#SOMEHOW MY BRAIN PURGED THIS THOUGHT

[olderthannetfic]

I know this is only marginally related, but the anon post about dating your boss in the military raising eyebrows and people's prioritization in shipping wars made me immediately think of "In The Navy" by Village People and of "YMCA" (because my brain thinks since YMCA has cheeky subtext and is considered a gay anthem if I'm not misremembering, In The Navy might have some cheeky subtext, too), and it reminded me of the musical Hair and within it of the song "Hair" in which Berger is asked if he's gay (supposedly because of his long hair and homophobic stereotypes IIRC?), which I thought was a reference to fraternization regulations (due to working with a lot of other guys I guess?) and to homophobic regulations (if I haven't misunderstood it, specifically the "Don't ask, don't tell" policy?), and it reminded me of the songs "Black Boys/White Boys" which always seemed a little tongue-in-cheek about attraction between military personnel to me (and only partially subtext, some of it seems to downright be text with no subtlety found, now that I'm rewatching the scene from the film lol). It's been years since I've been to the musical though, so my memory probably forgot 99% of the musical. Gotta watch the film some time.

(BTW I'm not from the USA or an English-speaking country, so I'm not very familiar with US American laws and military culture stuff or with US American LGBT+ history and culture, though I am even more unfamiliar with it in my country apart from a few things because I'm from germany and I know for example that gay people were also targeted and murdered by the nazis - one thing that comes to mind immediately is "Aimée & Jaguar", which is a film based on a book that's about the actual lives of two real people and which I recommend watching very much, though you might want to prepare yourself for seeing horrifying violence and for crying a lot - but I don't know much more about other things in german LGBT+ history, which now makes me pretty sad... Then again, I only realized I was bi less than 10 years ago when I learned about the existence of the term bisexuality, so it's possible that I've just somehow managed to overlook tons of things I've heard and read and that they never registered in my brain, which is very likely TBH.)

Sorry for babbling in your inbox, I shall be off to research more queer history.^^

--

I guess YMCA doesn't literally say "Stay there to suck cock", but it's still sung by a bunch of dudes in intentional camp stereotype outfits. There's subtext and then there's those pieces of art that are like 99% subtext with one tiny fig leaf of text as cover.

Germany had such an interesting history immediately prior to all that death, Magnus Hirschfeld and his Institut für Sexualwissenschaft being particularly obvious examples. Most of the research materials and art from that era were destroyed, but a few things escaped, including a copy of Anders als die Andern. Good luck researching, nonnie. Germany actually has a lot that was once recorded compared to many countries/societies even if it was systematically purged. It was the birthplace of modern sexology, after all.

[vi-enti]

school’s over so back on the fanfic grind (a grind i have not openly shared on the internet since like. 2018), unsure if this is an idea to continue but i am thinking so hard... about the difficulties of the healing process. really gotta purge that poison

. . .

“Hello, this is… Hajime Hinata. The date is… I have no idea what the date is. It’s been 14 days, 9 hours, 47 minutes and 24 seconds since we woke up from the Neo World Program.”

“…I don’t know why I said it like that. It’s been about two weeks.” 

“Uhh… I’m not sure what to say here, really. Naegi—Makoto, that is—told me this would be a good way to get my thoughts down. That way if there’s anything I forget, or anything I want everyone to know after… Well, I don’t think I can really forget anything. Even if I wanted to, I don’t think I could.”

“Sorry there are so many quiet gaps. I’m trying to think about what I want to say... I guess I’ll start with the facts, and we can go from there. I was the first person to wake up, and then Sonia. Kazuichi took a few hours longer, he was so… his limbs were so scarred. I could barely tell the healthy tissue apart from all of the burns and cuts. When he got out, he just kept screaming and crying, he just kept—“

“Akane was next, but she was barely a shell, too weak, so Makoto put her back under for a few more days before waking her up. She wasn’t in the pod though, we—they moved her to a hospital bed in a different room. This facility really has everything. You wouldn’t believe the scale of the medical equipment, Tsumiki would love it—“

“Basically, Akane woke up a week after Kazuichi, technically, and then we put her into a medical coma for a while. We as in… I didn’t do that. I mean, I did, but it didn’t feel like me.”

“Actually, I never feel like… me. I don’t know who me is supposed to be now. I’m still him—I mean, I’m still me—but I’m not me— fuck, this doesn’t make any fucking sense, I just can’t— Sonia, don’t touch me—“

“…”

“…I want my mom. I don’t remember the last time I wanted my mom. I don’t even… remember my mom, anymore.”

“…Patient 5, Kuzuryu Fuyuhiko. We plan to wake him from his induced medical coma today, following complications from his enucleation operation directly after awakening from pod sleep. There was an infection at the area of operation and I deemed it too dangerous to continue until it was cleared. Naegi had some objections, but his background is not medical, and does not always need to be taken into account. Patient 4 will simply have to wait.”

“He still has the damn thing.”

“…they all do.”

“Alter Ego, end recording.” Hajime slumped back against his chair, bringing a hand up to push his hair back. It was a newly acquired habit, one always accompanied by the feeling of missing something, like there wasn’t enough hair to run through his fingers. He hated it. Hated thinking that it wasn’t newly acquired at all, that whoever he was in the past few years did it all the time. 

That hadn’t gone nearly as well as he’d liked. These voice diaries were supposed to be records so they could explain things easier to the others once they all woke up, something to jog their memories. Privately, he was sure that Makoto had asked him to make them more for his own sake, as if they’d help somehow with all of the different thoughts running through his brain all of the time. If he spoke them out loud, then somehow they’d disappear. It was the compromise they’d settled on after Hajime had refused to attend Future Foundation-provided therapy. Most of the time they turned out exactly like this, not suitable for anyone’s ears except his own. 

Makoto was an idiot. Talking about it wasn’t going to stop the constant streams of thought in his brain, analyzing every thing and every action around him, picking apart the movements of his friends and their slight changes in tone, detecting every potential threat and every potential weapon for killing someone—fuck.

He was so tired of dreaming up all the ways people could die. His rare moments of sleep were already haunted by spears and giant Tetris blocks, by fire and poison and terrified faces. He didn’t need more deaths on his mind, constant echoes of terrors of his own creation. 

Sitting up properly, he stretched his arms out before standing up to examine his half of the room. At least two people kept watch in the pod room at all times, waiting for anyone to wake up next and making sure nobody died. It reminded him of the hospital in the simulation, someone always watching over Akane and Ibuki and—

An alarm beeped and Sonia, on the other end of the room, startled awake in her own chair. She had stayed on that side after Hajime shoved her away earlier, eventually drifting to sleep by Gundham’s pod. It was the one she stared at the most, blue eyes alight with grief and fury, even if she wouldn’t admit it. She was better off than Hajime, at least. One of his eyes stayed empty. Makoto had warned him that she shouldn’t be allowed to spend so much time with Gundham, but he could never bring himself to pull her away. Clearing his throat, he waited for the former princess to look up towards him. 

“Shift change. You should go sleep in an actual bed, I can wait for Kazuichi and Makoto if you want to go on ahead.” She shook her head, fingers trailing over the glass coffin holding the Ultimate Breeder. 

“No, that’s alright. You’ve been here long enough, you need to rest before Fuyuhiko. It’s only a few more hours away. Besides, I…” Sonia trailed off, gaze shifting to the pod next to Gundham’s, covered with a sheet. Everyone had to be checked on, but there was just one person Hajime couldn’t stand to see. The only person in the room that caused his dead eye to come to life. 

He couldn’t identify the emotion, but it had to be hate. It had to be, right?

At least he knew he wouldn’t be judged for it. Everyone had someone they couldn’t look at in this room, couldn’t face directly. Hajime was just the only one weak enough to require a sheet covering the pod. The only one who couldn’t be controlled if he had a fit of anger, or worse—one of despair. 

Swallowing back bile, he nodded, making a quick exit from the room to the quarters right next door. A large room had been set up with beds and necessities for them, the six that were here and constantly switching out. Kyoko had suggested separate rooms, but after multiple nights of Kazuichi sneaking into his room or Sonia screaming in her sleep from across the hall, Hajime had fought for them to all be together. Makoto, almost with a child-like excitement, had insisted that he, Kyoko, and Aoi stay there too. 

The lucky student in question had been sitting on the floor cross-legged when he walked in, laptop resting on a knee while he glared down at the screen. A glare from Makoto wasn’t usually all that effective, but whatever he was seeing seemed to be genuinely pissing him off. If Hajime had been anyone else, he wouldn’t have bothered disturbing the younger. Still, someone had to go fill in for him with Sonia until Kazuichi took over for her. The mechanic was nowhere to be seen—probably sitting at Akane’s bedside, as usual. Tapping Makoto gently on the shoulder, Hajime waited for him to look up from the email he had been so focused on. 

