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7-wonders · 7 months

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It's Just a Bunch of Hocus Pocus!

Summary: It's Halloweekend, and you've got a couple of parties to attend! Morpheus, who missed out on the development of Halloween into the holiday it is today, is very curious about what your plans are.

Word count: 1.8k

And now, a note from the author: Ahhh Claire actually managed to write something! I loved coming up with and writing this; I was giggling the entire time. As always, if you enjoyed, likes, comments, and reblogs (but especially the last two!) make my world go round. If you didn't like it, also let me know! I'm always down to hear constructive feedback/criticism—it's how we become better writers.

Though reader is wearing a skirt, the gender of reader is not specified! If you're non-binary or a guy and you wouldn't mind dressing up in a skirt for a group costume, I hope you enjoy this fic too!

It’s not often that Dream of the Endless visits you in your realm, instead of vice versa. While he had met you in the Waking, he had never been entirely comfortable there. That feeling, that wrongness, only increased tenfold after his imprisonment at the hands of Roderick Burgess. No, Morpheus is not overly fond of the Waking.

Tonight, however, he’s here, and you have a pretty good inkling as to why.

Though Morpheus would never admit it, hearing you talk helps to calm him down when he’s feeling stressed (another thing he would never admit to: stress). After a frustrating day of holding court—one of his least favorite things to do, but one that was integral to the functioning of his realm—you decided that telling him about your plans for the week would be a bland enough topic where he would not have to actually listen to your words, but simply your voice. Your plan seemed to be working; you could feel his body relaxing in your arms, and you had never been more relieved to hear the absentminded hums of someone who was only half-listening to a conversation.

At some point, you mentioned that you were excited about the Halloween parties that you would be attending. That got his attention, drawing him out of the reverie that your voice and your fingers carding through his hair had lulled him into. He shifted in your hold, his black pools of stars looking up at you curiously.

“All Hallows’ Eve is not for another week though, yes?” he asked.

“Yeah, but it’s during the week this year, which means everybody celebrates the weekend before.”

“Why not celebrate on the day itself? Traditionally, Samhain is a very important holiday.”

Now the miscommunication made sense in your mind. It was only natural that he still thought of the holiday as what it was before 1916. “Oh! Halloween has evolved a lot, especially in the past hundred years. It doesn’t really resemble the Samhain of old.”

He still looks a little confused but nods. “How interesting. So you will also be participating in these…festivities early?”

“Festivities” was a good way to put it, and you decided to just leave it at that. How the hell else were you supposed to explain to your eons-old, all-powerful boyfriend that the Halloween of today is about wearing a fun/sexy costume, doing spooky activities like haunted houses or watching scary movies, and partying?

“Yep!” you said. “I have plans with friends; we’re going to wear our costumes and go celebrate with others.”

“What will your costume be?”

“I’m not quite sure yet. I have a couple of different ones, so I’ll probably decide the day of.”

That interest in modern Halloween, specifically how you celebrate Halloween, is why you’re not really all that surprised when you hear him call your name from the other side of the bathroom door while you’re taking a shower.

“In here, my love!” You just barely have to raise your voice, knowing that he’ll still hear you above the sound of water raining down. The bathroom door opens, and you stick your head out of the shower curtain. You very happily accept the kiss that he offers you. “Hi.”

“Hello.” His voice, deep and as smooth as dark chocolate, rumbles through your ears in a way that you’ll never tire of. It’s impossible to resist giving him one more kiss (can you be blamed?), so you give in to the temptation.

“Give me five minutes and then I’ll be done, okay?”

Though it’s very reluctant, he does part from you. It takes you a little less than that to finish with your shower, and you open the door again so that you can at least be in the same space as Morpheus while you hurriedly put some makeup on (thankfully your costume doesn’t require anything drastic beyond what you normally wear). He’s sitting patiently on your bed, eyes already trained on you as you move through your getting-ready routine.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “You almost never visit me in the Waking.”

You’re teasing him, since, as previously mentioned, you know exactly why he’s here. Naturally, Morpheus doesn’t catch on. “I wished to see you off before your Hallowe’en celebration.”

“That’s sweet of you!” To the bedroom you go, where your costume sits waiting atop your dresser. “I’m just about ready to go, I only need to finish putting my costume on.”

Morpheus’s face grows flushed at the easy compliment you give him (you don’t think he’s ever been called ‘sweet’) and you laugh quietly before disappearing back through the bathroom with costume in tow.

A couple of months ago, two of your friends decided that being the Powerpuff Girls was the move for this Halloween and roped you into the idea. One of your friends, a natural blonde, claimed Bubbles before the idea could even fully be discussed. Your other friend was very excited to be a bearded Blossom and wear a giant bow on his head. This left Buttercup for you to dress up as, not that you were complaining.

Now, you’re sliding into a green crop top and a matching green skirt, this piece being made out of a shiny material. All three of your skirts are the same fabric (and definitely shorter than what’s considered decent), with the shirts being dealer’s choice. You finish your outfit off with black tights and a black headband—Bubbles is also wearing black tights, while Blossom will be sporting black knee-highs. All in all, it’s a pretty simple costume, but sometimes, that’s what the best costumes are.

You emerge from the bathroom once more and do a little twirl for Morpheus, whose eyes immediately light up. “This is very much a pop culture reference, so I’m not expecting you to understand the costume. Still, I think it turned out pretty good!”

Morpheus is not a man—the anthropomorphic personification of the collective unconscious, the Lord of Dreams and Ruler of the Nightmare Realm, simply chooses this as his favored form. Still, he is a man-shaped being, and like all man-shaped beings, he goes a little wild for the object of his affection in a short skirt.

“You will be wearing this in public?” he asks, standing up and approaching you.

Morpheus has lived for as long as beings have been able to dream. He quite literally lived through the Beginning when Adam and Eve didn’t know what clothes were, as well as a number of empires for whom clothing was merely a suggestion. The affront he’s showing at the clothes you’re wearing must be some sort of code for “this is my partner wearing something I consider sexy and I’m feeling possessive about other people seeing them.” That he looks at you as though you’re wearing the barest scraps of clothing and not dressing up as a cartoon superhero has you feeling mighty powerful.

You’d be lying if you said that didn’t turn you on a little bit.

“This is tame compared to what a lot of other people wear,” you inform him.

Morpheus does not look as though he’s listening. No, he’s focused on your body rather than your words. One hand rests on your waist to pull you closer to him, and the other hand comes to rest on your upper thigh where the skirt ends. He rubs the skirt between his thumb and index finger as though he’s testing the fabric.

“Am I correct in assuming that costumes are no longer worn to disguise the wearer from errant spirits?”

“Yes, you’re correct.” Right now though, explaining the traditions of Halloween is not important to you. You need some validation, and stat. “But do you like it?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Thank you,” you say smugly, smacking his hand as he tries to slip it higher under your skirt. “Not tonight. I have to meet up with the gang soon!”

“Might I make a suggestion?”

You nod. No matter how outlandish the suggestion, you’d listen to him make it, and you’d probably take it into strong consideration.

Morpheus places a delicate kiss on your jaw before he trails his lips to your ear. “Forget about your friends and stay with me for the evening,” he whispers seductively.

Oh, but that is tempting. You can already imagine the way in which Morpheus would remove your costume, the feeling of his hands on your body as he makes you forget about anything outside of you and him and the pleasure you bring each other. From the darkened look he gives you, he’s already picked up on these daydreams, and he’s in total agreement of that order of events.

Unfortunately, your brain, that traitorous organ, reminds you of why you shouldn’t be absconding to the Dreaming with your lover.

You sigh in frustration at the logic and lean your forehead against his. “I would, but I’ve had these plans for a couple of weeks now, and I really am looking forward to them.”

Though it very obviously pains Morpheus to say it, he does agree. “Yes, I suppose it would be…rude to abandon them.”

“I should probably go,” you say begrudgingly, pulling away from him and focusing intently on gathering what you’ll need so that you don’t give in to your desire.

Morpheus watches as you whirl around the room, muttering the name of each item as you grab them. Your phone is annoyingly elusive, and you think you’ll just have to go without it until it’s dangled in front of you by your Dreamlord. Gratefully, you take it from him.

“Thank you,” you say sheepishly. That’s the last of your belongings, but you feel like you can stall just a bit longer. He’s heard about your plans, but you haven’t heard of his. “What will you do while I’m gone?”

“Wait for you to return to my embrace once more,” he teases.

“Please try to do something instead of moping the whole time.”

“I do not mope!”

You give him a look, one that says you see right through this charade. “Yes. You do. I’m sure there’s a new book you’ll want to read. Maybe ask Lucienne what she’s been working on, or start creating a new nightmare?”

“Are you not going to be late?” Morpheus deflects. It makes you laugh, but he is right, so you do a once-over of your room to make sure you’re not missing anything and kiss him briefly.

“Bye. I love you.”

“I love you as well, my starlight. You remember how to call for me should you run into trouble?” Of course you do: write down his name and speak it. It’s cute of him to act like he won’t try to have Matthew follow you, though.

You can’t help but smile at the sweet gesture. “Yes, I remember. I’ll be fine, okay?”

He nods, satisfied. “I shall see you later, then.”

You’re able to sneak in one more kiss before he’s off and you’re heading to your front door, already counting down the hours until your night of partying is over. Who knew dressing up like a Powerpuff Girl could get someone so hot and heavy?

If Morpheus thinks that’s attractive, just wait until he sees the angel costume you’re wearing tomorrow.

#morpheus x reader #dream of the endless x reader #morpheus imagine #dream of the endless imagine #the sandman

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insomniac-shado · 9 months

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RANDOM CREEPYPASTA HEADCANONS !!!!!! (Clocky, Nina, Jane & Liu)

I sent someone a hc so now i must tell you all mine (mainly their relationships to one another)

CLOCKWORK:

The hands on clockwork’s clock eye spin whenever she’s nervous or flustered. It happens around jane all the time

Clockwork also really likes owls. Like when she wasnt drawing gore she’d draw owls instead (there would be tons of small doodles of them on the edges of her homework n stuff)

She’s also fairly insecure about the stitches on her mouth. Like, she immediately regretted doing this to herself, and ever since she absolutely hated how they looked but has always been too scared to pull them out. She loved wearing masks during covid 100%

She also mainly kills adults. Isn’t sure quite why she kills people at this point. Clockwork’s fucked in the head and is generally a very twisted person, so she knows that at least, but still doesn’t really have an exact reason for it. Revenge? Satisfaction? She just can’t figure it out. But doesn’t give a fuck either way.

