Finally, society managed to combine Morphology (linguistics) and Morphology (biology)
cherry valley forever
Monterey Bay Aquarium
occasionally subtle

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
trying on a metaphor

PR's Tumblrdome

roma★
YOU ARE THE REASON
todays bird
Keni

ellievsbear
noise dept.
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
dirt enthusiast

Product Placement
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Stranger Things
Game of Thrones Daily
will byers stan first human second
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
seen from Saudi Arabia

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seen from United States
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seen from United States
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seen from Indonesia
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seen from Singapore
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@bozzleboz
Finally, society managed to combine Morphology (linguistics) and Morphology (biology)
POTO Queer Week 2022 Masterlist
-Thanks again to everyone who participated in Queer Week! I’ve compiled a masterlist of all the entries for this year. Can’t wait to do this again next year!
Fanfiction
Le Lupeux by @shinyfire-0: T, Pharoga, 3/3 chapters, 9100 words. On AO3.
Old Friends by me: G, Pharoga, 1/1 chapters, 808 words. On AO3.
The Caged Canary by @thewoodenring: M, E/C, 41/41 chapters, 118k words. On AO3.
When Will the Blood Begin to Race by me: T, Carlotta/Christine, 1/1 chapters, 806 words. On AO3.
Legion by @shinyfire-0: T, Pharoga, 1/1 chapters, 3708 words. On AO3.
Home by @sloanedestler: E, E/C/R, 1/1 chapters, 2262 words. On AO3.
Loneliness by me: G, Pharoga, 1/1 chapters, 211 words. On AO3.
Fear Can Turn to Love by me: E, Rerik, 1/1 chapters, 746 words. On AO3.
Twisted Every Way by @sloanedestler: E, E/C/R, 1/1 chapters, 2483 words. On AO3. On FF.net.
Quiet Hours by me: G, Megstine, 1/1 chapters, 145 words. On AO3.
A Life in Your Shape by @emotionalmotionsicknessxx: T, Megstine, 1/? chapters, 3967 words. On AO3.
Exploring Our Desires by @masqueradeball: E, Megstine and Erik/Raoul/Nadir, 1/1 chapters, 8675 words. On AO3.
Heart Medicine by @pagesofangels: G, E/C, 1/1 chapters, 540 words. On AO3.
A Home at the End of the World by @catcorsair: T, Pharoga, 1/1 chapters, 2067 words. On AO3.
“raoul and christine are LGBT” what, all at the same time? by @christinesraoul: G, Raoulstine, 1/1 chapters, 583 words. On AO3.
A New Life by me: G, E/C/R, 1/1 chapters, 453 words. On AO3.
Something There by @sloanedestler: M, E/C/R, 1/1 chapters, 1663 words. On AO3. On FF.net.
In Song We Trust by @cdaae: M, E/C, 1/1 chapters, 2218 words. On AO3.
Healing by me: G, E/C, 1/1 chapters, 379 words. On AO3.
Three fics by @paperandsong.
Fanart
Pharoga Fanart by @ambientorgansounds2
Megstine Fanart by @lebzpel
Pharoga Hurt/Comfort by @timebird84
Genderbent Erik by @ambientorgansounds2
Megstine, Pharoga, and Genderbent E/C Fanart by @lebzpel
Genderbent R/C by @gusiny-pashtet
Miscellaneous
Megstine Moodboard by @littleeliza-lotte
Rerik Moodboard by @littleeliza-lotte
Headcanons by @meet-me-at-box5
The Case for Pharoga as Canon by @paperandsong
Megstine TikTok by @littleeliza-lotte
Pharoga fic recs by @shinyfire-0
The Case for E/R as A Lot of Fun by @paperandsong
The Case for Meg/Christine by @paperandsong
Rerik fics recs by @sloanedestler
Carlottastine fic recs by @sloanedestler
My #1 Pharoga Song by @pagesofangels
POTO Queer Week: All Music No Fic Edition by @illuminaughti-online
One day I might even finish the little thing I started for this too...
Your "terfs can eat shit & die" comment disgusted me. Violent thoughts like this have been hurled at women for years for stating their beliefs. There are women on a college swim team right now being told to deal with being uncomfortable for the sake of one trans woman. Would you tell them to their faces to each shit and die because they have expressed terf views to media outlets of wanting their own locker room back? That one person matters more than the many?