“Oh, you’re back! Has it been six hours already? I didn’t even notice.” It wasn’t a long time to spend watching the pods, but Aoi had insisted. They had three pairs switching out, and she didn’t want anyone spending more time in the pod room than they did outside of it, in the fresh air and the real world—or so she said. Hajime was sure it had more to do with her growing concern for the five of them, Kyoko and Makoto included. While they hadn’t been in the program nearly as long, they still seemed just a bit too pale to her. As for himself, Sonia, and Kazuichi… Aoi had never known them before, but worried nonetheless about irreparable damage. 

“Yes, I’m back. Will you find Kazuichi and tag Sonia out? She’s just finishing check-ups.” The shorter nodded, shutting his laptop and standing from his seat on the floor. “Everything alright?”

“It’s just Byakuya, he’s facing some problems bringing the medical equipment we need over to the island. The Future Foundation doesn’t see the need to care for some of the pre-existing conditions your class has, they’re just barely allotting enough supplies for taking care of the… last bits of Junko. It’s like you aren’t even humans to them, they just have no empathy!” Makoto rubbed his temples, forcing a weak smile onto his face. It hadn’t escaped Hajime that the bright-eyed boy that they had met in the final trial and the tired man before him right now seemed so far apart from each other. Because of us—because of me. 

“We aren’t human to them.” He placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to offer some comfort. “But we are to you. You’re the best of them, Makoto. I know you’ll work things out.” The younger’s smile twisted, not exactly happy, and he nodded in response. 

“Right. The Ultimate Hope, that’s me. I have to be able to fix this.” Hajime raised an eyebrow, not meaning that at all, but Makoto was already walking out of the room to take over watch duties. That had gone… stunningly bad. Whatever part of his soul had been able to produce hope for the others in the Neo World Program had been hiding, his mind and body too used to the actions and words of another. Another who had no idea how to give someone hope for the future, much less comfort someone just the slightest bit. All Hajime seemed to be good at these days was making things worse. 

A warmth squeezed around his hand, like someone urging him to stop thinking, and he yanked it away from—from nothing. There was nobody there. He just needed to get some rest before Fuyuhiko’s surgery today. 

Two beds remained empty, waiting for their last members. Akane was awake, but still too weak to leave her hospital bed, and Fuyuhiko would join them today. Hopefully. Sitting on his own perfectly made bed, he wondered if all of the remnants would end up sharing a room for the rest of time. The three of them awake so far had their nightmares, some worse than others, and it was impossible to imagine the rest being able to sleep easy after all that had happened. It was too easy to imagine everyone around the room, as if their spaces were already there waiting for them. Glancing around, Hajime could imagine each and every one of them smiling at him, if he could just bring them all back, if he could just wake them up. 

A flash of pink and white hair danced at the corner of his eyes, a gentle smile and a false one, and he slammed his head down on the bed, covering his vision with a pillow. Sleep now, hypotheticals later. Hypotheticals that could never, ever be reality anyways. It was dangerous to get lost in thoughts of a happy ending. 

He didn’t deserve an ending just yet. There was too much to fix. 

#me and my fucking em dashes #anyways i'm just sharing this to see if it's?? interesting?? #i've been writing hella fanfic but i'm always very hesitant to put it on the internet #but i've had soOoOOo many worms lately thinking about facing trauma and healing relationships and how that process is just so bumpy #i have a whole lot more that isn't hajime pov but this is all i'm sharing ATM #i just really want to put these folks in therapy. and that begins at the beginning! #moon babbles #danganronpa #i GUESS #cw surgery #cw medical #just in case #hajime hinata #sonia nevermind #makoto naegi #dr2 #moon writings

[like-rain-or-confetti]

Rogue realizes he has a crush on one of his henchmen. Just walks around to think what to do when he hears Y/N conversation with her friend.

"I am not taking dating advice from Ms. 'I have a huge crush on my boss for half of year and didn't do anything with it'"

"I have a plan! I'm just gonna keep my feelings to myself until I die."

"... You can't blame me for not listening to you."

Riddler, Scarecrow, MH, TF, BM

HELL YES. Anyone else imagining them walking by and overhearing this and being like '...wait what now?' And backtracking? I can't unsee 😂

He wanted to grab you and shake you. If you could stop plaguing his mind that would be great! Yet you didn't know. You hadn't a clue. When he headed down the hall to busy himself and try to somewhat forget that you were in the building, they overheard talking and what was said made him stop in his tracks.

The Riddler: Oh hell. You're joking right? I mean, anyone with a brain would have good sense to fall for Edward Nygma. The top specimen of humanity. But you're attracted to him at the same time he's attracted to you!? Is that why you were so jumpy a while back? He hears your plan but...if you think he isn't going to extravagantly inform you that he knows then you're wrong. You'd think the guy would just come out at say it since he's so bold. Nope. He wants to dangle it in front of your face and make you figure it out for yourself that he knows.

Scarecrow: Well in that case, he's absolutely fine with these feelings he has. If you feel the same then it can't be a bad feeling, right? He doesn't really know how to navigate this feeling but if you feel it too then perhaps he doesn't have to purge it somehow from his very being. He thought about you way too much and ignoring your existence just wasn't an option. He'd never give even a hint that he overheard anything. He walks away, more content with his situation than he was before.

Mad Hatter: He scurries off before anyone can notice him. When he was far enough away, he slammed the doors shut behind him. His eyes shifted from being wide with shock to twinkling with happiness. He giggled to himself as he slid down the door. Bringing his hands to his mouth briefly before revealing his grin. His heart pounded in his chest. "My special little rabbit...loves me." His tone held nothing but adoration. "I love you too, little rabbit." He mumbled to himself.

Two-Face: His brain stops working for a second in utter disbelief. How is that possible? You must be nuts. Wait six months!? What do you mean keep them to yourself until you die!? Surely you should tell someone!? Like a psychiatrist! The thought comes to mind about telling him and he can't help but feel like you're the forbidden fruit. That he knows better. So he won't say anything but he will be haunted by the 'what if'.

Black Mask: You're too far away to hear him chuckle lowly behind the door. But he very much enjoys this new information. He's coming up with ways to get you closer to him without any suspicion. He will be a little more flirtatious towards now. Expect lingering touches that aren't necessary but no one dares question it. Not even you, if you catch on.

#batman #batman villains #batman scenarios #request #the riddler #scarecrow #two face #black mask #mad hatter #edward nygma #jonathan crane #harvey dent #roman sionis #jervis tetch

[night-unfurls-its-splendour]

When the Longing Returns

Phantom of the Opera (2004) Fanfiction

A brief introduction

This is my first proper fanfiction in many, many years. I didn't think Phantom of the Opera would be the thing that lit a fire under my ass to write for, but my feelings regarding Christine and Erik are strong. So, fueled on a diet of H. P. Lovecraft and a really amazing Flowers in the Attic: The Origin fic that inspired me to put my daydreaming into words, this alternative scenario was percolating for several weeks until I finally got it written.

I wanna give special thanks to @l10ng1rl and @yoomiii123 for beta reading and just generally letting me pick their brains. It's thanks to their feedback that I decided to spin this out from a one-shot to a multi-chaptered affair.