NINA:

I have my own sort of au(ish?) surrounding Nina bc man I love her so much (SHES MY 2ND FAV PASTA MY GIRL DOESNT DESERVE THE HATE SHE GETS </3) so a lot of these hcs will have to do with that

Ok now to actual headcanons

Nina regrets killing her family. She felt it was a good idea at first because she wanted to be more like Jeff when she was obsessed with him, but eventually she lost feelings for him and now regrets all of it. It haunts her at night.

She’s extremely hyper as well. Like always moving, whether its bouncing her leg when sitting or tapping her foot while standing, just movement always no matter what. Even in her sleep she never stops moving, wakes up in the weirdest positions all the time with her blankets half off the bed (i may be projecting slightly for this one)

After her obsession with Jeff ended, Nina didn’t really kill anyone that much. After what she did to her family she couldn’t. Nina still has the urges to hurt people but every time she tries she just sees her family and can rarely go through with it. She does occasionally kill people though, mainly if she’s extremely upset or angry. A sick form of stress relief if you will

Nina and Jane get along fairly well, surprisingly enough. Nina hates Jeff almost as much as Jane does (she blames Jeff for everything that happened) and it was this mutual hatred of him that brought the two together. They aren’t the closest of friends, but do spend a lot of time together (aka Nina is homeless and crashed at Jane’s house most of the time)

Nina also didn’t really get much education. I mean she killed everyone when she was 11 and has been on the run ever since, and she also just really hated school and didn’t want to anyways.

JANE (“The True Story” version):

Jane, like Clockwork, is very self conscious about her appearance. After all, she did get seriously burnt and disfigured when Jeff set her on fire, and she never leaves the house without her mask. She rarely takes it off. Even when sleeping. She only lets people very close to her see her face (Aka Clockwork, Nina, & Liu) and even then it’s very rare. Also longsleeves, pants, gloves- she likes having as much of her skin covered as possible.

She’s very close with Liu actually. Jane sees him as a brother. When Liu survived Jeff’s stabbing he was out on his own for a long time, and ended up stumbling across Jane after like a year of total isolation. Him and her became good friends not just because of how Jeff affected them but the two generally just fit together well, they’ve been really good friends for a while now (I LOVE THESE TWO SO MUCH THO LIKE THEYRE BEST FRIENDS FR!!)

Another thing about Jane is that she’s not a killer like the others, really. She doesn’t even know how she got that title herself, her whole purpose is killing Jeff yes but Jane would never hurt an innocent person. Does she particularly give a shit if people get hurt? Not really. Not unless she cares about them deeply. Jane doesn’t care about Jeff’s victims; she just wants him dead on account of her own personal experience. But she’d never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it.

This actually causes quite some problems between her and Clockwork. I ship these two hard but I would be lying if I didn’t say this was a major tension point. Again Jane doesn’t really get hurt from these people dying, but the two definitely clash in the sense of morals specifically.

LIU

I have my own sort of story for Liu, mainly because since there are so many different interpretations I didn’t know which to choose. Same as Nina i may talk ab it later

Liu’s had it rough since Jeff died. Like, BAD. He didn’t really have anyone else during that time and was alone for a while. When he met Jane he was much happier, but also discovered he was fairly scared of losing them. Jeff had taken away everything from him, and he was so so scared that it would happen again with Jane. With how her and Jeff hated each other, Liu’s had several nightmares about her getting killed. He doesn’t really trust Nina that much though, since she used to be like- Jeff’s biggest fan. He sees she’s changed and is a better, SOMEWHAT healthier person, but he has trouble trusting or being around her anyways.

Speaking of, MASSIVE trust issues, but also gets attached way too easily. The person closest to him stabbed him in the back in the worst way imaginable and now he’s terrified of it happening again. Yet at the same time after a year of being completely alone he’s so desperate for connection that he’ll rush into friendships anyways. It’s sort of this weird guessing game, which side of him you’ll get first, and it depends from person to person.

Sort of random and totally unrelated to what i was just talking about but he really likes forests. Being out in nature snd just exploring the calm environment (especially with friends) is one of his favorite activities.

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kerubimcrepin · 5 months

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Episode 9: The Legendary Unikron

The post where I finally make the naming format of this blog more sane

This is the same place as the one, where in the episode "Heads for no Tails" it will be revealed that Kerubim obtained the legendary, life-draining Heads for no Tails restraint while pissdrunk. Y'know. The one meant for an Ondine created by Djaul to trick the dragon Aguabrial into creating a Dofus.

Yeah, I will not think too much about the fact that it is flipped. To me, they're The Same Place. I guess he's been drinking here for decades. Kind of cute.

And yeah I guess it means the Ondine named Ondine, from the episode Like a Snapper in the Water is literally just named "Siren the Siren". I guess her mermaid parents weren't very creative. I'll mention this when I liveblog that episode too, but I would feel bad, if I didn't mention this here too.

We will talk about my feelings on Kerubim leaving the legendary demon-killing life-draining shackles somewhere Joris, in his shelf-climbing corridor-running wisdom, could reach, later.

We'll get there when we get there.

Glad to know there's a reason Kerubim and Joris live in a bad neighborhood. And that reason is that Kerubim wouldn't be tolerated anywhere else.

Love his scary and off-putting behaviours.

Okay, rant incoming:

Firstly, this is a customary french drink bowl, to stop any wondering from the non-french aware readers. It's normal for French people to drink coffee, milk, and tea from a bowl, soup-style, in the morning and in the evening. So this part is normal.

Now onto more sillywhacky part of this: What the fuck is Joris doing here, exactly?

As we can see, his Bowl of Liquid is steaming even before he starts pouring the chocolate milk into it. Is he adding chocolate milk to hot milk? Is he adding chocolate milk to cocoa or hot chocolate? (I will fight people who don't differentiate between them, they're two different things, you heathens.)

Is he, mayhaps, adding it... to tea?

We will never know, yet the question is haunting.

Interestingly, it seems that one of Simone's jobs around the house is polishing swords. Also, her being here so late means that, quite predictably, she is a live-in maid.

(You can see that like, 50% of this blog is me paying to random details that could only be useful in like, extremely faithful fanfiction, and 50% getting whacky with this show's storytelling.)

I love Simone so, so much. Truly, she is Joris's cooler aunt.

No comment besides this image.

Joking. I do have a comment, actually. Imagine me putting on a tinfoil hat here, btw.

I think it's kinda telling that Joris's main fear, the one that re-occurs a multiple times during the show, and always, without fail, makes him break down in tears, is Kerubim dying.

The facts that are important to keep in mind are: They've been living together alone for Joris's entire life, Joris knows he's adopted, and Kerubim himself is an orphan, which he doesn't really hide.

Which leads to multiple conclusions, which all coexist:

1. Joris is a kid who's very aware of the mortality of parents/guardians, and that, above everything else, that he is lucky to have a home and a semblance of family. That if Kerubim wasn't there, he may not have had that.

Which is uh... a pretty stressful thing for a kid his age to know, I suppose!

Especially considering the fact that Kerubim is an old man riddled with back pains, and for 7 years had such a level of post-lou-divorce post-battle-with-julith depression that he could not figure out how to get them into a clean, non-shitty non-hazardous home.

And now that their home IS clean, still can't make it non-hazardous.

2. Joris and Kerubim are much closer than most parents and children, because they literally have no other relatives, and Kerubim has pushed away most people who would consider him a friend in the past. Only relying on one another isn't the best or healthiest idea, but what choice do they have?

You can't just show up at home, be like "i would be dead, if it wasn't for you giving me water, my jojo <3" and not expect to inflict some eldritch horror levels of psychic damage onto your son.

Especially considering the fact, that he KNOWS, from your own shitty stories, that when you're gone, and it IS a when, because you're an old man who's constantly complaining about his health, he's going to be fending for himself all alone.

It's pretty obvious, then, why Joris would put Kerubim on a very high pedestal and, as will be shown later, prioritize the man's feelings over his own. Kerubim is his best friend, his role model, provider, guardian, AND the only one family member he has.

Besides depending on him, Joris knows papycha is a very, very lonely and sad person, — and who is he, not to try and make the life of the one person, who's most important to him, better?

If Kerubim isn't always happy, both in general and with Joris, then that's the worst thing ever, and if Kerubim isn't amazing, all-capable, and Not Going To Die Within The Next Couple Of Years Due To Being Old As Fuck, then their life is Over.

So Joris has to put in a lot of work.

This analysis isn't even picking apart the nitty-gritty of Kerubim being an orphan and having abandonment issues, or the way those things make him latch onto Joris the same way Joris latches onto him — as if this child is his Only Hope and Savior, Who Won't Leave Him Like All The Others.

And how that might lead to him REALLY liking Joris idealizing and putting him on a pedestal, despite the guilt he might feel knowing that that's kind of a... not-good parenting tactic.

...Man this post isn't even a rewatch liveblog anymore, it's just an analysis post, innit? 💀

#ep9 #wakfu #dofus #krosmoz #ro liveblogs dofus #joris jurgen #kerubim crepin

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silentwillowwhisperer · 1 year

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Keith and Allura are still my favorite bestie pair.

Mkay, hi! This post is kinda sorta in continuation to another post I wrote.

You don't really have to read the other one to understand this, but it's a similar idea.

Big thanks to @haunted-glassesgurl who gave me the idea for this, go check out her account, she writes thing occasionally.

Waiiiit. Our convo was kinda long. Am I gonna be here for like forever?

-------------------------------------------

Keith is in Allura's room yet again, this time with the princess sitting elegantly in front of him while he paints her.