I'm sorry, what part of TERFS Can Eat Shit And Die did you not understand? Did I confuse you? Were the words too big?
Just to be super clear, I'll repeat myself to remove any doubt: TERFS can eat shit and die. Trans rights are human rights.
Let's say it one more time. Feel free to join me: Trans Rights. Are. Human. Rights.
It's very simple. I hope this clears up your confusion.
not evil anymore i want to be loved now
evil again
Holy shit this is the plot of Love Never Dies??
Also, my 13 Nights Eternal Erik crackfic is now on AO3
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I am the world's slowest writer at the moment, but here, have an update...
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
POTO 13 Nights of Halloween- October 28
Angel of Music, You Deceived Me by @bozzleboz
A/N: Eternal Erik visits the phans - it does not go as they might expect it would.
The room crackled with an excited energy. After almost two years of online meetings, rambling video calls and late night cross timezone chats, this was finally it, October 31st, they were all here, in the room, together, and they were going to contact him. It was seance day at last!
The seances had been a bit of a joke at first - an excuse, if excuses were really needed in the middle of all the pandemic madness to reach out and make contact with actual real life people, instead of existing through words on a screen. So it made sense really, when things began to open up, and people began to talk about meeting up in real life that they would jokingly refer to it as an in person seance. And then it was only one step on from there for someone to suggest that it be an actual seance, and that they really, truly try and make contact.
There were so many questions that needed answering. What really happened at the end of the story? Were Christine and Raoul really in the North, or were they buried somewhere in the basement of the Opera House? Who is the Shade? How much does the Daroga really know? Did Christine and Erik secretly marry? Exactly what does Erik smell like? What on earth was all that nonsense about the safety pin?? There was so much that was left uncertain, and only Gaston had the answers, so really it was only natural that they try and talk to him.
Of course, none of them really knew all that much about undertaking a seance. If they did, they might have been a little more careful with how they went about it. They couldn’t afford to go to Paris and meet up in any of the places that he might have actually frequented, much as they wanted to, so instead, they had had to make do with a room in a Holiday Inn, artfully decorated to make it feel more ‘seancey’.
Apparently, everybody was of the same mind that a seance required candles, and they had all brought them in abundance. They lay now, scattered around the floor of the Holiday Inn room which they all huddled in, bed shoved as far into the corner as it would go, sock placed over the smoke detector in the hope that their illuminations didn’t trigger a fire alarm. Scattered about them were numerous copies of the book, in all its various translations, plus playbills, merch, a few masks, and even a rather battered copy of the libretto for Faust one of them found in a second hand music store - just to set the scene.
Conveniently the room came with a full length mirror on a stand, that they wheeled towards the edge of their circle, tittering, just in case the creator had the same kind of affinity with them as his creation. They didn’t really think it would help much, but with the glow of the candlelight and their bright eyed faces reflected back at them from it’s glassy surface, it did complete the mood of the place.
At last, with the scene set, a makeshift ouija board laid out on the carpet and the wine (or gin, or really, whatever was in that bottle that was being passed around) flowing freely, it was time to begin.
‘Anybody got any idea how you actually summon a long dead French Author?’ one of them asked. A giggle went around the room.
‘Don’t you just say, like ‘We summon you’ or something?’ somebody offered. ‘Worth a try at least’
‘Gaston Leroux!’ another announced grandly. ‘We summon you to speak to us.’
They waited. Nothing happened.
‘It didn’t work’ said one.
‘No shit’ answered another.
‘I think we need to all join hands, or put our fingers on the cup, and think really hard about Leroux’, one of them offered, ‘or something like that anyway?’
They all nodded - and taking swigs of their respective drinks, shuffled forward to place their finger onto the upturned complimentary coffee cup that was serving as the glass for the board.
‘Ok - now concentrate’.
They all shut their eyes, and for a moment or two, thought as hard as they could, about anything they could related to Leroux.
On the other side, somebody began to listen.
‘Is anybody there?’ they asked again.
The styrofoam coffee cup jiggled, and then flew to towards the ‘Y’ scribbled in lipstick on the inside of an empty skittles packet.
A gasp rippled through the room.