Please, share your thoughts!

~~~EDIT~~~

I implied in my original published draft of this story that Christine and Raoul never kissed with tongue. I must regretfully inform my readers that this was an error on my part: upon a repeat watch of the movie, I discovered that Christine and Raoul do, briefly, make tongue contact during the rooftop kiss, so I have adapted my work to match this detail--but I somehow managed to finagle it so that the scene is even hotter! (I think) so well done me!

Chapter 1

Also read on AO3

Masterpost

Pairing: Erik (The Phantom) x Christine Daaé

Chapter Summary: Christine visits her father’s grave, and the Phantom appears; but Raoul doesn’t arrive to interrupt their reunion, and Christine makes a choice.

Word Count: 3,895

Themes: Sexual Awakening

Rating: Mature/Explicit (in future chapters)

Enjoy this chapter with my custom "Wandering Child" Soundscape

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Christine sank to the steps of her father's burial monument, she knew she had made the correct choice in coming to the cemetery. She needed to take this time to be alone, really alone with her thoughts, without Raoul trying to comfort away the things she needed to face.

It was a hard thing to admit to herself that she had never truly let go of her father. It wasn't that she wanted to purge herself of his memory. What child could ever wish that of a father who had so loved and cared for them as Gustave Daaé had cared for his only daughter? It was only the persistent nag, the childlike need to feel like he was still there with her, only unseen, to tell her what to do, that she wanted to escape.

The Angel of Music had filled that need for her; always, she had utterly believed that it was a spirit sent by her father that had been her guardian and teacher. She had no one to look to for guidance now, except her own judgment.

The Angel of Music.

The Phantom of the Opera.

He was neither; just a man. A violent brute; a murderer in cold blood. He terrified her.

Only, he hadn't always.

There had been that beautiful dream—though the experience had been quite real, she tended to think of it as a dream now, for what else could it possibly have been, given all that had come after it?—when he had revealed himself to her at last. When he had closed her hand in his and drawn her down into that cavernous realm beneath the opera house and sung to her so sweetly of music and darkness and beauty. It was the easiest thing in the world for Christine to remember the way he had stood so closely behind her in the dank lair, chilly despite the abundance of candles, his body warm against her back. It was easy, too, to recall his hands on her waist, or lifting hers to let her touch his face, his skin so very tangible under her fingers.

She had discovered that night that her angel had been corporeal all along—very much so—and she didn't quite know how to contend with that overwhelming truth.

That was before, though.

Before the murder. The murder changed everything.

It had to, didn't it?

 

Though, there were times—when she was all alone—when the thought of him still didn't frighten the way it should. And that, perhaps, terrified her more. What kind of woman was she? What would her father, the best and kindest of men, have thought of his daughter, if he could know the kind of feelings that she kept buried deep within her breast for a man not only capable of, but guilty of such violence?

She knew they were wrong. Surely it was utterly wrong to feel those kinds of things for such a man. She couldn't even name the emotions she locked away. Affection? Tenderness? Perhaps. She thought of others, but dared not dwell on any of them.

Worse still, sometimes, as she lay in her bed—just between the clear-cut waking realm, and the shadows of sleep and dreams where everything was somehow both vivid and vague, and the ideas that she should not think had a way of making themselves known—she still imagined his voice as she slipped from the former to the latter.

     He hadn't sung to her in a long time, not since her return from the cavern, in fact. It was just her recollection, but it was as clear in her mind as if he were serenading her from within the walls, just as he had done for years.

   Only it was not the sweet, angelic melodies of those times that played in her head on these occasions, but the hauntingly passionate anthem he had poured out to her, whispered to her, just inches from her ear as he held her against him. Some part of her simply could not let go of the memory of him singing to her, pleading with her, sliding his hands with gentle, longing pressure down her waist.

 

These contemplations swirled chaotically through her head, and then Christine did hear him there with her, singing to her, unseen. She felt a thrill run through her.

And just as it was when she was in her bed, between sleeping and waking, the thrill was not wholly one of fear.

 

The song emanated from her father's mausoleum, and for a moment she was transported back to the very first time she had ever heard that unearthly voice in the chapel at the Opera.

   Though startled by the sudden presence of the aural apparition, she had not felt any terror at it, struck as she was by its gentle beauty and reassuring warmth. Her first thought had been that it was her father's spirit which sang to her . . . but that could not have been, for this voice was deep and resonant where her father's had been softer and rather higher in pitch. So it must be the promised Angel, then, she had thought: the Angel of Music. 

 

His song now was as tender as ever it had been, and as angelic as the voice that had sung her to sleep. But now, for the first time, Christine knew that the unseen singer was a man, not a spirit, and that changed everything.

   Old memories and recent knowledge collided in Christine, giving rise to a confusion of emotions. Those very sensibilities that she'd kept carefully locked away since the night she had followed him down to that lair were now bursting forth so that, in a kind of breathless mixture of desperation and exhilaration, she challenged the cantor in his own tune.

"Angel or Father?

Friend or Phantom?

Who is it there, staring?

Angel, oh speak!

What endless longings

Echo in this whisper?"

And he returned her song, his timbre soothing and mild: 

"Too long you've wandered in winter, far from my far-reaching gaze..."

She had last heard his voice when he appeared on the steps at the masque, draped in that ghastly bloodred costume and bony mask, looking the very image of hateful death.

   It had been different then—sarcastic, full of bitterness and ire as he seized Raoul's ring and pulled the chain from around Christine's neck, the links biting briefly into her skin before slithering away. She flinched to recall that the emotion in his burning eyes had not been a simple rage or hatred that would have been easy for her to fear or despise in return, but a complex and potent elixir of his anger and his pain, as loud to her as his wounded howls had been when she'd so selfishly pulled away his mask. She realized with shame, as he sang out to her now in a tone so enticingly tender, that she'd never truly apologized to him for that transgression.

Phantom or flesh, this man had been not only her teacher, but her muse. He had taught her everything about music that her father had not lived to impart to her, and more; but he had also been her inspiration. It was he who had revived her passion for song after her father's death.

   When Madame Giry had brought her to live at the Opera, she treated Christine like her own daughter. She was kind woman, but stern--not at all warm like her father had been; and Meg was a dear friend, but she was not clever and Christine could not talk to her of the deeper contemplations her father had encouraged in her. Despite the crowded, noisy bright life of the theater, she truly had felt alone and frightened of the change her life had taken. Being surrounded by music had not been a comfort to her, for it made her miss her father all the more . . . until the Angel. He had reinvigorated her. When he had spoken to her, she no longer felt that she was alone—no longer felt that empty sorrow at the thought of music.

  Even now, his voice, which had every reason to—which should—cause her nothing but fear, lifted her spirit, surrounded her, filled her, and comforted her.

Their song continued in a rapturous harmony, rising to a crescendo, and Christine began, finally, to yield to the affections for him which her upright rationality had thus far compelled her to deny.

"Wildly my mind beats against you, yet the soul obeys!"

Mind and soul now both feverish, Christine considered that, perhaps, despite his earthly presence and corrupted visage, he truly was her promised guide and protector—a strange sort of angel indeed, but her Angel of Music—after all. She stood purposefully and proceeded toward his voice, singing back to him with all the passion her body held:

"Angel of music, my protector! Come to your Strange Angel!"  

Christine stepped toward the warm glow inside the gate of the mausoleum where his voice echoed out to her just as it had in her dressing room when the mirror had opened:

"I am your Angel of Music... Come to me, Angel of Music..."

And then he stepped out to meet her, still lilting out his transcendent song. His face—what she could see of it—was guarded but intensely focused, and she could see in his eyes an almost disbelieving spark of joy at both her approach and the softness of her expression.

   He held his cloak crossed over his chest, but as she came nearer, his arms lowered and he held them out, beckoning her to his embrace.

   Without fear, she stepped into that embrace, shielding her face from the cold air by burying it in his shoulder as his arms drew the cloak close about her. It was warm—warmer than her own cape had been—as their combined heat gathered, trapped in the layers of wool and silk.

It was fragrant too. A rich scent enveloped her as completely as the warm, heavy fabric. The first time she'd encountered this perfume, in the lair as his arms had slipped around her waist, it had clouded her head with its luxurience. Now, breathing it in deeply, it was so potent she thought the first draught might make her faint again. Yes, she remembered it was the last thing she'd been aware of as she fell back against him.

As her head rested against him, she marveled again, as she once had in the cavern, at how such an otherworldly voice could belong to a presence so very. . .solid.

   She felt his hand at the back of her head, cradling it, and looked up at him. His expression was gentler than any that had ever graced his half-hidden face before, but it was also shocked, almost frightened; as if he feared that this was some illusion that could only end by shattering, and that if it did, he would shatter completely with it. That fear in his eyes pained her.

   He said nothing, sang nothing—it seemed as though both speech and song were beyond his capability at the moment. He lifted his gloved hand and touched her face. Not a seductive caress of the kind he'd used before, as he sang to her in his lair, but as if to feel her—to make sure that she was real. Even through the leather glove, his touch was warm against her frigid cheek.

If he could not say anything, she must, for she had approached him with conviction and did not like the idea that he should think himself in some cruel fantasy or hallucination that ended in further rejection. Tilting her head back further, she lifted her hand to the fair side of his face and held his cheek against her palm.

   "Will you kiss me, Angel?" she asked quietly, but clearly: he must know that she meant this.

   "What?" he asked, the sound barely escaping his lips. He gazed at her in shock, the terrified joy in his eyes nearly breaking her heart.

   "Kiss me," she repeated, the request imperative, now.

   His arms tightened experimentally around her, but he made no other motion to oblige.

   Hoping to encourage him, she said it once more, "Kiss me, my Angel..." lacing her arms under his and lifting them to press her hands against his shoulders, clutching them. "Please..." she implored in a gentle whisper.

Christine found her steadiness giving way to a rush of excitement as her lips remained welcomingly parted after speaking, her breath swirling out from between them like a spirit.

   She closed her eyes and waited for him, the fog pouring faster from her mouth as her breath quickened in anticipation. Her heart was pounding, sending warm blood flowing up into her cheeks. She felt a tingling rush in her lips as well. The sensations were not unfamiliar—she remembered them from the last time she had felt him so close to her.

   Moments more wore on, her heart rate diminishing slightly in disappointment as he remained still. She was on the point of opening her eyes, afraid of what expression of apprehension or mistrust might meet her if she looked at him... Then, finally, she felt his hot breath on her face and knew that he was close.

   His lips met hers hesitantly, but when they finally touched, and the cool surface of his mask brushed against her cheek, it was the most beautiful kind of thrill.

Christine was quite experienced with kisses now, after three months of secret engagement to Raoul.

He kissed her often.

But he had never kissed her like this.

Raoul's lips had always met hers steadily and confidently, assured of their welcome; they had never trembled.

   His kisses had always been sweet and fervent, but quick and clean; they had never lingered urgently, or been broken by ragged breaths.

   When she and Raoul kissed, they were both participants, but his lips had always led and hers had always followed; he had never paused after each breath or motion to see where she might lead him next.

   She had never been in this kind of control before, and the lips slotted against hers had never been desperate or vulnerable.

It felt as though some great flower was blossoming inside Christine's soul as she pressed against the Phantom, and he pressed back.

   Her lead encouraged him as intended. Soon she felt the pressure of his lips against hers increase; felt his hands dragging down to her waist, then just slightly further, until he crushed her abdomen to his. His fingers dug into her lower back on either side, satisfying an unfamiliar symmetrical ache there which she hadn't consciously noticed until it flared under the pressure of his hands.

Raoul had never held her like that; it had never even occurred to her that he might.

The sensation coaxed a moan from her, and as it escaped, her tongue brushed against his. This had happened with Raoul, but only once, on the rooftop; and she didn't remember it making her spine tingle as it did now, or compel her to explore further into his mouth. She was overcome with a sudden, heady rush at this instinct, and her eyes flew open.

Christine now expected to meet a burning gaze, but the Phantom's eyes were, instead, screwed shut, and tears were escaping from the corners. She held herself even closer to him, reassuringly, as he broke the kiss involuntarily with a silent sob, his zealous grip on her waist slackening. His emotion, it seemed, had overcome his passion.

   She unwound her right arm from him so she could lift her cloak to dry away the tears now streaming down his face. Those, that is, which she could reach without violating his trust again—she would not touch his mask without his grace to do so.

When he collected himself enough to speak his eyes were still glistening, but the flow of tears had ebbed. His voice was thick and tight, but controlled as he spoke, avoiding her gaze.

   "Is that to be the end?" He asked, bitterness touching his tone.

   Christine's answer was a speechless expression of confusion.

   "What of your fiancé?" He choked out harshly when she didn't respond.

   Christine was stung. Stung by the implication; by the unwelcome truth that one kiss, no matter how passionate and heartfelt, could not fully mend his faith in her. Nor could that kiss solve the problem that she now found herself in.

Did he think her fickle? Was she?

Christine had always loved Raoul. As a little girl she had imagined (a daydream beyond hope of reality, she'd thought) that one day he would marry her, and they would live happily ever after in a fine house by the sea.

   His rooftop confession and the subsequent engagement had begun to see that dream into reality, and his kiss had elated her, made her feel as though she could take flight.

   But now she remembered his careless little chuckle as he'd left her dressing room on the night of her debut; how he had insisted, without hearing her, that she join him for supper; his appeasing words when she told him about the Angel: Oh no doubt of it, no doubt, he'd said, as if she were an overly imaginative child. The memory made her feel slightly hollow.

   At the time she'd been so happy that he'd recognized her, remembered her, so caught up in their recollections of idyllic childhood, that it hadn't perturbed her the way it did now.

   Christine realized that her joy and exultation at his confession of love had heralded the fulfillment of a child's dream. It had stirred her young heart, but had not touched her grown soul.

The kiss she had just experienced reached into some deeply sleeping part of her and awakened it; something more. Something mature—frightening and awesome in its power.

   Raoul's kisses, his embraces, his love were still that of a boy for a girl, and hadn't even come close to unlocking this corner of herself, which she now felt as though she wouldn't be quite... whole without.

   A marriage with Raoul would be a sweet, a comfortable, but an incomplete and passionless thing.

This revelation did not delight Christine.

   The idea of disappointing the tender feelings of a good man—and Raoul was, truly, a good man who would make a fine and caring husband someday—was not a prospect which she relished.

   But she would not marry a man who she could not love completely—who, in marrying her, would not only bind himself to a teller of half-truths, but would also take her away from music forever. She could not be both an opera singer and the Vicomtesse de Chagny: his world did not allow such things. Nor would she reject another who loved her so ardently, and who had no one in the world for comfort or love, or even basic respect and kindness—save for her.

She reached up and took the Phantom's face in her hands.

   "No," she said firmly, warmly, turning his head to face her. "I will not leave you now."

    Christine had chosen her words quite carefully. “Will not”. “Cannot” wouldn’t do; she wanted to be clear that she had made a choice, and made it of her own volition. Not out of pity or guilt.

   "I can't feel with Raoul what I've just shared with you,” she said as his eyes met hers again. “If that makes me unfaithful or fickle then I will pray forgiveness as I do for all my sins, but I will bear it."

   Trembling, full of emotion, Christine watched as his shock, his disbelief, his pained anxiety, turned slowly to triumph in the ringing silence.

His eyes were bright, exultant, and adoring now, and his hands cupped her face, his hold firm. He bowed his head to her, his eyes searching hers thoroughly for any kind of resistance or regret. Finding none in her, he bore down upon her, crushing his lips to hers again, powerful this time, and unafraid.

   She yielded, not just willingly, but happily to the force of this kiss, her blood rising again. It was faster and firmer, but no less tender than before. He seemed to savor each moment of contact, where—and Christine did wonder if these constant comparisons were shameful—Raoul, with his surety, never really had. Her recollections of his kisses and touches perhaps left her so starkly dissatisfied because she now felt that he had taken them all for granted.

   It made the Phantom's touch that much more overwhelming to her that he took nothing of her for granted. Not one kiss, or touch, or even a look that she graced him with went under-appreciated.

   His lips parted from hers only after several of his half-hearted attempts to do so were thwarted by her reciprocal passion. But once they were apart, both breathless, he slid his hands down her neck, shoulders, arms, and finally took her hands. Pinching the fingertips of his glove between his teeth, he pulled his bare hand free.

   On his now-exposed left hand he wore a ring on his little finger, which he now removed. It was silver, with a rather broad band, holding some dark, opaque stone—an ancient looking thing, finely but simply crafted. It did not sparkle, but its dull lustre was as mesmerizing and captivating as all the little diamonds clustered in the face of the trinket Raoul had given her.

   She questioned herself again: had she worn that ring on a chain and not on her finger to hide their engagement, from the Phantom and the world, for Raoul's safety only? Or was it to hide the reminder of the solemn promise from herself as well?

   The silver ring looked small held between the Phantom's fingers. Christine held her hand perfectly still in his as he eased it onto her ring finger, where it rested snugly and comfortably. Once placed, he folded her hand in both of his and lifted it to kiss her knuckles, pressing them to his lips and closing his eyes as he was again overcome with a silent, but violent emotion that made him shake. The sight of him in that posture, the feeling of his warm lips heating the metal of the ring against her chilled fingers, made Christine quake slightly.

   Feeling her shiver, he opened his eyes and lowered her hand, but did not release it.

   "It's too cold to linger here," he observed, seemingly mistaking her tremble for a chill. He pulled Christine's cloak closer around her shoulders, his eyes lingering with a subtle longing on her décolletage before he looked away quickly, to her face again. It had been an odd choice of clothing for her to make in such frigid weather, she thought to herself, but his gaze falling on the area like that suddenly made her pulse quicken again and she found herself oddly grateful for her sartorial folly.

"Come," he urged her when her neckline was properly shielded, pulling her toward the back gate of the cemetery.