For some reason, no matter where she is, the light always seems to hit her just right, and she always looks so effortlessly perfect. It makes her the perfect painting subject, her surreal beauty is quite literally alien to Keith.

But he knows that she's also caring and funny. It's hard to take someone seriously when you've watched the them snort like a pig because she was trying not to choke on food goo while watching Keith do a handstand on top of a ten foot tall bookshelf while singing House of Memories at the top of his lungs. It's a long story.

Anyway, he finishes and shows her his latest work. He's painted things for her dozens of times, and she always looks amazed.

She stands abruptly after glancing at the portrait for a couple seconds. Keith does not fall of the bed in surprise, shut up Allura.

"Keith Kogane of planet Earth, I name you the Official Royal Painter."

She says it with a teasing glint in her eye, but Keith looks shocked anyway.

"Really?" His eyes are starry with disbelief and happiness.

Of course, Allura had not been serious when she said that, but she had forgotten that Keith is a very angsty socially deprived child, and therefore cannot tell when someone is joking.

But how can Allura admit that to Keith when he looks like this? It's not possible! His way-to-adorable-for-his-own-good-kitten-puppy-eyes are on full force.

So now, when Keith is super stressed, he drags Allura into one of their rooms and just paints her for hours. She isn't exactly fond of sitting still for that long, but anything is better than seeing her best friend overwork himself to the point at which he regularly has to spend his nights in a healing pod in order to function.

And, sure, to anyone else it would seem like Keith is a creepy stalker who has nothing better to do than make artworks of Allura and stash them all over his room, but who cares? It's not like anyone will be snooping in there.

Lance realizes too late that he shouldn't be snooping in Keith's room.

It's not his fault! Keith had left the door to his room open for once, and how can anyone resist taking a peek in their crush's room?

So, really, Lance blames Keith entirely for his heart shattering into a million pieces.

He had decided to take a look in Keith's closet and see if the guy actually owns anything other than that stupidly short jacket. (How does it even provide Keith with warmth? It covers like 25% of his chest. Is he just a natural furnace??? Does he even take it off when he sleeps or is he just that committed to wearing overly cropped clothing and messing with Lance's weak heart?)

What he finds is painting after painting of Allura. Sure, she's pretty, but this is like an obnoxious amount of portraits.

Before, Lance had hoped and wished and thought that maybe, just maybe Keith might return Lance's feelings.

But now there is no doubt, Keith has a crush on Allura.

Keith can't deal with this right now.

He has already had a stressful week, and now his crush is aggressively flirting with his friend.

Allura just laughs it off every time, but to Keith, it just drives the knife further into his tragic, gay heart every time Lance says something cheesy or winks in Allura's direction.

Why are all the best people so painfully STRAIGHT?

Keith can't decide if he wants to punch or kiss Lance's stupid face.

At this point, it shouldn't bother Keith. He's watched the energetic boy flirt with absolutely anything, (seriously. Keith once walked in on Lance practicing puck-up lines on a trash can with a sharpied face and bikini on it) but for some reason, he can't stop feeling his feelings.

So now, instead of being mature about this, he's ignoring Lance. Shiro keeps looking at him and shaking his head every fifteen seconds, but if Lance is gonna be an unintentional douchebag, then Keith is allowed to be petty.

Their old rivalry is back, an Keith can't help the tightening in his gut when he realizes that he and Lance are drifting apart once again.

Allura is very close to strangling someone.

Honestly! Keith and Lance both clearly like each other, and yet they’re both set on restarting this silly rivalry of theirs.

If Lance says ‘Keith and Lance neck and neck’ one more time, Allura will have his neck.

She’s tried being subtle. She has dropped so many hints that everyone on the ship has figured those two out by now.

And now she’s done. Those idiots are going to kiss each other, and they are going to enjoy it, because Allura has put way to much effort into them.

After dinner that night, Allura grabs Lance by the collar and drags him onto a deserted hallway.

He yelps and complains until he meets her icy glare.

Allura has never shut someone up so quick, and it satisfies her greatly.

“Listen up Lonce. Not only have been flirting with me shamelessly for months, but you’re also failing to see what’s right in front of you. I don’t know about you, but the look Keith gives you every time you dismiss him breaks my heart. So, if you don’t fancy being ejected into space right now, you will go confess to that boy and kiss him like you mean it.”

Lance blinks at her in shock before responding.

“But- the paintings! And he’s in your room a-all the time!” he splutters.

Allura drags her perfectly manicured hand down her face with a groan.

“Well excuse me for being a good subject for his art. If you haven’t noticed, we’re friends, and that’s it. Now shut your trap and go find him.”

The next day, Allura almost combusts when the pair walks into the kitchen bickering. That is, until she notices their find smiles and tangled fingers.

#klance #keith kogane #lance mcclain #voltron #vld #voltron legendary defender #lance vld #keith vld #vld keith #allura vld #tawny post

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dearshelby · 2 years

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In which Tommy's marriage is falling apart and there's nothing he can do about it.

She rubbed her tired eyes when the numbers in the paper got blurry, at two in the morning no sounds could be heard, except for the cracks of the burning fireplace.

Isolated in the house office, she believed to be home alone, so she allowed a cigar to hang on her lips, however, not even the nicotine roll was able to quit her headache.

Also, the Shelby foundation documents needed to be filled until tomorrow evening and she wasn't even close to finishing. A tired sigh left her lungs.

To make everything worse, two knocks on the door are followed by Tommy entering her office.

He looked tired and stressed, if once he was a shell of the man he used to be, now he looked like a ghost, wandering around the house haunting whoever crossed his way.

He closed the door behind him and walked to her desk silently, his eyes didn't leave the whiskey glass in his hand.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Violet had a nightmare,"

She stood up, putting her cigar down, but before she could walk anywhere, Tommy continued, "she's sleeping already."

"You lulled her back to sleep?"

"I did." Tommy looked up at her.

"Oh," she scoffed, "that's news, didn't think you could do it."

"Yeah, I bet it wasn't as fast as you can do it."

"I'm sure it wasn't." she sat back down, going back to her paperwork.

Tommy kept standing, staring her down, he wouldn't put up a white flag and neither would she, he only wished he knew when exactly their interests became so different.

He was absent, surely, that wasn't the first time though, sometimes his mind was out for a couple of months, but he always came back for her. Apparently, this time she wasn't willing to wait.

Perhaps they misunderstood everything, perhaps the roots of their ambitions weren't the same, Tommy wanted a better life for him and his family, so did she, then why to demand him to quit politics?

"You're drowning, Tommy, you're drowning and you're taking everyone with you!" she had recently told him, perhaps that was the reason, Tommy made sure everyone's pockets were always full, but he never bothered to take a look into their heads and hearts.

So now, there he stood, loving her as much as he did for the last seventeen years, unable to voice it or show it. Their love remained strong as ever, but they were way too rational to turn a blind eye to every disagreement.

"Is there something else you want, Tommy?" she asked without looking at him.

"Won't you come to bed?" he asked the same question he always rolled his eyes at when she asked.

"Later." she drawled.

Without anything left to say, Tommy made his way to the side of her chair, she froze, moving her eyes in his direction like a skittish animal. Tommy wrapped a hand around the back of her neck and gave it a light squeeze, next tangling his fingers on her hair.

She blinked and took a deep breath, "No," she muttered and pushed his hand away, "no, Tommy."

He tried to hold her hand, but she didn't allow it, "I think you should go- I think-" she paused, considering her words, "I think we should let each other go."

Tommy pressed his lips together, it was over now, there was nothing he could do.

Giving her shoulder a last squeeze, Tommy left the office.

#this is part of an OC AU but it can be read as reader insert as well so I'll tag it as both #man I love a good old angst #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x oc #OC Eleanor Shelby #peaky blinders moodboard

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skratchytheclown · 3 months

Note

If the Broodals were to get in trouble as kids, what sort of punishment could they be expecting from their parents? That is, if they were ever punished at all?

And also, what is the worst thing all of them did as kids? Got in BIG trouble for?

MT: "We usually got the 'go to your room' punishments. I believe it was because those kinds of punishments were the easiest to do for a parent of four troublesome children."

Hariet: "Sometimes we'd just be sent to 'the corner' for something minor."

MT: "Yes, or you can be sent to the basement if you did something to get them real mad. Which is what happened to me, of course. I was left there... overnight?"

Stewart: "What? I don't think that ever happened, dude. You just missed dinner because Madame Broode was stressed and overwhelmed. At least, I think she was?"

Hariet: "Oh yeah! She felt reeeal bad about it, too. We made sure that guilt haunted her for years! ehehe!"

MT: "I suppose my child brain over-exaggerated it quite a bit,.. in addition to my memories already being quite.. fuzzy. I don't even remember what I did that day."

Stewart: "Me neither."

Hariet: "I think you threw a vase at Madame Broode when she wouldn't get you like twenty dollars or something. I don't really remember either."

MT: "Ehh, It's not important. It was an insignificant part of my life."

Stewart: "Ok enough about you, let's talk about me. I think the worst thing I've done as a kid was pretend I was on a cooking show. I had my phone, and was recording myself trying to make soup. Yeahh I just thought soup would be the easiest thing to make. I set up a pot, put water in it, and set it on a stove so it could boil. I just started to add random spices in it-"

MT: "Get to the point."

Stewart: "OhKAY THEN. Anyway, I accidentally dropped my phone into the hot water, and in a panic, plunged my hand into said hot water so I could recover that sweet sweet footage. Of course, it HURT, and I made a dramatic movement that knocked over the pot and spilled my phone-flavored soup everywhere. I was grounded for a month, AND was sent to my room while Madame Broode cleaned everything up."

Hariet: "One time I made a 'potion' out of various liquids I found in the house, filled a water balloon with the concoction, and threw it as hard as I could against the wall. I was disappointed when I found out all it did was put permanent stains on the nearby furniture and not actually open a portal or burn through the wall or something."