‘Tell us your name.’
The cup jiggled again, and then slid slowly across the carpet toward the E. Then R, I & K.
‘Erik?’ one of them shrieked incredulously. ‘Oh ha ha. Ok, who is pushing the cup?’
Everyone laughed and removed their fingers, but nobody owned up.
‘You guys - I thought we were being serious?’
The cup jiggled again. They all stopped laughing and watched as it slid once again towards the E, then R, I & K. This time, they were sure that nobody was pushing it, because nobody’s finger was on it any more.
‘...Shit’
The tittering grew to an excited level, and some of the group started to what can only be described as preen.
‘Speak to us!’ one of them whispered breathlessly. The cup jiggled again.
M - I - R - R- O - R
They all gasped, and looked up. Sure enough the surface of the mirror had begun to cloud, and in the centre a small black blob had appeared, shimmering and shifting as if something were approaching the mirror from behind at a great distance.
Unconsciously, they all leaned closer.
The figure began to become clearer. They could make out arms, and legs, and then soon the outline of an elaborately feathered hat and a long flowing cape
‘Red death, red death, read death, please let him be dressed as red death’ one of them muttered under their breath.
It continued to approach, until finally, it appeared to almost be upon them, filling the entire mirror - a black suit and cloak (‘Drat! Not red death!’) clearly visible, a white mask covering the entire face, except for the chin.
‘Is it really him?!’ they gasped. ‘It can’t be can it? He’s not actually real. Is he??’
‘Hold me back!’ another cried
Except as it drew ever closer it became clear the figure behind the mirror was not tall, and thin and skeletal as they might have expected. From the hazy outline that appeared, well, almost stocky.
There was a hum of contemplation in the room.
‘My God!’ a voice whispered. ‘We’ve only gone and summoned Gerik. Must have been all the candles…’ Several more voices tittered in excitement.
Then at last, with a smooth click, the mirror slid open and out of it stepped a small, portly man, with a protruding belly, dressed in shabby, badly fitted suit. Wrapped around his shoulders was a lumpily knitted woolen blanket, and rammed on the top of what could only be described as a rather long mass of extremely greasy looking hair was a very battered, slightly mouldering looking hat. Only the mask, glinting softly in the candle light, gave any hint to his identity.
For a moment he stood there, breathing noisly. The room filled with the faint odour of sardines, and cheese and onion crisps. Nobody dared say a word.
At last, someone broke the silence.
‘Erik?’
The stumpy little man pulled himself up as grandly as he could - which given his diminutive hight, and rather rotund proportions, was not really that grand at all.
‘Yes!’ he squeaked, ‘Tis I!’ He sounded small, and nasal, and sort of watery.
‘Is that…’ one of them stuttered, ‘is that really his voice?’
‘He’s not quite as I imagined him,’ another replied from the back.
‘Perhaps his singing voice is better?’ came the suggestion.
‘Will you sing for us Erik?’ someone shouted, a note of desperate longing in their voice.
‘Sing? Me? What a notion. Why on earth would I do that?’
There was a collective gasp from around the room.
‘But are you not The Erik? The Opera Ghost and The Angel of Music? Extraordinar singer, composer, musician, and architectural genius?
The strange little masked man gave a snorting laugh, like a pig.
‘Me? A singer? Musician? No no, my dear. I am neither that, nor an architect. But I am a very important person.’ He puffed out his little barrel chest, his rumbled suit riding up around the collar until what little neck he had disappeared and his round head and straggly hair seemed to be balancing precariously on top of his sloping shoulders.
‘I am Erik. I am the plumber!’ he cried ‘I clean the tanks and stop the opera house from getting all smelly and clogged up with filth. I don’t bother myself with all of that nonsense on stage. It sounds like you have been reading too many novels…’
He picked up one of the copies of Leroux which were strewn in front of the mirror.
‘Ah yes. That stupid man’ he squawked. ‘Erik met him once in the opera house. I offered to give him a tour of the water tanks. Imagine! He called them Lakes. Lakes! The man clearly knows nothing of plumbing! And then I find out that he has written some fanciful story about a man living beneath them! Now let me tell you, I know those tanks like the back of my hand, and there is nothing living in them except some fish, and occasionally some unusual floating lumps. I always collect them to see what they are, but there is nothing else. Nothing! If there was Erik would surely know about it.’
