadows around them, trusting in their torches and spells to keep the worst of the darkness at bay. Muted conversations, Alfira singing to calm the children’s nerves. Cal and Lia beside him.

The next–

Cultists emerging on the road ahead of them, flanking them from the woods, cultists coming up from behind. Appearing so suddenly and noiselessly they seem almost to be born of the shadows themselves. Armed with bows, greatswords, maces–all aimed at the trembling band of tieflings caught in their trap.

"Surrender in the name of the Absolute, or die."

None of them know what to do. Their own weapons are raised in response; they aren’t outnumbered, from what Rolan can tell, but how many of them actually know how to fight? Back at the Druid’s Grove they’d needed an outsider’s help before they’d been able to push back the goblins; he doubts they’ll be so lucky here. There is no closed gate standing between them and their would-be murderers, no cave for the children to hide in. They’re completely vulnerable.

And yet–

At the Grove, Zevlor had rallied them before the battle: told them that though they were afraid, though they’d never been handed the easy choices, they had to resist. For their children, for their future. His words had given them courage and led them to victory against a much more powerful foe than the cultists they now face. Rolan doesn’t normally believe in the power of mere words over steel and magic; but what other hope do they have? Surely Zevlor will say something, will do something, to keep his people alive.

The others must be thinking the same because all eyes are focused on their leader. Tilses, Zevlor’s faithful aide, turns to him and quietly whispers “sir, what should we do?”. Zevlor seems not to have heard her; his gaze is unfocused, staring off at something in the darkness that only he can see. “Sir? Sir!”

Finally Zevlor turns to face them. He still doesn’t seem to be entirely there, he’s not looking directly at them but through them, like they’re ghosts from his past–but still, Rolan thinks, now is when things will turn in our favor. It’s not a thought he previously would’ve indulged in, especially in a situation where all the evidence in front of him is screaming at him to run, to hide, to do whatever it takes to keep himself and his siblings alive, damn all the others to the Nine Hells. But then a tadpole in the form of an intrepid adventurer wriggled its way into his skull and gave him the slightest hope that maybe, just maybe, they could win against impossible odds.

A slight hope that is snuffed out faster than a moth landing on an open flame.

“The Absolute…will protect us,” Zevlor says. "The Absolute is giving us a chance. Lay down your weapons. Please!" The shock that runs through the caravan is palpable. Looks of confusion and dawning horror pass through the party; from off to his right, Rolan hears Lia hiss "what in the hells is happening?!"

"Sir." Tilses is still trying to plead with Zevlor and make him see sense. "Sir, please. We can't just give in, they'll kill us all!"

No point in begging, Rolan thinks, the old man won't hear you.

Some of the other tieflings feel the same. One of them–Amek? Locke? Rolan has ceased to give a shit about remembering their names–angrily spits out "Some Hellrider you are, Zevlor! Fucking coward." Another shouts "rot in the Nine Hells, we're not going anywhere!" This voice Rolan recognizes as Okta, the motherly woman who made him and Lia and Cal gruel and let them stay in front of her tent. He hadn’t realized she had such guts.

It doesn’t matter of course. The cultist in charge actually chuckles, a noise that makes Rolan wish he could strike them dead then and there, then turns to one of the others. “Line ‘em up so we can bring them to Moonrise.”

Zevlor is still, for gods only know what reason, begging and pleading–not with the cultists, he’s not asking them to show mercy or let them go, no, the disgraced Hellrider is begging to his own people–telling them to lay down their weapons, the Absolute would save them, he would save them. Whether Zevlor’s actually turned traitor, is being compelled, or some combination of the two, Rolan doesn’t care. His entire focus has narrowed to a single pinprick. He will get Cal and Lia out of this alive.

A sharp elbow to his back forces him into line with the others: Lia and Cal to his right, Alfira and Lakrissa to his left. Towards the end of the line are Asharak and the children who don’t have parents to see to their safety. To Rolan’s surprise, the cultists don’t take their weapons away or even order them to be sheathed, so Lia is allowed to keep her bow. In this moment he thinks the cultists have forgotten to confiscate them out of sheer ineptitude or stupidity; later, when he has nothing better to do than drown himself in bottomless glasses of wine and reply this scene ceaselessly in his mind, he will realize it’s the opposite.