Stewart: "Rango didn't really do anything as a kid, but 'doing nothing' is what got him in trouble! Madame Broode once told him to organize his clothes so she could pack them for vacation, but he was like 'No you can't make me', and got a big ol' lecture, then was sent to his room. He ended up making his room even MORE messy just to spite her. What a knucklehead. Good times, though. Hahaa!"

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gh0ulixs · 1 year

Text

Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson Headcanons (pre-entity)

━━━━━༺༻ ━━━━━

(TWs for Brief abuse mention, smoking/alcohol, and Skin Picking/SH, and unhealthy eating habits)

🔪 Got the Alias “Jed Olsen” from an ad in the paper. They were from separate companies and he smashed the names together to get “Jed Olsen”

🔪 Danny is actually quite tan, considering he works during the day and is in the sun quite a bit.

🔪 He has ADHD.

🔪 Danny is Bisexual, but has a preference for men.

🔪 This man. Has seen almost every horror film to ever exist. He has three bookshelves filled with VHS’s in his home.

🔪 Danny is a dog person.

🔪 Out of the serial killer persona, he’s actually a pretty funny guy.

🔪 Danny takes other pictures besides the crime ones: Landscapes, people, you name it. He just loves photography. Ol’ Philly really lifts his spirits.

🔪 He uses He/Him pronouns.

🔪 Danny is around 30 years old. He’s not too young, but not ancient either.

🔪 He loved tacos. He has a taco stand he went to and loved so much that he specifically kept the owner of it off his victims list.

🔪 Despite him seeming agile, Danny is actually very clumsy at times. The excitement of chases trips him up and he usually ends up a little bruised after a kill.

🔪 His Sedan is black, and he has one of those funny sun dancer things in it. He also keeps pine air freshener there.

🔪 Speaking of the car: It's definitely not well taken care of. The AC is broken and coffee cups, photos, take out boxes, and notes litter the backseat.

🔪 Danny suffers from a few mental health issues, mainly NPD and BPD. He’s still human, after all.

🔪 Danny usually goes a while without eating, due to work and his “other job” as he calls it. He only really eats when His body is physically suffering due to lack of nutrition.

🔪 He is an ENTP

🔪 Danny enjoys strong beer.

🔪 When he first moved to Roseville, He had worked at a haunted house during October. He only worked there a day, though- The serial killer instincts kicked in and he couldn’t risk getting caught.

🔪 Danny’s father was most likely also a killer, or at least an abuser.

🔪 He fucking hates kids. Danny cannot stand them. Don't let him near yours unless you want them to be the next headline on the paper.

🔪 Danny has a very nice scent: He smells of Sandalwood and cologne. His ghostface costume smells of blood and sweat most of the time, but can smell really nice when washed.

🔪 Danny has a few small scars from shaving on his jaw.

🔪 Danny is actually a pretty good cook, he just never has the time.

🔪 He drinks black coffee: Not for “manly” reasons, just for taste.

🔪 Danny has a godly spice tolerance, surprisingly.

🔪 He enjoys rock, especially 70s. Queen, King Crimson, AC/DC, Styx, you name it.

🔪 Danny smokes and drinks. They're bad habits, but he doesn't care too much and will get annoyed it you point that out to him.

🔪 He bites his nails and picks his skin when he's nervous or stressed.

#ghostface #danny johnson #jed olsen #dead by daylight

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viridian-artist · 21 days

Note

Hiii!!! This is an excuse for you to gush about your f/os as much as you want :3c

Hehehehehehe, sorry for taking so long with this. I'm gonna use this excuse for evil < talking about Caine since he's been on my mind all week thanks to episode two.

I SHOULD ALSO NOTE THAT YES, I STILL VERY MUCH LOVE CAINE EVEN AFTER THE EVENTS OF EPISODE TWO.

》 HOW DID WE MEET?

Easy. I showed up a little bit before Pomni. At least a month or so. We obviously met when I first arrived, and he set us on some adventure to break into a cyberpunk discotheque to get the DJ's playlist. Hijinks ensued, but we didn't properly meet one on one until he threw us into a haunted house to exterminate the ghosts. I didn't want to exactly participate this time around, like Zooble, and instead stayed back in the circus.

He saw me playing with some blocks and just relaxing for a bit alone, and decided to invade my space then to chat. He was just curious to see how I was doing now that I was a part of the gang. I didn't speak much as I was just mentally tired, but I did respond to any questions. It only made him more curious to learn why I act the way I do.

》 WHO FELL FIRST AND HOW?

My dumb ass (affectionate) fell first and hard. I think it was initially a gradual "Oh, he's kind of silly" before a sudden and heavy "OH, I ACTUALLY LIKE-LIKE HIM".

I confided in Pomni and Ragatha at first, and they didn't understand at first, but they wanted to help me confess.

》 HOW DOES THE CONFESSION GO?

The confession...didn't exactly go to plan? At least, not how I planned it out, even considering him being an AI and all. He didn't understand/register my confession as being romantic. He thought, at the time, that I was just thanking him for the adventures and everything.

It hurt at first, but then I managed to push it aside? With how I love, I can't exactly get over it. I love with my entire heart.

Surprisingly, Jax was the one who managed to corner Caine with Ragatha by his side. The two talked with him firmly to tell him exactly how I feel.

He doesn't quite reciprocate my feelings at the time, but he does stop by my room that night to talk with me more personally.

》 WHAT WAS THE FIRST DATE LIKE?

He took me to the restaurant where he was with Bubble back in episode one. He even ropes the others into it by making it an adventure where they have to run the restaurant for the evening.

He's nervous and stumbling over his words because he recognizes that this is something important. Not just to me, but for him as well.

I'm nervous and stumbling over my words because I just think he's really dorky and charming. I also want the date to go well, but I find myself getting shy.

By the end of the date, we both actually had a lovely time despite Gangle and Pomni accidentally spilling the spaghetti on me (and dropping the entire roll of paper towels onto the floor). He actually offers to walk me back to my room, and from there, he kisses my hand. I pull him closer and kiss him on the upper jaw before going back to my room for the night.

》 WHAT WAS THE FIRST KISS LIKE?

Awkward. Felt like kissing a firm yet squishy plastic? It's kind of like a squishy/stress toy but more firm. There's a subtle squish to his teeth.

I was the one who kissed him first. It was the only way I could think at the time to shut him up. The two of us were arguing. I had wanted to go on an adventure with the others, but he wanted some alone time with me. I ended up being more stubborn and going, but after we got back, he brought me outside the circus tent to talk.

I don't remember the exact conversation that took place, but he was just feeling rather clingy that day but didn't realize it. When he did, he felt guilty and was starting to spiral a bit, which led to me kissing him to show I wasn't actually angry at him like he thought I was.

He didn't register the kiss at first, but when he did, he went in for another. And then another. And then–

(I SHOULD ALSO NOTE THAT MY SELF INSERT JUST WEARS A MASK THAT IS REMOVABLE TO REVEAL A NORMAL MOUTH.)

Anyways, he had black lipstick all over his face, and my lipstick was smudged. This is also how the others::

1. End up seeing my face.

2. End up realizing that Caine and I actually are dating, and it wasn't just a one-time thing.

》 MISCELLANEOUS INFO

▪︎ Caine is more verbally affectionate and calls me Starshine, Astro Angel, Techno Temptress, Cosmic Cutie, Cyberspace Siren, Digital Dreamer, Cybernova, etc.

I'm more physically affectionate by holding his hand when I can, giving him kisses, etc. When I'm going to bed, a good 8/10 times I end up dragging him with me to cuddle.

▪︎ He is such a sappy romantic and does what he can to romance me. Flowers are a common gift. Caine occasionally gifts me different chains and charms to change out my usual silver star for the tail.

I now have::

• a beaded one in turquoise, baby blue, purple, and navy with balls, stars, and larger beads. It has a plastic star for the end of the tail.

• a purple braided thread one with a heart charm similar to the star also in silver.

• a pearl beaded chain in offwhite with a tooth charm at the end and a dark red/black bowtie just before the tooth charm.

#cyberteeth🌐🦷#rambles 💬#self ship #self shipping #selfship #ask box 📫

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night-unfurls-its-splendour · 1 year

Text

When the Longing Returns

Phantom of the Opera (2004) Fanfiction

Chapter 4

Also read on AO3

Pairing: Erik (The Phantom) x Christine Daaé

Rating: M

Chapter Summary: The Opera Populaire prepares for their production of Faust, and Christine reunites with the Phantom in the opera house tunnels for the resumption of her lessons.

Chapter Word Count: 8,891

Enjoy this chapter with my custom immersive soundscapes! Follow the links in the story! (There's also a link for Gounod's Romeo et Juliette, which I think you'll find helpful!)

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

Christine awoke quite regularly with the other girls the next morning. This time she knew she had dreamed as she clutched the precious ring under her pillow; nebulous dreams, shadowy and half-formed, not nearly as vivid as her nightmares had been, but perhaps that was because she had nothing hidden from herself anymore. She couldn't quite remember exactly what had happened in her vague dream, but there were two things about it of which she was certain; that it was about him, and that she had awakened feeling wonderful and wishing she could go back to it.

The morning was ordinary; or, rather, as ordinary as it could have been.

Raoul was started rather rudely awake by Mme. Giry rapping her stick against the leg of his chair, and made to leave the immediate vicinity. Christine was pleased to see that he was more tractable this morning, but she also knew he would be in the stalls during practice. Hovering. Always hovering.

But a memory struck her suddenly:

Say you need me with you, now and always...

She'd actually said that to him herself! She'd never before been so haunted by her own words; but how could she have known how very literally he would take them, given the right provocation? She couldn't have.

All the more reason for her not to have said them.

She cursed her own stupidity and shook her head a little, attempting to cast off the feeling of mortification that now twisted in her chest as she pulled her stockings on.

When she was dressed, Meg helped her fix her hair and she tied it back with a black silk ribbon.

Whatever the managers' decision regarding Don Juan Triumphant would prove to be, regular rehearsals were resuming today for the Opera Populaire's current production: Gounod's Faust. The next performance was in four days.