He chuckled, and then turned on them with a wild look in his eyes.
‘But that didn’t stop him, did it? Mr High and Mighty Literary Writer? No! No, he only went and stole Erik’s name and put it into this stupid story, making up all sorts of nonsesne about music, and singing, as if anyone is really interested in all that. What would a silly opera girl be doing wandering around in my tanks anyway? She would get all wet, and then she would not be able to do any more of that horrific screeching that they insist on doing on the stage, because she would have a horrible cold. Utterly ridiculous.’
He rocked on the balls of his feet as he spoke. His stubby little fingers curled tightly into chubby fists which swung back and forth like pendulums at his side. So absorbed was he in his hatred of ‘that man’ that he did not notice that one of the group and broken free from where the rest huddled, and was slowly advancing on him, fingers outstretched and twitching, a look of half hope, half horror on their face as they leaned forward, slowly, slowly, and then, at last, made contact with the edge of the shiny white mask which covered his face and yanked it off.
‘Oh!’ the man squeaked in surprise.
Several of the group screamed.
Beneath the mask was a perfectly normal face. A rounded, almost double chin, with apple cheeks, and what would have been an almost perfectly adorable button nose - if it hadn’t been set within such a rosy, clammy, flustered complexion. It was a face about as far from skeletal as could be, and far from being golden and fiery, the eyes which peeped out from a set of rather wild, straggly eyebrows were watery, and slightly piggy looking. It was far from repulsive, and yet not a bit attractive either. It was, in fact, exactly the kind of face you would expect to find on a middle aged man who, by his own admission, spent most of his time, tinkering with waste water tanks.
‘No! No! It can’t be true! He’s not even properly ugly!!’
‘But the mask! You wear the mask. Why do you wear the mask??’ they asked in desperation.
‘I don’t like too much sunlight’ he wheezed. ‘It disagrees with me, makes me blotchy.’
‘Why?’ the wailed. ‘What does this mean? Why are you here?’
‘You summoned me!’ he replied. ‘You called for Gaston, but in your minds you all thought of Erik. All of you wanted to know the man behind the legends. And now you do!’
He smiled upon them, almost beatifically, as if he had bestowed upon them some sort of wonderful gift.
Several of the group wondered if they were about to throw up.
Mother always said that a respectable man has no business messing around with music and other frivolities - she knew best. Girls don’t like strange men with nice singing voices. Strange men with nice singing voices can’t mend the pipes when they start leaking, can they? No! What girls want is a nice, practical man to keep them safe and dry, don’t they?
‘No. No this can’t be true! He’s unhinged!’ someone cried.
‘Well what do you expect?’ another replied, ‘He’s an Erik!’
‘Mother would have been appalled by the idea of putting furniture in the basements next to the thanks.’ He continued. ‘I told her all about the tanks of course. It would moulder! Imagine mother’s furniture mouldering!
‘We need to go. I don’t think I can take any more of this,’ someone whispered. The group began to edge toward the door, but the little man, for all his stout, portly appearance, was remarkably swift, and no sooner had they started to move then his short, bulky form moved and blocked their only exit.
‘No, no, my dears,’ he squeaked, ‘you have waited so long to meet Erik. You cannot leave now. You summoned me, remember, and I have not yet told you about my proposals for improving the waste water system in the opera house yet, you know!’ He gave an excited little jiggle ‘So many miles of pipe! I get quite beside myself you know!’
He moved towards them, his arms outstretched, smiling at them greedily with his little piggy eyes.
‘All of the others have had their chance, but now it is Erik’s turn, and soon everyone will know of his story, and the glory that is the Opera Garnier’s Waste Water System!’
The next morning they wake with a start, each in their own respective rooms. Neat, and tidy, with no sign of candles, or mirror portals, or strange, chubby little men in masks. At their bedsides their phone chirrup, proudly proclaiming the date. October 31st - Seance day.
One by one they rub the sleep out of their eyes and shudder in relief as the cobwebs of the dream loosen from them and they realise that there are no small, chubby sewer men waiting to tell them more horrors of dry water traps, or the perils of badly connected tailpieces.