The cultists know exactly what will happen in a few minutes. They’ve set the perfect trap–one baited with that faint, faint hope that maybe there’s still a chance for them to all to survive–and the tieflings have strolled right into it. They want them to fight back because that will make justifying their deaths even easier.

Once they’re lined up, they aren’t immediately ordered to start marching, and the waiting is torture. The cultists point and snicker at them, making crude comments on the state of their clothes, how bone-weary and haggard they look, how easy it would be to just let the evil lurking in the shadows consume them like the hellspawn they are. Their leader is the worst of all. They use the tieflings as a lecture, a morality play to prove the righteousness of their cause.

“See how those who reject the Absolute must cower in the darkness, weighed down by the burden of their unworthiness and sin. They believe themselves to be strong, to be deserving of the air they breathe and the ground underneath their feet. But see how their leaders–” here the cultist leader gestures to Zevlor, still babbling about the Absolute himself, “--see how their leaders shatter like glass when faced with the might of the Absolute! Only through embracing the Absolute can they be made pure. Those who reject the Absolute, those who resist, must be culled like vermin!”

One of the children begins to cry. Asharak tries to quiet them and keep them from drawing the cultists’ attention.

“Shh, it’s alright, it’s alright. Remember what that hero said, back at the Grove? You just have to be strong for a little bit longer, we’ll be okay.” His voice is barely a whisper and the cultist leader is at the opposite end of the line, but somehow they still hear him.

“You,” they say, in a voice dripping with bile, malice, authority. “Do you doubt the truth of the Absolute?”

“No, you didn’t think, did you, that anyone would call your lies into question. Heretics rarely do. I think,” they give a curt nod to one of the cultists near the end of the line, “a little lesson is in order for these children. Better they have some honesty in their lives, however short lived they may be.”

“W-what?” Asharak says, quaveringly. “N-no, I–I’m just trying to calm the children–”

“By telling them lies? It’s alright, we’ll be okay,” the leader echoes mockingly. “Do you really believe they will be spared from this? That any of you will be?”

“I—I don’t—I didn’t—”

“Don’t hurt them, please! They’re only children, they haven’t done anything wrong–!”

“Not them, boy. You will be their lesson. Now kneel.” Asharak remains standing, eyes bulging in horror and confusion. “Kneel.” The cultist behind him grabs him by the shoulders and shoves him to his knees.

Rolan’s head is spinning. He doesn’t know what’s coming, only that it will be terrible, something he doesn’t want to see, something he doesn’t want Cal and Lia to see, because as soon as they do there will be no going back to who they were before.

“Eyes that deny the truth of the Absolute,” the cultist leader says, “shall be plucked from the unworthy.”

The cultist pinning down Asharak pulls out a dagger with a blade that somehow still gleams menacingly even in the dim light of the Shadowlands. Asharak begins to shake and struggles to free himself from their grip; they kneel down behind him and lock his head in a chokehold, then roughly jerk his chin so he’s facing them. Stupid, brave Asharak is still trying to get away, clawing at their arm, twisting and squirming. The last things he sees in this life are the face of his captor and then the fall of the dagger.

No one screams, no one even breathes. The horror of what they’ve all just witnessed defies anything they’ve seen before; even the fall of Elturel into the hells couldn’t match the sheer, unbridled evil of cutting a man’s eyes out for comforting a scared child.

The worst of it is that Asharak is still alive. He’s moaning and whimpering, blood streaming from where his eyes once were, but he’s still alive, somehow. Asharak, who looked after the children, told them stories and taught them to fight. Gods, the pain he must be in…

“Tongues,” says the cultist leader, snapping everyone’s attention back to them, “that sully the Absolute with lies and deceit shall be sliced from the unworthy.” They signal again to the cultist holding Asharak in place.