Christine wondered if it would be odd to return to the routine of the past three months, now that the Opera Ghost was known to be haunting the halls again. But routine was what everyone seemed to crave, and what taskmasters like M. Reyer relied and thrived upon, so one and all approached the day determined for everything to be normal in spite of the Opera Ghost's return.

The one person whose courage seemed to be failing her was Carlotta. Since she had always been the Ghost's first choice of victim, and since it seemed certain to all that he, through some unknown dark art, had been the cause of the only wrinkle in her otherwise fabulous career (but what a wrinkle it was! It was fully a month before she could open her mouth on stage without the audience visibly bracing), her haughty confidence today was a mere pretense of her usual attitude—and a very shaky one at that.

Christine would have been lying if she denied deriving a little bit of satisfaction from watching La Carlotta sweat.

All through morning rehearsals the Diva had kept losing her place, having to start over; glancing around, up at the stage rigging and in the shadows with an acute paranoia that was, admittedly, justified.

And had it been as it was four months ago, she would surely have stormed off the stage, insisting that she couldn't work under such stress. She might have done so now, except for her certainty that if she did, it would open a door for Christine to shine again, and that she would never countenance.

Though Christine never visibly reacted, Carlotta still accused her of smirking and hurled abuse at her. This had been her unrestrained wont for three months.

One would have thought that Carlotta might have reconsidered the wisdom of this practice, since the Ghost had made his identity as Christine's mysterious song-master public, and given what had happened the last time she had insulted Christine in his hearing. But vanity and circumspection so rarely accompany each other.

At one point during rehearsal, Christine looked up, past the chandelier, to the railing of the walk that ran around the edge of the ceiling, and remembered him leaning insouciantly against it, almost cat-like—a panther, shrouded all in black—entirely at ease as he surveyed the stage, waiting for his blow to fall on the unsuspecting diva.

She still felt troubled whenever she thought of that night, but as with the masquerade, Christine's perspective on this particular moment felt quite different now (disregarding what came after); she could now appreciate the charisma he'd radiated just then. It almost made her giddy.

M. Reyer was very dubious about Carlotta's anxious behavior, but she did seem to ease as rehearsal continued, so that by the time they broke for lunch, she was, more or less, her usual self.

Christine was slightly surprised by how comfortably the morning passed.

The Phantom was observing, she was certain of that, but she had no difficulty focusing or behaving as she normally would. Carlotta's insults glanced off of her, and even Raoul's fussing over her did not irritate; she bore it with gentle patience.

But, although Christine was relaxed enough in the morning, as the day wore on, creeping closer and closer to nighttime—to her reunion with her good genius—she felt herself becoming quite nervous. She was ever more aware of his presence as evening approached.

She was also more aware of Raoul's.

She was determined that, tonight, he must be convinced to go. It was not that Christine doubted the Phantom's promise to her that he would not harm Raoul; she simply did not want Raoul there. She did not want to have to walk past him—didn't even want him in the building—when she went to rejoin her Angel.

He did not belong in the opera house after hours. His presence was aberrant to the location; it was not his realm. He was an interloper here. Like the human prince carrying off the swan maiden. Away from her magic. Away from her natural environment, to languish in mundanity for his own sake. Christine was infinitely glad she was preventing that fate for herself, she thought as she readied for bed.

Then, like clockwork, Raoul's boots were heard upon the steps again.

This time Madame Giry seemed almost resigned to his presence, but Christine opened the door and stepped out next to her warden without waiting to be summoned.

"Oh, Christine," Raoul said with slight surprise—her appearance had interrupted their disagreement.

She took his hand, holding it with care as she had in the carriage house.

"Raoul, I really don’t think it's necessary for you to stay tonight," she said, her voice nervous, but rational.

"But Christine..."

"I know you want me to be safe, and I appreciate it dearly, but Madame Giry will ensure that I am well looked after."

"I am her guardian, Monsieur," Mme. Giry stated icily.

Raoul did not seem impressed by the good lady's declaration. It was under that very guardianship, after all, that the so-called "Angel of Music" had gained access to Christine for all that time. Raoul had a mind to blame the entire situation on Mme. Giry's negligence; but he had too much respect for Gustave Daaé's memory to insult that gentleman's chosen steward of his only child to her face, no matter how badly he, Raoul, felt that she had failed in her duty.

"Raoul," Christine said in a hesitant whisper when she saw that he was unconvinced. "I know it's a small thing compared to my security, but I don't like what your staying here... well, the other girls have been saying... things... and it was alright for one or two nights, but now..." Christine's voice tightened and tears threatened assembly at the corners of her eyes.

The other girls, of course, were spreading the calumnies which originated with Carlotta. None of them really bothered Christine to the point of tears, but she let herself feel the sting of the ill-will behind them and was, in the moment, hurt enough that the tightness in her throat which choked her speech was genuine.

Raoul was instantly moved.

"Oh, Christine..." he said, his voice pained. Girls really could be so cruel to one another, he thought. It really was a triviality compared to the threat the Opera Ghost posed, but, since it was Christine's plea that had cemented his resolve to keep his vigil, her plea for him to cease it must hold equal power.

Raoul looked from Mme. Giry's severe gaze to Christine's plaintive one and back three or four times before sighing. He did not like that Mme. Giry had been so remiss (or complicit?) in the past, but he did not truly believe that she would betray her duty to her ward now, when it was clear how terrified Christine was of her one-time tutor.

"Of-of course..." he said finally, with resignation. "I'm sorry, Christine. I've been very thoughtless, haven't I?"

"It’s alright Raoul, I know you mean well," Christine replied with a gentle smile.

He turned now to Mme. Giry.

"Madame, I apologize most sincerely for any trouble I've caused you," he said courteously.

Mme. Giry thought this a very mean compensation for how high-handed he'd been with her for two consecutive nights, but she accepted the apology with a curt grace.

Raoul grasped Christine's hands (a little too tightly) and kissed her. Even now, when he was so desperate in his gallantry, his evening's parting kiss, though longer, and perhaps more forceful, than usual, lacked the heat and depth that Christine now knew even a chaste kiss could hold. Clutching her hands still, Raoul's lips parted from Christine's after a suitable length of time for a young lover (rather too suitable for a young lover) and he lifted her hands in his, kissing them quickly as well.

"Goodnight, my darling," he said affectionately, the words tinged with clinging reluctance.

"Goodnight, Raoul."

Her parting wish was also affectionate. She couldn't help that, though he was older than she, he was still the soft-hearted boy who had retrieved her red scarf from the surf, and had then happily spent his summer playing with an odd, lonely little foreign girl who was so far beneath him. It was difficult not to feel fondness for her playmate.

But fondness was as far as her feelings could stretch for him now.

As Raoul retreated down the steps, Christine was feeling prodigiously pleased with her success. She turned to go back into the dormitory and exchanged a glance with her guardian that communicated everything she needed to know—she had only to go to bed now, and Madame Giry would come for her when it was time.

She crawled into her bunk, doing her level best not to appear as excitable as she felt, but her hands shook as she pulled her covers over herself and curled up on her left side, facing the room. Her hand slipped automatically under the pillow and found the ring, clutching it in her sweaty palm as she turned her face into the cool pillow and breathed deeply the scent of the clean linen to calm herself.

She was not afraid to see him again—she desired nothing more. But so much had changed so quickly. Yesterday morning seemed almost as much a dream now as her first sojourn to his lair had in the days after he had returned her (though this new memory remained untainted by either imprudence on her part or anger on his).

Her experience with engagement had not been a helpful education—her present suitor was far more passionate with her than her previous one had been, and she more eager with him. It was a certain fear of the unknown that now kept Christine from settling, and she again found herself combing through various pieces of music to sing in her head and keep her mind occupied while she closed her eyes and feigned sleep.

Eventually the whispered giggles and conversations carried on by those girls determined to flout lights out until the latest hour they possibly could died away, and the hush of sleep fell over the moonlit dormitory. It must have been nearly eleven by that time.