~~~~

Click here for Author's notes

#phantom of the opera (2004) fanfiction #poto fanfiction #poto 2004 #christine daae #erik the phantom #christine x erik

[thatone-brightstar]

Finally finished Season 2 and here are my thoughts that no one asked for but I have to purge from my brain somehow:

Spoilers! (obvi) and theyre also all over the place

Okay, so for starters,

Richie's character development this season was absolute perfection to me. Like, thinking that Carmy sent him to stage just to get rid of him, only to find out that he actually does care enough for him to learn from a badass place and chef Terry telling him that "He isn't wrong" and that "Carmy has faith in him"??- STOP I wept-.

Also making him a swiftie was just so on brand for him- and having Gillian Jacobs as Tiff was amazing! My brain automatically went "oh Britta's in this?" on E6.

Speaking of- E6 had my hands going all clammy and my pulse quickening. I had to pause every few minutes to take a breath cause suddenly I was a teen again, walking on landmines as I try to not trigger a fight during the holidays. I'm Latina, specifically Mexican, so the huge family reunions every holiday were a must (20+ px) and I have not related more to Carmy than in the kitchen scene with Donna, she's spewing command after command and he's just trying to not fuck up anything she's telling him to do cause he knows the outcome will be horrendous when he does. And I say 'when' instead of 'if' because in those situations a fallout is always inevitable.

Sydne's inspiration montage was edited so beautifully, you can really see the gears turning in her head and I think how she takes inspiration from her surroundings is a clear indication of how in love she is with cooking, seeing it in everything.

Nat is a badass and I wanna give her a hug. She took on the role of project manager to this thing she didn't even want to be a part of in the first place, with not much support from Carmy, (also don't know if she still had her day job) whilst on top of that creating a whole human inside of her- like, that is ballsy if you ask me and she deserves everything good.

I was doing well getting over my taste of tatted cooks and now I have brain rot for Luca.