They all know what to expect now, know to look away before the dagger drops. But that doesn’t protect them from the noise: the noise of metal through flesh, the noise of Asharak keening in pain, the noise of the cultists chanting “Praise the Absolute!” en masse, as though a god who could condemn a man to such a torturous and slow death for committing no crime at all was worthy of such slavish praise. The Absolutists’ jubilant shouts are matched by the desperate prayers, sobs, and pleas of the tieflings. Zevlor is entreating the children to look away; someone is retching up what little food they’ve had to eat.

While the cultists are distracted by lauding their murderous god, Rolan feels a trembling hand slip into his. Lia is shaking, he can’t tell if it’s with fear or with anger, but her eyes are clear and determined. He recognizes that look. It’s the Lia is about to do something incredibly stupid and I need to stop her look. But by the way she gazes at him–so focused despite her fear, ready to throw her own life on the line to protect everyone else–Rolan realizes in a heartbeat that he won’t be able to. Next to her, Cal has a similar expression; his is softer than Lia’s, less ferocious, but no less set on doing something dangerously heroic.

When did you two get so big, Rolan suddenly thinks. When you were little you wouldn’t dare do something this stupid in front of me. When you were little, I could protect you.

Lia squeezes his hand tightly. “Spells and swords, Rolan,” she murmurs. He knows what she’s asking of him. Knows she’s calling on him to fall back and shield the children, like they did in the Druid’s Grove. Knows she’s trying to reassure him that they’ll be fine, her and Cal, they can take care of themselves. He knows, and the fear that this may be the last time he’ll ever hold her hand is so overwhelming Rolan wishes it was him with his eyes and tongue cut out and not Asharak. It would be far less painful than this.

“Spells and swords, Lia,” Rolan whispers. And then he lets go.

Lia immediately turns away, pulling an arrow from her quiver and aiming it straight at the cultist leader’s throat. It flies true; if Rolan weren’t so damned afraid, he’d be proud of his sister’s marksmanship. The leader clutches at the arrow and yanks it out, gasping down their last gulps of air before the life dribbles out of them. At the same time, Cal lets out a roar and charges at the cultist closest to them with his pike.

All hell breaks loose.

The tieflings scatter in all directions. Some of them go running off into the shadows; others join Cal and Lia and begin fighting back against the cultists. A cacophony of screams, of weapons clashing, of people dying, cuts through the darkness.

“Run, Arabella!”

“Danis?! Danis where are you?!”

“You vermin will never see daylight again!”

“No…this can’t be happening, no…no…NO!”

Rolan tries to tune out the chaos as best he can and makes a mad dash for Alfira, who’s collapsed on the ground next to Asharak’s now still corpse. Her eyes are wide with panic and her face is streaked with tears; the children are clinging onto her like she’s the only thing keeping them from being snatched away. It enrages Rolan to see her just sitting there weeping while his siblings are fighting, are dying–

No. He won’t think that, not right now anyway.

“Get up!” he shouts, shoving her roughly. “If you don’t want to die, grab the children and run, now!” This snaps Alfira out of whatever trance she’s in and she quickly stands up and starts to run, pulling the children with her. One of the cultists tries to go after them; Rolan hits him with a magic missile volley and he falls to the ground, dead. He sees Mol stab another cultist in the thigh and yells at her to come with them.

Then they’re running, running, running, him and Alfira and the children, along with whichever refugees are smart enough and fast enough to follow them. Rolan doesn’t know what spells or cantrips he’s casting to beat back the cultists; his arms are flying almost as fast as his feet. He just knows that he has to survive this, not for his own sake but for Cal and Lia. Who will remember to come back for them if not him? He doesn’t let himself think about how he might be coming back to their dead bodies, or worse, to nothing left of them at all.

He doesn’t know how long it takes them to get to Last Light from where they were ambushed. It could be minutes, it could be hours, he doesn’t care, before they burst forth from the darkness into the shimmering dome of light encircling the inn. Another Rolan, in another lifetime, would’ve been fascinated by the magic required to create such a massive protective barrier.