Impatient, nervous, Christine clutched her sheets with one hand, and her ring with the other, her eyes still closed as she waited... waited...

~~~~~

She was very lucky she did not gasp aloud when Madame Giry—who, silent as a cat, had come to her bedside—put her hand on Christine’s shoulder as signal. She was holding a lamp in her other hand and had Christine's corset, negligée and a shawl draped over her arm, ready for her use. Hanging from her wrist was a drawstring bag.

Christine dressed quickly and quietly, wrapping the warm shawl close before finally sliding the Phantom's ring onto her finger. At last she was able to let it rest there, in its rightful place, without immediately having to remove and hide it.

"These are for you," Mme. Giry whispered, handing Christine the drawstring bag.

She opened it, and withdrew a beautiful pair of ivory silk slippers embroidered with blue and yellow flowers. Christine's breath caught in her throat as she remembered how she'd been in her stocking feet when she'd followed him through the mirror. At the time, the chilly, damp stones hadn't bothered her, she’d been so enraptured by his voice... but on the way back her feet had been so cold they were almost numb by the time he passed her up through the trap-door, and the wooden floorboards had felt as warm as anything when she set foot on them.

He must have noticed. His consideration for her comfort sent warmth spreading through her chest, up into her cheeks and down to her fingertips.

Her heart was pounding as she sat on her bed and slipped them onto her feet. It didn't surprise her at all that they fit with snug perfection. After admiring them for a moment, she collected herself and stood again.

She debated whether to tie her hair back... she seemed to recall it somehow coming undone the last time she traveled down into the tunnels below the opera. She picked up the black ribbon she'd used to tie her hair that morning, pulling it through her fingers thoughtfully, and then suddenly remembered exactly how she had come by it: tied around a red rose. Her hands trembled a little as she smiled to herself and gathered her hair, tying the ribbon around the mass of springy curls, so reticent to be restrained.

Madame Giry led her out of the dormitory, around the corner and through a hidden door that concealed a set of steps. This hidden staircase led to another door and created a kind of steep vestibule. Mme. Giry retrieved a small lantern, gave it to Christine, and motioned for her to descend first. She followed, closing the door behind them.

As Christine reached the bottom, her guardian stopped on the last step but one.

"There is another set of steps immediately through that door. They are very steep, so you must go carefully," her chaperone said quietly.

Christine nodded and reached to open the door, but Mme. Giry's hand suddenly grasped her shoulder, turning Christine to face her.

"Wait," she whispered gravely. "Before you go through, my dear, I only ask that you promise... promise me that this is what you want."

Christine was surprised at the worry in Madame's eyes—she had thought her desire to see him again had been clear to her guardian.

She had seen this unwonted emotion on Madame Giry's sharp face only once before, and it struck her as solemnly now as it had then.

So, with equal solemnity, she placed her hand on her foster mother's wrist and simply said, steadily and serenely, "Yes, it is. I'm sure."

"Quite sure?" the good woman pressed, holding Christine's shoulder more tightly and glancing down, almost fearfully, at her adorned ring finger. "He told me that you had accepted him, and gone to him willingly, but I didn't... I wasn't sure I could trust his account...."

"You can," Christine said earnestly. "He has not forced me, or manipulated me, I promise. I did go to him in the cemetery of my own free will, and I am going to him now of the same; I swear it on my father's grave."

Fitting that she had stood upon that very grave when she had declared her fidelity to him.

Madame Giry's look of concern did not immediately dissipate, in spite of Christine's assurances. In fact, Christine thought she looked as though she were considering the possibility that her ward had gone mad. But Mathilde Giry knew that Christine would never swear on her father's grave unless her conviction was entirely sober.

At length, her expression relaxed, and she released Christine's shoulder.

"Very well then, my dear," she whispered, smiling very slightly. "Go. He is waiting for you." With just one glance back at Christine, she scurried back up the steps.

Only after she had disappeared through the door at the top of the stairs did Christine turn and, lantern held aloft, open the door before her with a trembling hand.

It was very dark. Almost too dark to see a thing; the lantern light was only enough to show the immediate steps before her, which were, indeed, very steep, and quite narrow. Christine descended carefully with her little lantern, her new slippers whispering in the echoing shadows and her free hand trailing on each previous step as she edged down them. It was not as difficult to navigate as she feared, though she was a little embarrassed by how awkward she was. She had spent her entire childhood climbing the ladders and stairs and flitting along the catwalks of the stage, and she had always been sure-footed then; but these steps were not mere sport, and anticipation made her shaky.

Once she was down further, she saw a ruddy glow, and a spot of white in the darkness, and her heart leapt.

His mask...

She moved a little faster, struggling to balance her careful pace against her enthusiasm, and the shape became clearer.

Yes. It was him.

He held his own lantern, much more substantial than the little one Christine carried, which he hung on a hook as she eased her way down, down, closer to him.

Christine's breathing became unsteady as he stood directly at the bottom of the steps and looked up at her.

"Let me help you," he offered, taking her lantern and hanging it on a hook beside his. The sound of his voice made her heartbeat spike.

He reached for her with his arms outstretched and she, fighting to appear composed, lifted hers to hold his shoulders so he could place his hands—so gently—around her waist. He lifted her from the narrow step and set her down in front of himself with the utmost care.

"Thank you," she managed to murmur without her voice cracking, but her cheeks felt warm, and her lips tingled. The rich, tangy scent of him threatened again to overwhelm her, and her hands clutched his cloak as she attempted to discreetly steady herself.

His eyes, so bright, so adoring, so pleased to be making contact with hers, held her spellbound for a moment, so that she could not have moved her hands from his shoulders if she had wanted to. Nor did his hands move from her waist in that time—on the contrary they tightened around her, as they had in the cemetery.

Once she found she could move her eyes from his, they strayed down to his lips, which were curved up into a satisfied smile that made her stomach tighten. Their faces were very close... would he kiss her...?

But after a few moments he loosened his grip and shifted back very slightly. He placed his hand over Christine's where it still rested on his shoulder, his leather glove warm and smooth.

The sight of Christine trembling on the narrow stairs—her progress lurching, but her face intent as she made her way to him—had made his heart swell with a joy hitherto unimaginable to him. It was difficult to tell in the red glow of the lanterns, but he thought her face had flushed when he reached for her.

His Christine... she was in his hands now, and he was very careful in all of his movements: he had resolved to the use of only such touches and gestures as she had already allowed him. And though she had very much allowed his kiss, their separation had stoked his longing for her to a degree such as he was sure he would struggle to control himself if he indulged in that particular pleasure just at this moment. He thought there was something different about her tonight; something intangible which he couldn't quite place, but which made her all the more alluring. Another reason he must not take too many liberties with her.

Later.

For now, he drank in the sight of her. As ever, her dark ringlets were pulled back away from her face, displaying the pale, slender column of her neck, in all its gentle grace, to full advantage. He glanced down, and was pleased when he saw the slippers on her feet.

He'd been so thoughtless, on the gala night, as to allow Christine to follow him, with only her stockings to cover her feet, down to the damp tunnels. And then on the return trip... he was disgusted with himself to even think of her poor, bare feet on the cold floor, struggling to keep pace with him as he hauled her along. There could be no repeat of that foolishness.

He'd gone out the previous night and scanned the shop windows until he found those exquisite confections of ivory satin, and blue and yellow silk thread. Christine loved blue.

This morning, as soon as Mathilde was available, he'd had her go and purchase them (and given her a little surplus, that she might get something nice for herself and for Meg. Both deserved it.)

Christine followed his gaze down to her feet, and then glanced up again when he asked, "Are you pleased with them?"

"I am, very," she replied with a bashful smile that drew her full, pink lips up at the corners in a most appealing fashion.

Her mouth was rather broad, which he understood was not considered the ideal of beauty by Tout-Paris8. It was no demure bud fit only for pretty conversation, but a rose in full bloom, made to open wide and pour out the hallowed notes of music… and other sacred tones which he hoped, soon, to draw from her.

It took a great deal of willpower for him to resist the draw which that blossoming mouth held for him; but the very temptation of it was precisely what reminded him why he must.

Instead, he lifted her left hand from his shoulder, brought it to his lips, and pressed a gentle kiss to her fingers.

Her fingers, on which his ring rested once again. The picture sent a rush through him. It was so beautiful to see the boldness of the ornament softened by the grace of the hand that bore it.

Christine's skin crisped as he bowed his head and his soft, red lips brushed her fingers. As she took in this image, she suddenly gasped.

His eyes shot open, sharp and alert, as an icy anxiety jolted through him. Had something frightened her? Had he done something wrong? He almost dropped her hand, but as he looked, he saw that she was staring at her fingers with shock, though not fear.

"It's red!" she exclaimed breathlessly, her dark eyes bright with fascination. Her hand slipped from his hold, and she held it close to her face to examine the stone in the ring, twisting the band on her finger. Perhaps thinking it would change its color again.

Relief washed through him, and then became a warm flood of affection as he admired how captivated she was by the phenomenon.

"I thought it was blue at first, in the carriage," she breathed, "and then in the dormitory it looked green... but..." she trailed off, her brow furrowing.

He reached out to take her hand again, which privilege she readily granted as she looked up at him with inquisitive eyes. Smiling as he gently cradled her hand in both of his, he looked down at the ring.

"The stone is Alexandrite," he explained. "The color changes depending on the source of light: in sunlight it shows green, in firelight red. Quite a rare gem; it was only discovered in the last century."

"H-how did you come by it?" Christine asked, feeling rather slow and stupid, having been momentarily stunned by the sweetness of his smile.

He hesitated before answering, but didn't seem able to stop himself from indulging her curiosity.

"I acquired it in Persia," he said, watching her eyes widen and fill with yet more questions.

Christine found it strange to even imagine him outside the shadows of the opera house, let alone in such an exotic, sunlit environment as Persia. The spices she had noticed in his scent made some sense now.

He read her next question in her eyes, and answered before she could ask it.

"I was contracted by the Shah, very briefly... he required a significant architectural and... inventive skill. This ring was part of the payment for my services."

One of the few parts he'd been able to escape with before the Shah could give him his full payment.

There was little good that came from his work in Persia, and it was not the sort of thing that he would boast of to as good a girl as Christine, but he couldn't help taking some pride in this proof of the value of his technical achievements.

The astonishment on Christine’s face became quite an adorable stupefaction as he revealed these details to her, and for the moment it was his pleasure to allow her to feel awed by his exotic past. At some point he would have to reveal the less enchanting details to her. But not now. He didn't want to worry about that now.