Instead they settle themselves at the tall hotel suite mirrors, each of them repressing a shudder internally, and brush the tangles from their hair. Dressing hastily they rush to join the other for breakfast, each and every one of them excited to regale the other with the tale of their nightmare, (‘Imagine - we finally manage to summon an Erik - and he isn’t even ugly!’), excited to see what the day brings.
And if, they exit the room - just for a moment - t they catch on the air the scent of sardines, and cheese and onion crisps, and they wonder if they didn’t spot the glint of a white mask, and a pair of watery, piggy little eyes, watching them from the other side of that tall, blank expanse of glass, they shake if off as only the ghost of a dream. After all, even if the opera ghost was real - what are the chances, eh?
Yeeeeah, sorry about this one guys 🤣
POTO 13 Nights of Halloween- October 19
FlickerTreat by @cherryflavoredtrasheater
A/N: Takes place in Gremlin!Erik verse
Raoul watched as Christine stirred the giant bowl of sugar and milk and cricket flour and vermillion berry. She was making a very special dish in bulk, and he didn’t mind that he didn’t get to taste any of it.
Well, maybe he minded a little.
Okay. He minded a lot.
She lovingly scooped out small spoonfuls of the dough onto the baking sheets before putting them in the oven. All of these cookies, and none they could eat themselves.
FlickerTreat was coming up.
It was a wonderful holiday for children, who could go door to door and receive sweets from each house that had a flickering candle in the window. It was a less wonderful holiday for Raoul, who didn’t get to try any sweets beforehand.
“Help me cut out the wrappers, dear,” Christine asked, smiling at him.
He couldn’t say no to his wife.
He picked up the sheet of shellipain paper and began cutting out little rectangles with a knife. The cookies would be done in just a few minutes and once they cooled, they would each be wrapped in paper, ready to pass out to the children who came by tonight.
“One cookie per child,” Christine reminded him. “We don’t want to run out.”
Raoul glanced sidelong at the hundred or so cookies she’d already prepared.
“I’ll miss you tonight, but the Masquerade is a very big event for the Opera House. I’ll be thinking of you every minute while I’m away,” she told him, and leaned in to kiss his cheek.
He smiled, but his smile turned crooked when he saw Erik standing in the doorway, staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes.
Erik scampered up and held his hands out expectantly.
“No,” Raoul said petulantly.
Erik held his hands up higher, his clawed fingers making a grabby motion.
Christine picked one of the cookies off the tray and gave it to Erik, who quickly shoved the entire thing in his mouth. His eyes went even wider.
“Hey, what gives?” Raoul asked.
“He can have one,” Christine said with a nod.
Erik went to the corner and sat down, licking his hands.
“I have to go get dressed for the ball now,” she said as she left the room.
Erik waited till Christine was out of the room before approaching Raoul for another cookie.
“You already had one,” Raoul told him. “You’re not getting another one.”
Erik’s brows knitted together pathetically. He made a little noise of effort as he tried to reach for the cookies on the counter, but he was too short. He reached his hands up, begging.
“You got one and I didn’t get any. The rest are for the FlickerTreaters, you can’t have any more.”
Erik looked at him reproachfully before going to sit on his haunches in the corner again, eyes full of sorrow, wrapping his arms around his knees and making a disapproving noise every few seconds that sounded like a cat sneezing.
It disgusted Raoul, but he merely frowned and focused on wrapping up the rest of the cookies, putting them in a giant basket that he would put by the door.
Christine came out a while later, dressed as a domino—a black domino with seven white dots.
“You look beautiful,” Raoul said.
“Thank you Raoul,” she said, her voice muffled from inside the costume. “I will see you later tonight, my dears.”
Erik ran and hugged her leg before she left, and she patted his head.
Once she was out of the house, Erik climbed up on the kitchen counter and reached for another cookie. Raoul swatted at him with a spatula. He dodged the attack and arched his back as he stood on all fours, hissing at Raoul.
“No,” Raoul said firmly. “The only person who gets to eat any of these are the FlickerTreaters.”
Erik huffed and jumped off the table, running away into a different room.
Erik was beyond peeved that Raoul wouldn’t let him have another cookie. They were for the FlickerTreaters, were they? Well! Erik would see about that. He crawled to his nest in Christine’s closet where he kept much of his own clothes and other various things that weren’t for him but fit him.