That is all, thank you for coming to my Ted Talk *bows*

PS. I'll talk about the whole Claire debacle on another post cause that deserves its own rant lol

#the bear fx #the bear season 2 #also pete is a sweetheart #the bear spoilers #ayo edebiri #carmy berzatto

[infinite-orangepeel]

a whumpy af steve harrington excerpt from ch. 2 of my soft dom eddie fic

aka this boy has a lot of unresolved trauma & eddie munson is going to help him heal

(the rest of the chapter that contains the actual smut will be linked below, i’m scared of tumblr shadow banning me again for posting the full thing in here)

READ THE TW BEFORE YOU PROCEED PLEASE !! THIS ONE IS HEAVY !! : angst to the max, panic attacks, self-injurious behaviors, blood, suicidal ideation, vomiting/nausea (as symptom of panic attacks), head trauma/partial memory loss, disordered eating habits, ptsd, heavy themes, smut, lots of emotions & general sadness for stevie

★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★

Steve wakes up in clothes that don’t belong to him, struggling to the surface from the dark recesses of yet another nightmare. His linen sheets are drenched in a cold sweat that makes it seem like he was running away from a real physical threat instead of a discarnate mental one. He doesn’t remember the exact contents of the dream.

Only distantly aware that it must have been somehow related to The Upside Down, because his heart is racing, his blood feels thin beneath the layer of blue veins, and the fine hairs on the back of his neck are standing straight up–like that of a cartoon cat spooked by its owner. The need to throw up his knotted guts, to purge the diseased thoughts in his brain, arises before he can even release a proper yawn or check the clock on his bedside table.

He has no idea what time it is, no memory of crawling into bed, no recollection of how he ended up in a faded Judas Priest band tee and navy briefs.

Or, at least he doesn’t, until he’s shaking from the drying sweat on his chest and can’t handle the itchy overstimulation of the tag sewn along the back of the shirt. It scratches ruthlessly against his skin and that’s going to send him into a whole other level of crisis if he doesn’t get it off his body right this instant.

Crossing his arms over his front and pulling at the hem, he frees himself from the prison of thick cotton and inhales as deeply as his shallow lungs will allow him to. Oxygen is apparently in limited supply today–not a total surprise post-nightmare, but still frustrating to confront depletion on a constant basis. Everything about his existence feels watered down, barren, and sapped of purpose–it’s been that way for a while. Never can the glass be half-full, there’s always a leak somewhere or a chip in the side–draining the liquid no matter how many times Steve bends over backwards to patch up the problem.

It��s unfixable.

He’s unfixable.

At that thought, acid burns in the basin of his esophagus and Steve recognizes that it’s only a matter of moments before the ugliness living inside him paints a putrid surrealist scene across his duvet and becomes tangible. Maybe it will be olive or yellow or translucent; that part’s invariably up to chance. Luck of the draw. Anyone’s game.

The act itself is the constant. Eyes flutter open–mechanized by his fucked up circadian rhythm–and then one, two, three pitiful almost breaths are taken as he reenters reality.

On most mornings, Steve’s throat is still swollen and scratchy from his nightly routine. As a boy, he was never scared of the dark–ran past the tree-line in his backyard until the moon was his sole source of light, unbothered by what may lurk in the shadows. As a man, he dreads the fall of the sun, mourns its disappearance like a devoted follower would grieve a lost prophet.

Night is black. Night is void. Night is terror. Night is fear. Night is shame.

The creatures that disturb and haunt his withered soul draw their strength beneath the cover of dusk. The darker it gets the more powerful they become. Naturally, Steve vomits from the torture they inflict. His body attempts to defend from the attack by luring the invaders out from the fortresses they have built between his organs.

It’s no use. Their poison lingers and eats him alive no matter how many times he kneels in front of the porcelain bowl and unearths the truth–that he is useless, loveless, worthless, and so, so very alone.

Through the hangover of fear and loathing–and a generous helping of unresolved blunt trauma to the head–Steve forgets about Eddie’s visit from the night prior. He forgets the whispered confessions and breathless kisses shared on the couch downstairs. He forgets moaning into each other’s wanton mouths and Eddie’s strong hands coaxing him out of his head.

He forgets and forgets and forgets and then–suddenly, dizzily, all at once–Steve remembers.

It’s an out of body experience–automatic by nature of careful practice–pressing his nose to the borrowed t-shirt and breathing in the distinct, musky scent of cigarette smoke and caution thrown to the wind. It’s the sweet, filtered fragrance of risk and flame and ringed fingers gripping his hips. Rolling them down with control onto firm, grounding hardness and delectably licking each whine out from behind Steve’s teeth. Waves of passion and pleasure and belonging and Eddie’s broad chest providing a safe place to land when all was said and done.

Steve remembers and he wants.

There’s a blip in time–like the thin pause of a lucid dream–in which the corners of Steve’s smart mouth twitch up in memory. Beaming golden light from cheek to blushing cheek; like the bliss of the setting sun warming the remains of the day with one final pink hued glow. A last hurrah, a gentle kiss, a bid farewell as childhood horror ensues in the form of shadowless creatures.

Feelings of euphoria and desire are torched by the sudden realization that Eddie is gone. The left side of the bed appears untouched–pillows fluffed, sheets tucked in and—

Oh, there it is again. Hello, old friend.

Acidic vulnerability merges with confusion and tears sting his aching flesh. Every nerve is ablaze with pain and hurt and the abandonment that Eddie promised wouldn’t happen. He’d sworn it up and down, palm practically pressed to the exoskeleton of a Bible with the way he’d taken Steve’s heart in his hands.

I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, okay?

Never, Stevie. Never leaving you again.

He’s out of his mind with the hyperfixated belief that this is to be his permanent script–the character written out of the story the moment act two begins.

Why give lines to the actor who can never seem to speak them correctly? Why write them for the anxious wreck of a man who stumbles on every word and can’t follow a single stage cue without fucking up miserably?

Morning arrives as a stab in the back. A knife that goes from spine to heart, severing connection.

Eddie left. Eddie promised to stay and promised to care and promised to protect and still, he left.

Eddie showed up on his doorstep with the offers of comfort and presence and certainty and still, he left.

Eddie left.

Like Tommy.

Like Nancy.

Like Robin.

Like the kids.

Like Mom.

Like Dad.

It didn’t take long for Eddie to peer behind the curtain and see what everyone else always has–that Steve Harrington’s a fucking mess and cleaning him up is pointless work, because he’ll just ruin the effort and puke all over himself again the second the job is finished.

Thankless and tireless, just like what he’s doing right now. Except, he’s the maid in this version of the tale.

Capillaries break from the force of the raw hurt, as Steve retches into his own lap and coats Eddie’s forlorn t-shirt with the ideation of his betrayal. Vitriol burns and burns and he’s sick to the core.

It’s gross. God, Steve knows it’s gross.

It’s rare that he doesn’t covertly and politely participate in his worst habit these days. Sneaking off to the bathroom when he’s in a public setting and the anxiety strikes. Pulling over on the side of the road to hurl into the bushes when he gets triggered driving by the bones of Starcourt. Rationing the few shreds of dignity he still holds claim to by using the toilet or trash-bin when he’s home alone.

This particular scenario has only happened once before and it was much more excusable back then, because he’d been partially drunk and thus, able to blame the foul mistake on the alcohol. Though, he knew it had far more to do with Nancy calling him “bullshit” earlier in the evening than it did with the cheap beer rolling around in his stomach. Trust issues and self-hatred won out in the end, covering his mattress in vile colors that dripped from the edges of his own mouth.

Why should Nancy have ever wanted to give her love to someone so incapable of normalcy? Someone so incapable of loving himself?

Steve really should get up at this point–to clean, to shower, to toss the filth into the laundry. Washing away his sins is just part of the process. He knows this, he’s accustomed to it. He’s built a new life around it–walls of thick, dirty concrete and bulletproof cinder blocks.

But, as much as he knows he should get on with the day and toughen up—like the man his father raised him to be—Steve can’t. He simply can’t. His body is weak, his heart is empty, and there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide from the cruel voices in his head and the poison in his veins.

It follows him, it always follows him. Knows all his tricks.

Steve’s heaving non-breaths and chewing on the guilt he has for merely existing and there’s not enough space between his stupid blood and his stupid skin. He needs to rip open the flesh and crawl out of the body and bury it under the floorboards.

Maybe then he’d be able to greet the pretty sun and her rays without crying, instead of choking himself on the idea that he’ll never be capable of creating such warmth with his own form.

Blinded by an ocean of salty tears, he crashes into the shore of his mattress. Curling into himself on his side and pinching the insides of his thighs as hard as he can. His nails are long enough to tear into the skin and he relishes this fact.

He wants it to hurt, he wants to punish himself for all the things he can’t be– functional, stable, happy.

White hot pain sears his skin, which should be reason enough to stop, but it only serves to egg Steve on. Just another fucked up thing about him. Pain shouldn’t be enticing, but it is to his defiled brain.