Before she could ask any more questions that he might find awkward to answer, he lifted her hand, unable to resist feeling the smooth skin against his lips again, and kissed it with every intention of doing so only briefly and then leading her on down the passage; but as he breathed in, he stopped.

Honeysuckle.

He had hit upon the impalpable difference about her this evening.

"This scent," he said softly, running his thumb over the back of her hand. "This is different...." He inhaled again, subtly. Christine's face became hot again and she was sure that she could not hide this blush even in the lantern light. She had been so preoccupied with the prospect of Raoul perceiving the difference (which was needless, it turned out—he hadn't commented on it once all day) she hadn't considered that the Phantom would take notice of it as well. Which was rather foolish, as she was quite certain that he noticed everything about her.

"Yes," she said feeling herself begin to sweat as she paused, unable to think of how to continue. The silence rang in her ears. She felt almost as though she'd forgotten the lyrics in the middle of a performance.

"I... it's my soap. I was using a lavender scent, which Raoul gave to me, but, well, I don't really like lavender. So after... after yesterday... I decided to use my old soap instead..." she said at length, concluding rather lamely.

Now he understood.

At the masquerade she had smelt of lavender, which he had noticed just at the same moment he'd seen that ridiculous, vulgar ring hanging from her neck. In the cemetery the same scent had further provoked him to doubt her, but he'd forgotten about it when she'd pledged her faith to him.

Why, exactly, such a benign scent as lavender should have vexed him so he'd not been sure, but now, with this insight, it made sense. It was a change in her from when he'd last been close to her: one that didn't suit. It was a common scent. Uninspired. Unartistic. Dull. Not at all appropriate for such a muse as she.

When she'd followed him to his home, this was the scent that had clung to her skin and hair. Fresh, clean, simple honeysuckle. It was so natural to her.

But of course Christine, always so eager to please, had used a scent she disliked for months simply to oblige her fiancé. And of course the ignorant whelp wouldn't have noticed that it didn't please her. Oh, how he loathed that dunce; he could at least have made an effort to be a worthy rival for Christine's affections.

He swallowed back the bitter taste which the Vicomte's inattentiveness to Christine's partialities left in his mouth, and instead focused on how sweetly she was blushing.

"I'm glad," he smiled—almost smirked. "I don't think lavender suited you. This..." he inhaled another pull of the sweet fragrance, "...this is much more fitting."

And for a moment he wondered if she would allow him to kiss the inside of her wrist. Something in her utterly disarmed expression told him that she would, and happily, but should he? No. He'd set his boundaries for this evening; he must abide by them… unless she told him not to.

Christine was still and silent as he seemed to be contemplating something deeply, and there was a very peculiar light in his eyes that made her insides quiver. But presently, as before, when she wondered if he would kiss her, he moved back.

He lowered her hand away from his face and held his head erect again, taking a deep breath of the cool air in the passage to clear his mind and slow his blood, which had begun to rush. Still holding her left hand in his right, he unhooked her lantern, handed it to her, and then took his own.

"Come," he urged, gently but irresistibly tugging her along. He needed to walk, to move his restless body; and their time was short enough as it was.

Christine followed, taking long strides to keep up with him, as she'd had to do in the cemetery. She understood why they needed to move quickly, having dawdled so long at the foot of the stairs, but she still trailed behind him. He did not move so fast that the pace was insupportable for her—he seemed to be very consciously regulating his speed for that very consideration—but she thought he was perhaps a little agitated. Not irate, or displeased, simply... tense.

Had he gone a little slower, she could have matched his steps and held onto his arm as they went, but the passage then narrowed, and another steep flight of stairs dropped off before them, making that impossible in any case.

Progress was much faster down these steps with his hand to hold on to, though she was sure he could have gone twice as quickly and much more gracefully without her slowing him.

"I'm sorry this path isn't as easy as the one from the dressing room," he lamented. "We'll return by another way." He'd selected this route because its ingress was nearest the dormitory, but he'd not considered how treacherous the steps were.

"I don't mind," Christine said meekly, gripping his hand on the next step down. She truly didn't mind the necessity of holding him for support, and she especially didn't mind when he lifted her from the last few steps again. She couldn't help enjoying the feeling of his hands around her.

"It's more level from here onward," he assured her, nonetheless.

They proceeded on a little ways and then Christine heard a clink, and a soft snorting, then the scrape of a hoof along the floor.

She was, therefore, not entirely surprised when they rounded a curve in the passage and came to the tremendous black horse tethered to the wall and clad in a side-saddle.

She, of course, remembered that he'd conveyed her part of the way on horseback before, but she had been so focused on him that she'd not taken much notice of the horse, and hadn't thought about it much afterward. It seemed impossible now because she recognized that she was very familiar with the animal.

It was César.

He had disappeared from the opera stable nigh on a week before Hannibal opened, apparently stolen. Christine and Meg went often to the stables to feed the horses, and had fed César treats from their very own hands almost daily. They both had been very upset by his disappearance. It was well known he was the cleverest horse in the stable, and had the sweetest temper.

M. Lachenal, the head groom, was even more upset. He was certain the Opera Ghost had been the culprit. And he had been right.

César whickered and his ears flicked up as he pawed the ground impatiently at their approach.

"Hello," Christine greeted him, smiling as César whinnied in joyful recognition. Quite absently, she handed her lantern to the Phantom and patted the horse's neck. "I've missed you."

The stallion let out a familiar contented sigh, pleased by the attention.

"Is he taking good care of you?" she whispered as César turned his head and nudged her shoulder. Christine glanced at the dark, inscrutable figure watching them, who seemed unamused by her comment to the very clearly well-looked-after horse.

In truth, he was quite taken with watching this exchange between Christine and César. Her sweetness with the creature was immaculate, the innate gentleness of her motions utterly stunning. He had often admired the virtues of such moments from afar, but it was altogether more breathtaking to witness whilst standing next to her.

After appreciating this vision for just a moment longer, he gathered himself and extinguished their lanterns, hanging them up nearby.

"You needn't worry on that score," he said, approaching and helping her to mount the steed. "César and I have always been very good friends."

As if to affirm this assertion, César turned his head to nudge the Phantom's shoulder, just as he had Christine's.

"Always?" Christine asked as she settled in the saddle.

"I visit the stable quite often," he replied simply, sounding quite sentimental as he reached over to briefly scratch César's jaw. The horse whickered and nudged him again, asking for more attention.

The Phantom spoke softly to him, patting his neck: "Not now, my friend. Later," he said. Horses were so much easier to abide with than people—they were too clever to judge by appearances.

Christine felt a singular swelling sensation in her chest, watching him interact in such a gentle, familiar way with their mutual friend.

"He certainly does like you," she said with a little smile.

"He's a good judge of character," he replied, smiling as well, as he stroked César's snout once more for good measure, and then gathered the reins in his hand.

The passage was indeed very level, but it soon became apparent that César's employment tonight was not merely a romantic gesture—it was quite justified, as this tunnel was much longer than the one from the dressing room had been. The lair must be on the complete opposite side of the building, she thought during the long ride.

They didn't speak because the Phantom had begun to sing from Roméo et Juliette:

"O night, beneath thy dark wings shelter me!"

These first lines were so softly sung and so casually begun that Christine was unsure if he was singing for her, or if this was simply his habit. It was possibly both—his choice of song, Romeo's serenade under Juliet's balcony from Act II, seemed too apropos for it to be entirely unorchestrated.

It mattered little either way, for as soon as he began his song, Christine felt herself become lost in it, as she always had done whenever his unearthly voice carried a melody to her.

"Love! Love! Ah, its intensity has disturbed my very being! But! What sudden light through yonder window breaks? ’Tis there that by night her beauty shines!"

And here, without hesitation, he turned his head to look up at Christine.

Indeed, this was no mere song of idle routine.

"Ah, arise, o sun! Turn pale the stars that, unveiled in the azure, do sparkle in the firmament! Ah, arise! Ah, arise! Appear! Appear, thou pure and enchanting star!"

Oh, it had been so long since she'd heard him sing for her, just to give her comfort and pleasure, without the taint of fear or desperation in the golden notes. His rendition would ruin this aria for her forever; not even the most mellifluous of lyric tenors would ever be able to do it justice.

Christine was swaying in the saddle as he matched the time to César's gentle gait. Or was the horse matching him?

"She is dreaming, she loosens a lock of hair, which falls to caress her cheek. Love! Love, carry my vows to her!"

She did look as though she were dreaming, so relaxed and contented with her eyes closed. But upon this last line they fluttered open and met his.

"She speaks! How beautiful she is! Ah, I heard nothing; But her eyes speak for her and my heart has answered!"

Christine found herself no longer soothed by the cavatina, but excited.

"Ah, arise, o sun! Turn pale the stars that, unveiled in the azure, do sparkle in the firmament! Ah, arise! Ah, arise! Appear! Appear, thou pure and enchanting star! Appear thou enchanting star...

As he rounded out the verse she knew it would next be Juliet's turn to sing. Did he expect her to join him? Could she resist? She knew it by heart...

"...Come, appear! Come, appear!" Romeo bade.

Without a single thought, Christine sat straighter in the saddle, and Juliet began:

"Alas! I – to hate him?! Blind, cruel hatred! O Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Refuse that fatal name which divides us, or I’ll refuse mine!"

"Is it true? Did you say it?" he demanded, his eyes desperate and hopeful—a desperate hope which Christine recognized from a frigid morning in a cemetery. "Ah, dispel the doubt in too happy a heart!" he begged.

"Who listens to me, and surprises my secrets in the darkness of night?" she challenged.

"I dare not, by naming myself, tell you who I am."

"Are you not Romeo?"

"No! I’ll no longer be he, if this detested name keeps us apart! That I may love you, let me be born again, in some other self than mine!"

"Ah!" she returned "– you know that the night hides my face from you! You know it! If your eyes could see its blushes they would bear witness to you of the purity of my heart!"

Christine sang in earnest, more ardently than she'd had occasion to in many months, and she could truly hear the difference in her voice that was inspired only when she sang for him. The fullness and richness that had been missing for three long months.

She would never have admitted it before, but Christine was glad she hadn't been given any leading roles since Hannibal.

Though her years of lessons with the Angel had given her the necessary technical skill to sing as proficiently as La Carlotta or any other Prima Donna, she knew that the depth, the passion, the angelic quality which had so captivated Paris on gala night would be conspicuously absent; and she had not thought she could have borne the disappointment of showing that ordinary kind of performance when she had tasted but briefly her own potential for true greatness.

She did need her teacher. She had been singing for months now without coaching and it was painfully apparent to her. And yet, here, now, she was not discouraged by it, as long as he looked at her.

"Away with useless evasions...do you love me? I can guess what you will answer: but make no promises! Phoebe, I fancy, with her inconstant rays lights up false oaths and laughs at lovers! Dear Romeo! Tell me honestly “I love you!” and I’ll believe you; and my honour will entrust itself to yours, o my lord, as you can trust in me!"