In the kitchen, blissfully unaware, Raoul finished putting the cookies in the basket. He took them to the front door and lit the candle in the window before going back to the kitchen to get himself a tall glass of drinkable ink on ice.
Erik snuck around to the front of the house, a wicked grin on his face as he extinguished the flame of the FlickerTreat candle in the window. He scurried off before Raoul came back.
Raoul settled himself by the door, ready to hand out the treats. It wasn’t long before the first child showed up. They held their little gloved hands out, trembling with excitement, and Raoul handed the child a cookie. The child, dressed in some kind of cloak costume, ran off with the prize. Raoul smiled. Children were so cute.
There was a string of children who came after that, all of them a handful of minutes apart, all of them alone. All of them with such strange costumes! One had a giant hat that covered her face, one wore such a long dress with a high collar that hid his face. There was a group of children going up to the doors across the rue. Raoul frowned a little as they passed by his house without stopping, but was quickly distracted by the next FlickerTreater, a child dressed up like a skeleton. Raoul jumped a little in surprise.
“Excellent costume!” he told the child as he gave them a cookie.
The child cackled in an unsettling way and ran off.
At last, the last cookie was handed out. Raoul had been hoping that perhaps there would be at least one left over for him to eat, but he supposed FlickerTreat really was for children, and besides that, he had promised Christine.
“Enjoy!” Raoul said wistfully as he gave the child the cookie. He watched the child reach under their hood and stuff the wrapped cookie into their mouth before running away on all fours.
Another FlickerTreat night over. He had such good memories of this night as a lad. He went to extinguish the candle in the window only to find that it was already out. He blinked. Had he forgotten that he’d already turned it off? Or had it gone out on its own? He scratched his head, wondering.
Either way, the only thing left to do was wait for his wife to return home. He hummed a happy tune to himself as he went inside, thinking about all the little children who were out there enjoying the cookies Christine had made. They all seemed to be about the same age, he mused, or at least close to it. They’d all been about the same height. Most FlickerTreat nights had a wide variety of children coming up. Well, life was strange like that sometimes. It didn’t mean anything.
He walked into their bedroom to change into his pajamas but stopped suddenly. There was the strangest noise coming from Christine’s closet. He frowned hard, slowly approaching, his hand hesitating just a moment before throwing open the door.
There, at the very bottom of the closet, wrapped in a pile of clothing, was a pile of shellipain wrappers, the same amount that he passed out tonight, and on top that pile of wrappers was Erik, shoving cookies after cookie into his mouth, crumbs flying everywhere. He stopped mid-bite as he looked up at Raoul, eyes wide.
“You!” Raoul squealed. “It was you! All of them were you!” He pointed a shaking finger at him, accusing him. All of the costumes he’d seen that night lay in a tangle at Erik’s feet.
Erik swallowed the rest of the cookie in his mouth, eyes unblinking, no sign of remorse.
Raoul sucked in a deep breath.
“I’m going to tell Christine!”
Erik gasped dramatically, dropping the shellipain he was holding. He looked like he had been stricken by Raoul’s words. Once he stopped wheezing he began frantically digging through the clothing nest, at last pulling out a still-wrapped cookie and offering it up to Raoul, his eyes pleading.
Raoul immediately understood that this was a bribe. Christine would be angry that none of the cookies had been passed out, but did Christine have to know?
He made eye contact with Erik. There was an understanding here. They both wanted cookies, and neither wanted Christine to find out. He took the cookie from Erik, who smiled when he did. Raoul unwrapped the cookie and put it in his mouth. It was exquisite, melting in his mouth with a hint of isopod aftertaste.
Erik held up another one, temptingly, and arched the area of his face where an eyebrow would be.
Raoul sat on the closet floor with him, eating another cookie.
“We never tell Christine,” he mumbled around a bite, and Erik nodded vigorously.
After they’d finished eating, they took the wrappers and tossed them into the fireplace, watching them crackle and pop and turn to shiny ashes. Erik and Raoul exchanged serious glances, as though they were now co-conspirators in a murder.
Christine arrived home shortly after. She took a few moments for herself to take off the stuffy domino costume and then swept into the sitting room wearing her dressing gown, hair down, face glowing. She sat by the fire and stretched and sighed and then smiled sweetly at her two favorite people.