This Rolan, in this lifetime, is covered in someone else’s blood and just wants a fucking drink.

There are Harpers and Flaming Fist at the inn who bombard the others with questions about where they came from (“we were on the way to Baldur’s Gate from the Druid’s Grove”) and how they managed to survive the ambush (“Rolan saved us”). They want to talk to him, too, but after he demands to know when they’re going to be attacking Moonrise to free the prisoners and is met with pitying looks and half-hearted reassurances that they will save them, eventually, they just need to know what Ketheric Thorm is planning first—Rolan refuses to speak to them. Cowards, the lot of them. Cal and Lia are worth a thousand of their kind.

Lia and Cal are worth a thousand of you, Rolan.

He sets himself up in front of the bar. Doesn’t even find a bed to rest in, doesn’t try to sleep, because he knows as soon as his eyes close he’ll see everything as clearly as if he’s still trapped in the shadows: Asharak with his eyes and tongue cut out, the cultists laughing at their fear and misery, Cal and Lia looking at him with complete trust before doing something suicidally reckless. The liquor will keep the darkness at bay. With every new cup he pours, Rolan thinks, this time. This time when I get to the bottom they’ll walk through the door. They’ll probably be tired and scared but I don’t care, I’m going to yell at them, how could they be so stupid and leave me alone like this? Every cup carries an enticing whiff of hope that his siblings are playing some childish prank on him and hiding just out of sight, waiting to jump out and yell “surprise, we didn’t die in a ditch!”

Every cup ends in fresh disappointment.

The others try to console him, initially. Cerys tells him that he and Lia and Cal were brave for what they did, braver than Zevlor who stood by and did nothing while his people died, but this praise means nothing to Rolan. He’d much rather be in Zevlor’s place right now, because then at least he’d be dead, or in some prison cell with the others. Instead he’s here, nursing a drink and a headache, just him and his thoughts and all his flaws.

Alfira tries to comfort him too. She quietly approaches him at the bar–as he’s thinking yet again of what a fuckup he is, it should be him in prison and Cal and Lia should be here–and gently places her hand on his arm. “Rolan,” she says softly, “I wanted…I wanted to thank you. For saving us. For saving me. I would’ve died if it wasn’t for you, and for Cal and Lia, too.” Alfira swallows nervously. “I know…I know it’s not my place to say anything, and you’re going through a lot, but. I just want to say, I know they’d be proud of you–”

“You don’t know anything,” Rolan barks, wrenching himself away from her. “I didn’t want to save you, I didn’t choose to save you. I would let you all rot in the dark out there a thousand times over if it meant I could have Lia and Cal here with me. None of you mean anything to me and don’t you dare say they’d be proud of me for what I did, don’t you dare even speak their names.” He knows he’s being unimaginably cruel, that Alfira is only trying to help, that she’s grieving too. But in his alcohol-addled haze, his grief seems so much bigger, so much more important than hers, because it’s a grief built on a solid foundation of shame and self-loathing. Alfira can cry about losing Lakrissa but it’s not really the same, is it? It’s not like she could’ve bashed a cultist on the head with her lute.

But Rolan. Rolan is supposed to be a magical prodigy, the future apprentice to the greatest wizard in all of Faerun, and yet he couldn’t do the one simple thing that was his responsibility and his alone. He couldn’t protect Cal and Lia. If he’s failed so miserably at this, how can he expect to succeed at anything else? Maybe the voice in his head that’s always nagged at him for not being enough is right. Maybe he truly is an irredeemable nobody.

Having to be around the children is the worst part of being stuck in the purgatory that is the Last Light Inn. They are keenly aware that every one of them would be dead if not for him; they are also keenly aware of how angry he is, but because they are children, have no way of understanding why he keeps yelling at them and demanding they refill his drinks even after all the other adults have told them to quit serving him. They want to thank him, want to repay him for getting them to safety, but because they are children all they can do is watch helplessly as Rolan drinks himself into a stupor. How can he tell them that every time he looks at them, he sees Cal and Lia at that age: small, happy, healthy, alive? They’re a living reminder of his failure. They’re not the children he wants to see. His thoughts fill him with such shame and he swallows the shame back with another glass of wine.