Sharp edges pushing deeper and tearing at the seams–only slightly satisfied when drops of red finally trickle down and mix with the rest of the mess. Stains that will take so much bleach and soap and exertion–energy he doesn’t have anymore.

It’s a new low, but he tepidly thinks that maybe he’ll sleep like this tonight–maybe he’ll stay in this rotten bed of expiration all day long. Maybe he’ll lose track of time and melt into the springs and let them slice him limb from limb.

There has to be peace at the end of the tunnel? Right? Follow the light and bleed your last and then you’re free? Isn’t that how it works? Isn’t it?

Blood pools between his legs–gory and without miracle–in a slow, steady stream. His mouth is dry, the bed smells like death, and no one is coming to save him.

He’ll die here–in this house, in this room, in this bed–and no one will be there to kiss him goodbye. No one will jot down his last words for future reference in his eulogy.

Not a bang, but a whimper–that’s how Steve will go out. A tree falling in the forest and no one around to confirm or deny if it made a sound. Blood will color him and his bed the darkest red and that will be how he leaves this Earth.

He just needs to push a little deeper. Maybe a kitchen knife or the edge of one of the nails in his bat. That might work. He’ll go grab one or the other or both once his own hands reach their limit.

Will they even wonder? Will they even care?

No one is coming to save him. No one is coming to save–

Except, well, except apparently, Eddie Fucking Munson.

“Morning!” He sings into the festering room, as if he’s blind to the crime scene and thinks this is the set of some early bird talk show, “I got us coffee and bagels–toasted of course. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to get some caffeine in you too, after last night. Uh–don’t know what you like, so I got two of my favorites. Not to brag, but I’ve been told I have impeccable taste in the–”

Eddie trails off and gasps sharply as he approaches the bed. Steve can’t look up at him, can’t begin to process what’s happening–he’s trapped by his ceaseless pain. His eyes stay shut, refusing to let Eddie in for fear of what he’ll find.

A monster, a beast, an unsightly creature with nothing to live for.

“Fuck,” he murmurs and places a hand on Steve’s trembling shoulder–shuffling around to place the coffee and bagels on the desk, “Are you– Steve –are you okay? What can I do? How can I help you? I want to help. Let me help. Please.”

Steve can’t talk, he can’t find the words to explain what he needs. His tongue feels like a ten ton brick in his mouth–it’s impossible to unhinge his tensing jaw and his teeth feel like overgrown fangs. He doesn’t want to disappoint Eddie. He wants to be good for him, wants to behave, wants to earn his praise and kindness, but he’s as good for nothing as a walkman without batteries.

A bicycle without wheels.

A car without an engine.

Useless. Useless. Useless.

Instead, he groans and rolls towards Eddie–bloody thighs cloaked beneath the sheets. A hideous surprise that would make just about anyone pass out or join him in puking on sight. It’s a lethal picture of a grisly love affair–Steve and the bed he plans to turn into a grave. Forever intertwined.

Honestly, he’s shocked Eddie hasn’t run straight out the door with the bagels and coffee in tow. How could anyone want to share a meal with him in this state?

“Stevie,” Eddie cards a hand through his greasy hair–so gentle and soft, using careful fingers, “If this is like last night–if it's bad again and you can’t talk–can you try another way for me, when you’re ready? We’ll make it simple, something you can do without using any words. You can tap my hand once if you want me to get closer, twice if you’re not sure yet, three times if you don’t want that at all and you’d prefer I leave.”

Hesitation prevents an immediate choice; but only because the slate of options is something that usually intimidates him. Fearful in all instances–mundane and complex–that he’ll choose wrong. But, Eddie’s hand is so warm and kind and safe–cradling him and keeping him present.

And he left, yes that’s true, but it seems he left for good reason. Not for lack of care, but because of it. To nourish Steve and himself. To give instead of take. Maybe it’s okay to trust Eddie. To tourniquet the quiet bleeding and reach for the reprieve of a bandaid in the form of another.

“I swear I’ll shut the fuck up soon, but Stevie-”

Steve loves that nickname. His heart swoons and skips beats at the sound of it in Eddie’s gravelly rasp. Loves the way Eddie brings his name to life like the last line of a love letter or the beginning of a delicate melody.

“Stevie, I’m–I just need you to know that I’m here, okay? I’m here and I don’t want you to be scared. I don’t know if you’re scared actually–but you sure look it–I just, I just really want to make it better. Can I do that for you, sweetheart?” Eddie coos low in his ear and the shackles loosen from Steve’s wrists–allowing him to pry his violent hands away from where they bite into his thighs.

He blinks his swollen lids open, knows this next part is gonna hurt, but Eddie’s so beautiful that the panic dissipates–numbs. The man stands beside his bed–bathed in divine light, like a God of some old world–and pets Steve’s hair in sweet repetition. Coiled electricity lives beneath his skin, bringing color to his pale cheeks and caging angelic concern behind his doe eyes.

Painfully present in the moment with Steve, painfully there to share in his pain and shield him from all that he can.

Decidedly, Steve reaches up to tap Eddie’s hand with one definitive motion. Singular and communicating what can’t be spoken aloud.

Eddie’s face lights up–like Joyce Byers’ living room four years ago–bright and verging on chaotic. Hard to contain in such a limited space.

“Yes! Okay, that’s a yes, right? You want me closer–like to hold you?” Eddie confirms and Steve nods, appreciating how thorough he is–how much he wants to maintain a safe boundary at all times.

“P-please,” Steve mutters and taps Eddie’s hand to reiterate his point, even though it’s somewhat unnecessary now.

He likes the ease of it, the simplicity. Taps seem far less likely to be misinterpreted than words–which Steve tends to jumble by using improper tone or speaking too fast. It’s a more foolproof system than the English language and there’s a large appeal in that. It makes his brain feel fuzzy and coddled, as if there are big earmuffs surrounding the pink matter and nothing bad can get inside. Impermeable.

“Okay. I can do that, absolutely. Just wanna take the covers off and throw them in the laundry real quick,” Eddie says calmly, like the vomit really isn’t all that unappealing, “I’ll be right back.”

He starts peeling back the duvet to clean and Steve whimpers without meaning to. Fresh tears spill down his face and dampen his exposed chest hair. There’s no way this is the same guy that won the superlative for “biggest heartthrob” his senior year. Something must have been chemically or genetically altered since then. Crying, bleeding, covered in his own puke, prepared to die before Eddie provided a welcome distraction—no way.

Eddie notices the sobbing, because of course he does. Pausing in the midst of his cleaning mission, he balls up the duvet and kneels onto the carpet to level himself with Steve. Letting them view each other eye to eye.

“Hey, hey, honey,” Eddie says with compassion, “What’s wrong? Did I do something? Do you want me to put the covers back on? I should have asked you first, before ripping them off the bed. Shit I’m such an idiot.”

Steve sniffles pathetically and snot joins the growing mix of bodily fluids coating his sticky skin. Eddie uses the sleeve of his leather jacket to dab at his nose and cheeks, gentle pressure that brings him strength.

How he’s not disgusted, Steve isn’t sure, but he knows for certain—in this moment—that Eddie Munson is a good man.

A good friend, a good—well, Steve’s not exactly sure what to call him after the way they kissed last night on the couch. Hot and heavy and full of need.

Friends don’t kiss and friends definitely don’t kiss like that.

“Not the covers,” Steve cries and chokes out a breath, “Don’t want you to leave, Eddie.”

A crease forms between the man’s dark brows, hidden in part by his tiered fringe. Steve recalls how it felt to take those tendrils in his hands and pull in desperation. To cling onto the soft curls as pleasure coursed through his body. Eddie’s lap so solid and safe.

“I’ll be right back. I promise. Just don’t want you to lay in this anymore. It’s not good for you and you deserve a nice, clean place to rest. I’ll bring you fresh sheets and then I’ll cuddle you for as long as you like. No rush,” Eddie reassures him, but doesn’t move away from the bed—clearly waiting for a response.

Probably lingering to see how much Steve will break at the suggestion of their temporary separation.

How weak he is, how fragile.

“No,” Steve says firmly and tears punctuate his small demand.

“No, what?” Eddie prompts lightly and sits on the edge of the unkempt bed to further their conversation–somehow he still hasn’t noticed the blood, “No I can’t do your laundry or no I can’t cuddle you?”

“Laundry,” Steve winces as he readjusts his position, the blood is drying thickly between his legs, “Don’t want you to do the laundry, because—because I don’t think you’ll come back.”

There’s no point in scaring him away by explaining that Steve’s little meltdown had quite a bit to do with Eddie’s well intentioned coffee run this morning. That he’d believed Eddie had left him—full stop–without hope of return. That it was a terminal decision that hammered in the final nail in Steve’s coffin.

“Oh,” understanding develops in slow motion over Eddie’s concerned face, “Like my deadbeat dad going to the grocery store for milk? You’re scared that it’s just an excuse, that I don’t actually mean it? Like I’ll say I’m just going to do some laundry, but I’ll run out the door instead without telling you? Is that it?”