“How was FlickerTreat?” she asked. “Did the children enjoy their cookies? Did you pass them all out?”
Erik and Raoul exchanged a glance. For a brief moment, they wondered if the other would betray him.
“Yes,” Raoul said. Erik did not contradict him.
“Come sit with me, Raoul,” she entreated, patting the cushion next to her.
He came and sat down and kissed her. Her smile turned a little crooked after the first kiss, and her brow furrowed. She grabbed his collar and kissed him again, smacking her lips after she pulled away, frowning.
“Raoul, you taste like—“
“How was the party, my dear?” he asked desperately.
Erik scuttled over and curled up at her face, rubbing his face against her ankles and making a wistful sighing noise.
She smiled as she looked down, completely forgetting that Raoul tasted suspiciously of cookie.
“The party was just marvelous, really,” she said, reaching down to caress Erik’s bald head as he leaned into her touch.
She regaled them with tales of what had transpired at her work party, of how someone had sucked all the alcohol out of the punch and no one could figure out why they weren’t getting buzzed, and of how Andre and Firmin somehow both came dressed in the same costume and forgot who they were for an entire half hour because of it.
She talked and talked and Raoul brought her a cup of tea (taking a moment in the kitchen to wash his mouth out with chocolate milk) and eventually she was overcome by the warmth of the fire and the coziness of the room and she fell asleep against Raoul’s chest.
Raoul breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t asked about the cookies. He looked down at Erik, who was resting at her feet, wrapped up in the lace ruffles of her dressing gown. He gave him a thumbs up, and Erik solemnly returned the gesture.
He carried his wife to their bed, and Erik shuffled after them, yawning. Raoul thought the bedroom still smelled vaguely of cookies, but if he knew Erik—and he did—come morning it wouldn’t even matter because the perfume Christine had put on him the previous morning would have all worn off.
The next morning, however, it became abundantly clear that they’d forgotten to burn up one of the shellipain wrappers. It must have fallen from their hands as they’d taken them to the fireplace. Christine saw it as they went to the kitchen, and she stopped, gasping at the sight. She placed her hands on her hips.
“Who did this?” she demanded.
Raoul and Erik froze, staring at the bright pink paper.
Then Erik ran up to Christine and buried his face in the skirts of her dressing gown, pointing at Raoul. Raoul gaped at the scene of his betrayal.
She gave Raoul a glare as she stooped down to pick up the wrapper. Erik clung to her dressing gown, tears in his eyes.
“I tried to stop him, Christine,” he said in the scarily deep and rich voice of his.
“Oh, well,” Christine sighed. “Perhaps it wasn’t fair to not make any extras for you both… Perhaps I can make some more tonight, just for us.”
“Why, Christine! What an unparalleled delight,” said Erik.
Raoul huffed.
Later that afternoon, Christine really did make more. Sitting outside in the garden as she fed cookies to him and giggled almost made up for the stinging betrayal by Erik, who was munching on his own cookies and watching them with unfocused eyes. Almost.
I love how well fleshed out the world they live in is. All the little details that make you think 'of course this is how things are in gremlin land'. And I love gremlin Erik most of all.
This Ace Week I want to make sure it's stated that acespec folks are allowed to have messy feelings:
We're allowed to be frustrated about our lack of representation, even if other identities also experience this issue.
We're allowed to be angry about how we're treated by exclusionists and others in the queer community who belittle our identities and treat us like invaders in our own spaces.
We're allowed to be ashamed, saddened, or disappointed by our identities and the conflict they create in our lives (though hopefully we overcome that one day).
We're allowed to be LOUD, to take up space, to be vocal about who we are and what we deserve.
Just like every other queer identity, acespec people are not a monolith. We're individuals with complex individual experiences, needs, and desires and we're allowed to acknowledge those parts that aren't considered socially acceptable. Respectability politics will be the death of the queer community and that includes our community too.