As the minutes melt into hours melt into days, Rolan’s ire switches focus and lashes out at everyone not present. At the Cult of the Absolute, for their sick belief in a sick god who sees torture and murder as a way to bring about purification. At Zevlor, for tricking them all into thinking they were strong enough to take on any obstacles in their way, and then abandoning them when they needed his leadership most. At–and here Rolan’s mind disgusts him so much that he has to down an entire bottle of beer before he can even get the thought out–Lia, at Cal, for being so stupid, for having to play the hero when they can hardly do anything without his help, for abandoning him.

But. The person Rolan loathes the most (apart from himself) is that intrepid adventurer. That hero. That interfering menace, who popped into their lives for only a short time and yet in one fell stroke managed to completely upend everything, simply by giving them hope. If they hadn’t helped Zevlor fight the goblins, he wouldn’t have been deluded into thinking there were still good people in the world, wouldn’t have passed that delusion on to the rest of the tieflings and then betrayed them. If they hadn’t fed Asharak and the children some line about “being strong” and “trusting each other”, Asharak might’ve kept his stupid mouth shut in front of the cultists, instead of being left to bleed out in a dark wood, sightless and speechless. If they hadn’t convinced Cal, Lia, and himself to stay and fight, he and his family would be in Baldur’s Gate by now, safe in Lorroakan’s care and protection.

Hadn’t they known how dangerous hope was to people who had long ago resigned themselves to a life of hopelessness?

Rolan hopes he never sees the adventurer again. He hopes they’re dead, cut down on the road somewhere; it’ll still be better than they deserve, for all the pain and damage they’ve caused.

Rolan hopes the adventurer is alive, that they’ll come striding through the door so he can punch them in the face, can scream at them about how they’ve ruined his life, they’ve ruined everything, why did they do this to him? What harm did he ever cause them to deserve such punishment as this?

Rolan hopes that the adventurer will come save him, will save everyone, even though he knows this is the most futile hope of all.

Rolan doesn’t know what he hopes for anymore.

When he eventually does drift off to fitful slumber–his head cradled in his arms on top of the bar, a mug of ale still clenched tightly in his hand–his last thought is that he doesn’t need hope. He has himself, his sense of purpose, and that is enough to get him through whatever lies ahead. The Flaming Fist and the Harpers are too scared to attack Moonrise? Fine, he’ll do it on his own then. Rolan isn’t afraid of the shadows, of the curse that chokes the land outside their little bubble of safety. He’s seen things that are much, much worse than mere shadows in the span of a few days, and those things have his siblings. He will get them out of there, even if he kills himself in the process. Rolan makes a mental note to record a message for Cal and Lia on the scant chance that they manage to escape and make it to the inn while he’s still searching for them in the dark. If he does fall, he wants them to continue to Baldur’s Gate, and not mourn him the way he’s mourning for them right now.

With this plan of action set firmly in his mind, Rolan finally sets his tortured thoughts aside for a time and lets the oblivion of sleep take him.

#bg3 rolan #rolan bg3 #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #lia bg3 #cal bg3 #i feel more evil than minthara for putting rolan through this #everything is pain

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oogaboogasphincter · 9 months

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REQUEST

Can I request a one shot with any Pedro character and f reader, where the reader had her dog put down and Pedro character does whatever he can to make her feel better.

I've just recently had my dog put down and my heart is broken.

Thanks

Band-Aid | Frankie Morales x f!reader

warnings: talks about pet loss, emotional grieving and pain, frankie is the best at helping you cope and trying to make you feel better <3 also works for gn!readers | 740+ words

a/n: i'm so sorry anon ☹️ losing your pet is one of the greatest griefs i think we go through. i wish i could give you a great big hug 🫂 i decided to go with frankie because to me he's like a literal human embodiment of a teddy bear, there to hold and snuggle with until you feel better 🧸 i hope these words can bring you some comfort 💗

Frankie will hold you for as long as you need it - all day long and through the night, he'll keep his arms wrapped around you in a comforting embrace. He'll cradle the back of your head and hold you close, whispering to you that, "It's okay." It's okay to cry, it's okay to be upset, it's okay for your heart to be broken.