Steve laughs a little at the ridiculousness and truth in Eddie’s analogy. He’d known Eddie hadn’t grown up with an overtly present father figure until Wayne, but he hadn’t realized just how similar their childhoods were in that sense until now. Steve’s dad may have been on endless business trips—which was code for having a multitude of affairs—but the absence held a dagger to his heart at the same angle. Aimed at the same vein.

“It’s stupid,” Steve hears himself say in a voice that sounds much closer to the one he typically associates with his public persona, “I’m being immature and you’re just trying to do something nice for me. You shouldn’t have to clean up my mess in the first place. I’m more than capable of doing it.”

No I’m not and I was planning on laying in it for the rest of the time to punish myself, he thinks, but Eddie doesn’t need to know that.

“It’s not stupid, Steve,” Eddie scoots closer to lean against the headboard and gently places Steve’s head in his lap, “You’ve been through a lot in your life, especially these past few years with all the monster shit. Reacting to that—dealing with your trauma—however that may look to other people shouldn’t matter. You’re doing your best to fucking survive and that’s a success in itself. You should be proud of yourself for continuing to push through every day. I’m proud of you, Steve. It’s okay. You don’t have to hide from me and if you don’t want me to leave your room yet, if you’re not ready, then I’ll stay. All you have to do is ask.”

It hurts too much to say it out loud, so Steve taps Eddie’s denim clad leg once and Eddie pulls him closer. Rubbing a hand up and down Steve’s back, like he’s weaving a fairytale to lull him to sleep.

“You can rest, now,” Eddie murmurs and Steve wonders how they got here—to this place of reversed roles, “Let go. Whatever that looks like, I don’t care, okay? You’re safe. You’re safe with me.”

#ouch #sorry steve ily #it will get better but first it will get worse #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie fic #steddie ao3 fic #steddie fic recs #steddie fic rec #whump steve harrington #steddie brainrot #steddie smut #steddie angst #steve harrington angst #eddie munson angst #angst with a happy ending #steve x eddie #steve harrington trauma #stranger things

[fivenightsatfreddysfanfiction]

If you ever wonder how I go about patching the timeline, here's a rough idea of how my thought process works in written form:

Based on HW2 trailer, energy well panel can be seen in SL facility elevator so assume SL to be point of introduction for Mimic

SL split in 2 instances in Parlourverse: SL past non-game sets up intro of Afton to assume overarching antagonist role thru Lucian, SL game-ver follows Meera as Eggs Benedict

Cassie mentions dad had wrench, wrench matches panel, panel appears in Ruin and HW2’s SL

Float Cassie Dad from Meera-era SL to pre-employee purge SB, re-visit when HW2 releases

Mimic source?

Mimic AI contains data of all animatronics, mimicked Afton(?), learning by watching or assimilating (Elder Afton Remnant was destroyed by FuriRosa in PizzaSim location, Elizabeth salvaged the larger fragments of Emelia but needs to find data sources to recreate Elder Afton’s memories and consciousness somehow (creates motive to want Mimic developed and learning from Afton data))

when was the most amount of data gathered to feed Mimic for Parlourverse? UCN

UCN arc location: underground SL facility, multiple entry points based on FNAF4/SL map overlay

Meera’s original entry via Rental facility was destroyed, so UCN entry point must be someplace else (pizzeria? No, pizzeria appears to be same as the PizzaSim location, requires Henry intervention) Afton house? (could work, may have been abandoned by this point)

how did Router get in then? Track his movements from Fazbear Frights to SL facility, he escaped dispelling in FNAF4 arc and went looking for Lucian’s last location for revenge (cross-reference original timeline) (Emelia getting out created a tunnel that let Router in)

Elizabeth had all animatronics built from data stored in mainframe, same info was given to games division for HW and SD (she kept going back to the UCN location to salvage what she could of the animatronics, the ones made by Elder Afton would have data about him that she needs)

Mimic AI potentially emerged as a result of fusing all that data into a ‘parent’ node for programming behaviors in the games for the animatronics (mixed into all the parts scanned in were the original Afton made animatronics, allowing Mimic AI to assimilate data about Elder Afton)

servers holding it are locked with energy well panels while Elizabeth attempts to have it trained to focus on mimicking Elder Afton and ‘restore’ him

(where is master file? He escaped the facility during UCN arc with Elizabeth to be installed into Pizzaplex as the governing AI; a copy of him went into the games division server but was consumed by Mimic over time so Mimic now can mimic Lucian Master File (this is important because it’s a flawed mimic as MF removed things from himself that Digi retains))

So where is Mimic AI right now?

A.I. is housed in servers at game studio branch, producing coding for the SD animatronics. The game coding was scrubbed after Alex gained access to the source code and cut the network connection between it and the Mimic so he could quarantine it in-game and destroy the code.

Where is the Mimic animatronic? Trace back events to locate most probable period it could have been constructed and where, then path forward to determine where it ended up.

---------

That's as far as I got as my brain got distracted so now I have to sit and reel it back in and think about the mechanical part of the Mimic.

#the writer rambles #parlourverse au #fnaf au #the mimic

[davidwduffy]

The Never-Ending Storm

This is the view from the window of the room I'm in right now, the one I use as an office, and it does a pretty good job of summing up where I am in life at the moment. Storms roll in, or out, on a very frequent basis, something rather typical in North East England. Which is where I find myself now, seventeen-and-a-half years since I left the region to explore life in continental Europe, and two years after a government I didn't vote for conspired to remove my right to explore life in continental Europe on my own terms.

You know how it goes. Life happens, so they say. Well, it certainly did for me, and that's perhaps the problem. The past seven years have gone by at such a chaotic clip that I find myself not really knowing who I am anymore - certainly not having the assurety I once had back in the heyday of this place, when I was posting with incredible regularity.

I've barely written a word in the last six years, it being a whirlwind of two career changes, two redundancies, four countries, lockdowns and curfews, promotions and breakdowns, and more impostor syndrome than one should ever realistically have to face. Yikes.

I turned 40 a couple of months ago, and with it came the realisation that life just hasn't been that good. I've been in a funk for a very long time, and despite wanting to shake it, I've not been able. I feel too tired to try, and hopeless, but ultimately not completely without hope. It's been a challenging and incredibly lonely period, but somehow I need to fix all that before it becomes unfixable.

So here I am, spilling thoughts, wondering if that's been the answer all along. Purging myself of the ill in order to move forward with the healthy. After all, storms aren't permanent, at least unless you're on Jupiter. My brain may have been full of fog all this time, but it can clear, eventually. Maybe even enough to write something actually creative, something you'll actually want to read. 😅 I hope everyone is keeping well. P.S. That 'factory' in the distance, near the rainbow, is actually a nuclear power station. The test sirens scare the shit out of me on a weekly basis, even after two years of them.

#thoughts #prose #spilled ink

[koreandragon]

this one is really coming out of left field so feel free to ignore it, but i think this might be a thought you appreciate. I just feel like the older i get the more i'm thinking the ancient athenians were right when they said you gotta watch some fucked up shit happen on stage to purge yourself of negative emotions. like i think characters in stories should be fucked up little freaks that do some morally questionable if not terrible things to each other because they refuse to go to therapy (1/2)

i just think people have gotten a little too righteous about fictional stories and don't want to consume anything that challenges their world view, but i think doing that is a necessary part of not just any media diet but of knowing who you are and where exactly your morals lie and i frankly don't think enough media is providing people with the catharsis they need to figure it out. anyways if this made no sense to you the wikipedia page for catharsis explains it a lot better. (2/2)

you're absolutely right and you should say it. not to circle everything back to vincenzo but that show (if we're talking in terms of kdramas) i think is the perfect example of that. and while we know the fucked up shit our protagonist does is in favor of a common good it's still fucked up shit. and part of that catharsis is knowing the evil doers get what's coming to them. one aspect of what you mentioned is the anti-hero like vincenzo, deadpool, daredevil etc who achieve good by doing bad but you still root for them. "but they kill people" well susan it's fiction. do you need a warning that states at the beginning that the writer doesn't condone murder? is that what you want?

loved watching dexter. he's not an anti hero, he's only a hero in his own mind. but damn if i did not have the time of my life watching him execute people in his little kill room.

i care a lot with rosemund pike. she scammed old people and yeah i wanted her dead but what an enjoyable time! what a great movie it was.

gone girl another rosemund pike movie. just two people destorying each other hand in unlovable hand.

the john wick movies!! i specifically remember sitting in the cinema during parabellum and just GRINNING throughout the whole movie because the fight scenes and the way he plowed through his enemies was so cold and brutal it brought me near tears. like i genuinely think it altered my brain chemistry and cleaned out all the toxins in my system. genuine catharsis.

so many people want media to be sterile and unproblematic, just an uwu little blorbo who has never even gotten a parking ticket in their life because somehow the fact that you enjoy a movie that has murder in it means you condone murder in real life. because that's how that works.