I drew this very specific ace artist meme with Mothman because I wanted to feel some happiness specific to me.
once again, Mothman aggressively approves this message. i will always care for the aces. and if you do not then prepare for my arrival
god seeing people afraid to id as ace/aro because "what if it is just a phase? what if it is just hormones? what if it is just mental illness? what if I do find "the right person?"" makes me so righteously angry because I promise you, I promise no one in the community is going to revoke your aspec card on account of hypotheticals. if someone told you that then the stupid motherfucker lied to you. you do not look at water and go "well I'm not sure if I should drink this, because if the temperature drops below zero, it'll turn to ice." relax. let yourself just be. drink the water if you're thirsty. because it's water right now. doesn't matter if it'll be ice by tomorrow, or mist by next tuesday. it's water and you can drink it if you want to.
Melle Stewart is Ben Lewis' wife, and I owe Ben Lewis one. Several ones. As many ones as I can find... Getting back into Phandom has saved my sanity, and if he hadn't captivated me in Love Never Dies, I wouldn't have.
SO. Here's the deal.
Donate at least $20 to the GoFundMe, send me a screencap of the confirmation page, I will mail you an 8x10 print of whatever Phanart of mine you wish.
More notes below the GoFundMe link:
Melle Stewart was a healthy, talented 40-year old Australian actor liv… Danae Stewart needs your support for Help Melle Stewart after life-
- Of course I suggest the Ben themed arts, but you can have any of my art you wish. I'll update this post later with links to all of them.
- These are professional quality prints on fancy paper (once upon a time I did prints of my art to sell in a gallery) - giclee grade pigment inks, swanky Epson printer, your choice of velvety matte paper or lovely glossy pearl paper. Here's a quick pic: the small one is the original acrylic painting. The horse is the pearl metallic paper, but you gotta see it to believe it:
- Yes, I'll ship internationally. No, you don't owe me anything, just send proof of donation and a shipping address. Do not send me money. Money is for Ben. Snows is providing gifts, trying to make her own donation bigger, so to speak. If I can turn $100 of paper and ink into $1000 to help Ben and Melle... NEAT.
- Want to donate more? You're awesome. <3 I'll do (2) prints for a $40 donation and so on. 🙌
- Do you do ...holidays? Tack on another $5 and I'll include a handwritten note, whatever you want it to say - like sending flowers - and I'll mail the print to a gift recipient. 😌
- Do you like to mess with people? God, me too. Tack on $6.96 (hee!) and I'll be rude to OR flirt with the recipient. Like paying the wench at the Ren Faire to insult someone. The recipient can be you. 😘
- I don't do FB or Instagram, but if you do, feel free to share this there - I'll add an email address so people can get in touch without Tumblr if there's interest from that angle.
Donate to Melle Steward, wife of Ben Lewis
Hi phans!
Ben Lewis' wife, actress Melle Steward suffered a life-threatening stroke after receiving the AZ vaccination (which she still advocates for). Since their families are in Australia, Ben is her only support which means that neither of them can work.
Let's help Melle Steward and Ben Lewis get through this without the additional worry of financial concerns.
Melle Stewart was a healthy, talented 40-year old Australian actor liv… Danae Stewart needs your support for Help Melle Stewart after life-
I'm sure plenty of you know this already, but Ben Lewis's wife Melle has suffered a stroke as the result of the AZ vaccine and has been in hospital since this summer. As Ben is her sole carer and their families are abroad neither of them can work and after the shitty year that the pandemic handed the arts sector this must be so, so hard for them all.
His brother has set up a gofundme to raise money to support them both - if you feel like donating the link is below.
It feels a bit wierd posting this as I don't know the guy, but the stream of his performance in LND over lockdow pulled me back into the fandom and that has been ahuge part in helping me get through the last year, so I really want to give something back while he and his family need it.
Melle Stewart was a healthy, talented 40-year old Australian actor liv… Danae Stewart needs your support for Help Melle Stewart after life-
hi boz!! :-D for the wip ask game: "smile"
Will you accept 'smiled'?
'Christine rolled her eyes and smiled to herself. She wondered if it was entirely healthy to let Erik read quite so many of those fan fiction stories - depending on the day he really did seem to believe that some of the more ‘redeemable’ qualities the authors gave him were truths. '
Okay, new one: UNTIL
Aha! Got one!
'He blinked. Nobody had ever discussed his face with him in this manner before. They usually refused to believe him, until curiosity took the better of them and they removed, or forced him to remove the mask, after that there was rarely any conversation. Only screaming, retching or crying'