He understands the weight of having to make such a major decision. He also knows that you're a wonderful, caring parent and that you know what's best for your dog. He'll help you to see that with the grief that responsibility can bring, there is also an endless trove of love for you to receive from eternally.

Frankie gives you a safe space to express your grief. He knows that, despite the pain, it's the better choice to feel it than to ignore it and try to fight it.

He'll be your buoy on the days when you feel like you're drowning in a sea of sorrow, your umbrella on the days when the clouds just won't let up and pour down on you.

"The pain you feel is a reflection of the immense love you and your dog have for each other. It shows just how much you loved your dog and how much your dog loved you back. Unconditionally."

He talks to you about your dog, listening with a smile as you retell stories. From the silly, to the mischievous, to the happy, and every little moment in between, he listens to you with undivided attention.

He reminds you with soft sincerity that you gave your dog a wonderful life in those sad moments where you feel like you could've done more. Frankie will tell you that he knows, as much as your dog knows, that you gave them the best life you could. The love you gave your dog will shine brighter than any star in the sky, burning spectacularly with unconditional love. He philosophizes that souls never really leave us, even if their physical body isn't present anymore.

He's a big believer that the ones you love and lose will find a way to follow you, in some manner or another. Some believe that seeing a cardinal or a dragonfly is representative of the lost soul visiting you, reminding you that they'll always be there. Some believe in spirits or entities like friendly ghosts. Personally, Frankie doesn't place the soul in any one object and believes that they'll visit you in any way they can. On those days when the sun shines a little brighter and feels warmer on your skin than usual, like its' reaching down from the sky and giving you a hug; when the wind blows and sounds like it's singing a melody only for you to hear; when the ocean rises and falls in such a way that you swear it looks as if it's waving hello to you, only you. Frankie wants you to remember that your dog's love will surround you always, even if you can't see it.

Frankie will help you make a memory box for your dog, to create a safe space to visit when you need it. He understands that seeing all the places of loss around your house can feel overwhelming, and he hopes that by taking that sadness and compartmentalizing it into a place of happy memories, it'll lessen the gloom. Frankie will help you collect everything that reminds you of your dog, like their collar, their favorite toys, their favorite blankets and sweaters, and lots and lots of pictures of them.

Frankie also helps you to memorialize the things that you can't fit into the box that remind you of your dog. In the places where your dog ate, slept and played, Frankie will place plants that he says, "are only able to grow from all the love that lives there already."

Grief is not easy, but Frankie will be there to help you every step of the way. He'll share your tears and dab yours away delicately, he'll hold you together when you feel like you're falling apart, he'll take care of you when you don't have the energy to. But he'll also share your smile, laugh with you and help you to nurture and preserve the memory of your dog. The loss can feel like it'll be a permanent wound, but Frankie will do everything in his power to be your band-aid.

to anon 💌: please reach out to me and let me know if you're satisfied with what i've written for you! you asked for a one shot, and i know that i kind of wrote this in the format of headcanons, just because i really wanted to comfort you directly instead of having it as a narrative <3 i'd be more than happy to write something else/something longer for you if you'd like something different! 🫂🫂 or if you just need someone to talk to, my dms and/or inbox are always open 💗

💘taglist: @pascalpanic @maievdenoir @pedrostories @your-voice-is-mellifluous @uncassettodiricordi @harriedandharassed

#frankie morales #pedro pascal characters #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x gn!reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie 'catfish' morales x reader #frankie catfish morales x gn!reader #frankie catfish morales x f!reader #frankie 'catfish' morales #frankie 'catfish' morales x you #francisco morales #francisco catfish morales x you #francisco catfish morales x reader

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