#ask #anonymous #i finally have internet guys

[m318x2]

tw: exact bmi/weight and a massive ed rant/vent under the cut

my bmi is 14.75 as of this morning. I'm 88.7lbs. I still need to lose more though. I thought I would feel more achieved/in control at this weight but I still see room for improvement. I mean I do feel good that I got this low because I spent years trying to break into the double digits, but now that I'm here I just can't help but want to push even further, as far as my body lets me go. The logical part of my brain knows I'm not gonna feel any different at 70lbs than I do now but I still just wanna see how far I can take this before something serious happens to me.

I mean I'm already having complications, my hair has been thinning a lot since like ten/fifteen pounds ago, I'm always cold, my nails (and sometimes my legs) turn purple a lot, I'm never fully comfortable even in bed because I'm so boney, I'm pretty sure I'm weaker than I was when I was a literal child, my teeth are a lot more sensitive and tend to ache, and I NEVER feel fully alert and awake. But it doesn't feel like enough because I still binge a lot. But I just maintain and dont gain bc even when I "binge" by my standards it almost never pushes my calories past my tdee. I just restrict until I "binge" and then restrict again, which has made it so basically I maintain for a while, drop a pound or two, and repeat. But it makes me feel like a fake anorexic because I still eat, and my weight loss has been VERY SLOW this year. And I don't wanna recover if I never get to feel sick enough first. But all I can think about is if I'm really sick enough to have something more major happen to me. I feel like my ed just doesn't matter unless it nearly kills me and I think I'm at a point where recovery just won't happen unless something really horribly life threatening happens to me. And idk. I just feel like real anorexics don't binge, or if they do they purge somehow, which I don't really. I mean I always restrict after a binge but not to a degree I wouldn't do anyways. and what kind of anorexic eats this regularly? god I fucking hate myself

#nick-rambling.txt

[andiisnotonearth]

(potentially triggering)

Last night I was in the shower. Normally I take scalding hot showers, and that I did. This time I was compelled to end with a cool, not cold, but cool, shower.

I removed the shower head and started at my feet, they were hot so it felt good, but I moved too fast and it startled me. As I started to move up my legs, I decided that the sensation on both legs was too much for me to handle. I started again at my feet, this time only focusing on my left foot. Slowly moving the cool water up my left leg. Around mid-thigh it was again, too much so I switched sides. I started the process over again, this time on the right, foot to shin, then to thigh, once again, too much. Given my recent trauma it was understandable. As my heart rate started to accelerate, I slowed down.

I don't know what I was trying to achieve with this newfound method, but intuitively I was on to something.

As soon as the cool water touched my belly I started to sob. I don't think any tears fell from my eyes, but my body and heart reacted deeply to the sensation. With my heart rate still rising, I moved to my chest and uncontrollably started to scream. A deep scream, mixed with my deep sobs, and deep breaths of air coming from dark places of my lungs that have never been touched.

I continued, there was no stopping now. I went down my left arm and back up to my shoulder and around to the other side, repeating the process again on the right. This time I stopped at my heart and held the water there for as long as I could. Still violently sobbing, I decided to take the cool water to my head. It was once again a lot to handle but I started slow, at the end of my hair, to the back of my skull, around to the top, and ended carefully with my face.

Breathing heavily and still letting out deep deep cries, I turned off the water and placed the shower head back. Carefully I opened the shower curtain and wrapped myself in a warm towel. I stood there for a moment trying to catch my breath.

I took a step out of the shower and the sobs stopped immediately. As I dried off I questioned what had just happened. Initially I decided that it was cruel of me to have forced myself to endure the deep agony of the questionable situation. But as I continued I realized how necessary it was for my body to purge those feelings.

Still as I am contemplating what has happened, I feel a sense of relief. For my body, that holds on to every sensation. For my brain, that never forgets. And for just plain ol' me, who tries but never really gets to taking care of herself.

Every day is a new battle in my world. Wether you can see it or not the wheels are constantly turning. And especially lately, for the most part at least, it is extremely detrimental to my health and well-being.

So as I continue on my healing journey, I decide to give more grace. In these moments, I do not need to judge the hard thoughts or feelings. I need to care for the part of my brain that feels them so deeply. I must care for the parts that cannot care for themselves.

Sometimes the feelings or emotions, I cannot seem to get control of are the ones that need so deeply to just express themselves. Taking the need for control out of this situation, gave my body and mind, the freedom to express the deep wounds that I try so hard to ignore. It was nothing more and nothing less than a release of deeply, backed up energy.

I felt the desire to share this experience and not necessarily with brains that I personally know. If this somehow found you, thank you for taking the time to read. If you related to even a phrase or a feeling, I am so deeply sorry. You are loved, if not by you right now, then by me. 

Release is good. 

Please do not try this. I am not a teacher nor a psychologist. This was based merely out of my own intuition.

#potentially triggering #just my head #me #energy release #energy work

[banamine-bananime]

a) final small animal med exam done, finally i can purge everything about dogs and cats from my brain (JOKE i am JOKING i still have 9 weeks of small animal clinics to get through next year). neuro and resp were fun but god if i ever have to become an oncologist PLEASE just shoot me. would carboplatin be an acceptable option for high-grade MCT excisional biopsy coming back w incomplete margins? how about would carboplatin be an acceptable option for DEEZ NUTS, have you thought about that???

b) somehow passed every station on the OSCE including the one where they threw "demonstrate the Fanning Maneuver" at me like talking about fucking "maneuvers" when you're Literally Just Moving Around An Ultrasound Probe isn't insane. and i... fanned around the ultrasound because that's. how you use an ultrasound. and the examiner looked at me like i had just started graphically sucking the US probe off and moaning or something. also including the station that included a surprise skill completely-unrelated-to-anything-supposed-to-be-on-the-OSCE, and i just tried doing the knot over and over and over and over completely wordlessly, refusing to look at the examiner, and no idea if i was doing it correctly or not. apparently i was but must have looked crazy doing it lmao

c) i so desperately need to work on my actual job that i get paid for (well. the one where it's all self-paced. the one where i have shifts does not have the motivation issue for obvious reasons) :(

d) but i so want to just write stupid fanfic >:(

e) and i can't even use the break for it because i'm going stupid solo camping that i've stupid dreamed of at a stupid incredibly beautiful park to heal my stupid soul and i need to use the rest of break for actual work >:((((((

#alexa send post

[clandestinesnee]

okay it's been a WHILE and i haven't posted anything fnaf on this acc yet and literally all the lore thoughts are in my brain. i'm boutta do some wizardry shit extracting this information from my tangled thoughts alr bet

rrrrrr i don't even know where to start ??

alr for one, help wanted is after pizzeria sim :] which sounds really obvious but me about *checks watch* a year ago was coping via sb being before ps and right it SOUNDS stupid but it's at least. less stupid than afton beInG aLiVe aGaIn cus he always comes back like i was never gonna believe that ma boi henry's efforts all amounted to nothing. although sb before ps thing is easily shut down. however i can say with quite a measure of confidence that the pizzeria underground is not pizzeria sim.

according to the tales at the pizzaplex epilogue (not the security breach map necessarily) in the underground pizzeria, there's a storage room, main dining room, arcade, lobby, party rooms, stage, backstage, kitchen, employee's lounge, a furnace room, restrooms, maintenance room, a room with robotic parts, and the office at the end of the front hall.

idk if michael in ps would have had any employees or if they even had, like, paychecks coming out of the business money. henry is NOT selling an entire-ass pizzeria to michael there's no way. boy said "room and some tables" and if that secretly means an arcade and party rooms and kitchens and a furnace room (??) then my life is forfeit ig /j

also the epilogues say nothing about the pizzeria being burned, but instead they specify that the mimic is burned. 🤔

also pizzeria sim established that afterward the entire story would be basically erased from memory and put to rest. henry set ps on fire to ensure that the story dies right then and there, that no one knows what happened, ever. BUT. help wanted. *brain exploding noises*

my best guess is that the mimic was a witness. looks at the image below

basically what the quote (mr burrows) is saying is that the Mimic1 program takes from a memory and recreates it. which would explain why mimic is trying to repeat it all. and how would the mimic remember it unless it saw it all with its own two eyes?

and see, this ^ makes sense to me. but what i'm stuck on is just. who. this guy is. the mimic was shipped in with other old animatronics in the epilogue! who the fuck is the mimic!! it was described to have rabbit ears and retractable limbs which is crazy! and it goes like spider-mode at one point which makes me think of ballora somehow.

but edwin murray was the one who created the mimic, and in the epilogue the mimic is an entire model that's been purged. did edwin, like, give the patent to fazbear entertainment after losing his son? so is the burnt one is the OG mimic? literally the first and now last of its kind? that's crazy. this is so cool. also my brain needs a break so ima post more some other time.

a lot of this was me just posting things i have a lot of evidence for and, below the image, speculation/questions. just setting a foundation so i have somewhere to start. :D

#fnaf #fnaf theory #fnaf security breach #security breach ruin #fnaf books #fnaf mimic #it's the mimic it's mimicking #no this has literally been in my brain for the last three days whenever i'd be doing homework