Her spine tingled at the way the heat of his eyes seemed to sear into her as she sang the words 'O my lord.'

"Do not accuse my heart, whose secret you know, of wantonness, because it could not keep silent... but accuse the night whose indiscreet veil has betrayed the mystery."

He indeed must have organized this duet with intention, for as Juliet's solo ended they were coming upon the shore of the underground river that would lead them to the lair.

"Before God who hears me, I pledge you my troth!"

He sang the last line of the duet as César came to a stop and, just as if they were performing on stage, the Phantom reached his hand up to her, as Romeo would, trying in vain to touch Juliet's outstretched fingers. But unlike Juliet, Christine was on a horse, not a balcony, and their hands met easily.

The Phantom.

Again she'd been forced to use an epithet for him in her head, and this gave her a great deal of disquiet, but it was momentarily driven from her thoughts as his other arm slipped around her waist to help her slide down from her mount and into his embrace.

And he held her there for a moment, gazing down into her eyes with unrestrained admiration. He couldn't help himself... his hand came up, cupped her face. It was an intimate touch. It made Christine's heart race. She could hear it pounding in her ears, and her breath came heavily.

"Oh, Christine," he whispered, and he was so close his breath washed over her face. It carried a sweet, but slightly bitter scent; one of the many notes she'd sworn herself to identify, but she couldn't hardly think to even try just now. "I have missed your voice," he said, the words laden with a tender ache. He stroked her cheek with his thumb. Otherwise he was quite still, though his breathing, too, seemed heavy.

"I-I've missed yours," she admitted, her voice breaking. To say it aloud, to hear the truth she'd so steadfastly denied for months ringing out in speech, echoing in the underground cavern, in words that another person could hear, was incredibly cathartic.

Her confession seemed to transport him. His eyes were no longer merely admiring, they were almost worshipful. It was so powerful she thought she might be crushed under the gravity of it, and so she buried her face in his shoulder again and hugged herself to him, feeling his solid breadth fill her arms as she waited until she felt she could bear the weight of his gaze again.

He seemed to lift his head and took a deep breath, which shuddered slightly. He still held her, but his arms loosened a little, so that she was quite sure she could easily have pulled from them if she'd wished to.

She didn't wish to, though.

Even when she did bring her hands to his chest and pushed back, ever so slightly, it was not because she wished to, only because it was necessary in order to tentatively raise her eyes to his.

Either the intensity of the moment had passed, or she had adjusted to bear it, because the emotion was still very much present there, but no longer did it seem to overpower her. He, too, seemed more in command of himself when he released her from his arms and lifted his hands to move hers from their resting place. With both of her hands held in his, he drew her toward the bank and, without another word except to send César trotting back up the passage, helped her to embark the little boat before boarding himself and beginning the short voyage home.

Home. With Christine.

He must be careful.

Embracing her like that had been a risk. When she'd said she missed his voice, she'd looked so sweet, so beautifully emotional, he'd almost broken his own boundaries; almost kissed her without invitation... until she'd hidden her face from him and saved him from his own imprudence. He should have known better than to hold her so closely. It would be best to keep his distance from her during their lesson.

Yes. Only approach her if necessary, he told himself. She'd hidden, though, and that troubled him. Why? Had she seen his control beginning to slip, seen the temptation overtaking him? Perhaps she had feared the coming kiss, and hidden to prevent it from taking place. Perhaps she had forgotten, in the cemetery, about his hidden, hideous countenance, and only remembered in the intervening time. He could hardly blame her for wanting to avoid any part of his face that came so close to his deformity—

Stop this, now! he commanded himself.

It was impossible that she could have forgotten his true face! Had she not said so herself, on the rooftop? Her harshness had cut him, but it was only accurate:

'Can I ever escape from that face? So distorted, deformed, it was hardly a face! '

And she had only glimpsed it.

So no, the possibility of her having forgotten must be discounted.

And in spite of it, she'd begged for him to kiss her. Passionately. Adorably. She had begged him.

Just now, she had admitted to missing him over the two days they'd been apart. So she would not hide out of fear then, would she? No! She would not have struggled with determined vigor down those treacherous steps to meet him with such delight if she feared him... The remembrance of her face when she'd seen him waiting for her set his roiling unease to rest, and he breathed a deep, calming breath.

Then it was, perhaps, that she was overcome by emotion?

He was spared any further agonizing analysis of her behaviour when he glanced down and saw that she had turned around in the boat, quite without his noticing, to sit facing him. Her arms were gathered under her knees, keeping her nightdress tucked close to her legs, and she leaned forward against her thighs, looking up at him with contemplative doe-eyes.

When previously she had ridden in this boat, Christine had sat facing forward, marveling as she took in the wonder of this subterranean realm. But the surroundings held little interest for her now, as she had infinitely more pressing thoughts on her mind.

Since he had freed her of his intoxicating proximity, her earlier concern regarding his name had returned to her in force. She wasn't sure of she could muster the courage to ask him outright when he'd not yet told her of his own choice. It felt almost like a violation. Like touching his mask. If he hadn't told her yet, he must have a reason. But surely, as he intended marriage... he must tell her sometime. Or was she to call her husband "Angel" and "Phantom" for the rest of their lives when he was neither?

And it was this which she was considering when he chanced to look down at her, and was pulled from the labyrinth of his own thoughts.

He could just see the soft rounds of the tops of her breasts where they pressed against her knees, but he forced himself to focus on her face. Clearing his throat, he said with apparent nonchalance, "You're very intent, Christine, are you making a study of me?"

His comment caught her quite off-guard, and Christine quickly looked down at her knees, embarrassed for having been caught staring. She floundered again, unsure of how to respond. She'd been presented with a chance to broach the subject which she had been contemplating, but should she?

Even as she questioned herself, though, the words came tumbling out of her.

"In the dressing room, just before you appeared in my mirror, you said I should know you, but..." and now she hesitated, trembling; remembering the words he had flung at her in his thundering fury the last time curiosity had caused her to overstep. Was she Pandora again? She couldn't speak.

Christine was in some kind of distress, he recognized it immediately, just as he had in the cemetery when she'd stumbled. At once, he ceased poling the boat along.

"'But' what?" he asked softly, eager to put her at ease. "What is it, Christine?"

He said her name so tenderly that Christine found she was able to glance at him, and gathered enough courage to find her voice again. Surely he would tell her. Did she not have a right to know?

"You've not yet told me your name," she whispered timidly. She looked down again before she'd finished speaking. Her face felt hot in a most unpleasant way.

He was silent.

This had been a mistake. Christine's palms broke into a sweat. Had she angered him? She didn't dare look at him to attempt to determine it.

She was silently cursing her own curiosity when he spoke.

"I don't honestly know that I have one," he admitted.

He didn't sound wroth. Terribly sad... not angry, though. Christine looked up and found that his expression matched his tone, to a heart-rending accuracy.

Her observation had surprised him. It was actually almost droll; in all his planning for that moment of revelation, he'd forgotten that she would need a name to call him by. He supposed an opportunity might have presented itself if he'd had more time with her that night; but he'd not accounted for her fainting in shock. And then... the subsequent events had not been conducive to openness. Any further consideration of the subject had been completely driven from his mind, with how badly his plans had gone awry. And now it seemed she could barely bring herself to ask him. There was some fear there in her eyes when they met his. That must be remedied at once. She mustn't be frightened of him, so he must answer her, gently and as fully as possible.

"My father's surname was 'Vachon', but I don't remember if my mother ever gave me a Christian name," he said, struggling to keep eye-contact with Christine as he told her this; but he must. It was vital. "She may have done, but I don't recall her ever calling me by it. My mother... was ashamed of me..." That was so much an understatement it was almost a lie—resented would have been a more accurate word, or better still, loathed. "When I... was older, I took the name 'Erik'. Few people have ever known me by it. It would please me if you did."

Christine felt reassured by the weight of this short history; and there was so much he'd not told her, she was certain of it by the pain she could hear underlying his composure. Yet, at the same time, she felt, not happy, but something akin to happiness—he could simply have said 'Erik' if that was what he wished her to call him. He'd not only told her his chosen name, but also these intimate details. She felt trusted, and that solaced her greatly.

"Erik," she repeated softly with a sweet smile, and hugged her legs a little more tightly to calm whatever floating sensation had been stirred inside her. She looked down again, but neither fear nor shame was the motivation this time.

Few people, thought Erik. And none of them had ever spoken it with that sweet affection or... pleasure. He longed desperately to kneel in the boat before her. To take up her hands, and kiss her sweet fingers again.

He restrained himself, gripping the pole tightly instead, and resuming their progress. The boat once again began slicing through the murky water of the canal.

A few silent moments later, she glanced up at him and observed: "Erik is a Scandinavian name..." A notion had crossed her mind... he'd not said exactly when he'd chosen his name... could it be that he...?

Again he seemed to read the question in her eyes, and smiled in amusement.

"I took that name by happenstance, long before I knew you." He'd almost said, 'met you', but that somehow felt insensitive to the fact that they had only properly met on the night he took her to his home.

Christine was a little relieved—as touching as it might have been for him to have chosen his name to appeal to her and her ancestry, that would have been a bit too... much, even for one as romantic as herself.

She asked no further questions, now content to gaze at him again, and to feel no shame in the activity. She had asked, and he had revealed more of himself to her, and she felt freer for it.

By and by, she heard a familiar, metal cranking sound that made her insides swoop and her heart thud from a vivid memory.

She turned in the boat to see the iron portcullis opening to admit them.

~~~

Author's Notes

#when the longing returns #phan phic #phantom of the opera fanfiction #poto fanfiction #erik x christine #christine x erik #eristine #poto e/c #e/c #christine daaé #christine daae #erik the phantom #poto erik #erik poto #phantom of the opera #poto

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victhinks · 11 months

Text

(She Hopes) I'm Cursed Forever

Lockwood & Co. Angst week Day five: Scars Make Us Who We Are | accidents ; @lco-angst-week

Also posted on AO3

TW: Chronic Pain, Self-Esteem Issues

Their meeting was scheduled for today. The Visitors were being dealt with today — headache or no.

Lockwood has a headache and goes on a case regardless. It goes about as well as can be expected.

There it was again, the sharp stabbing sensation behind his left eyeball promising agonizing hours of exasperation and discomfort ahead. It always started with a twinge of sharp pain, enough for him to wince visibly but gone again after only a moment. Then, the real fun would begin: the slow buildup of dull pressure reaching from his forehead to his temples, making him feel as if his head was being squished together relentlessly, but slowly.

The pressure was not too bad. Lockwood could ignore it most of the time, focus enough on his tasks to make the pain fade to the back of his aching head because he had things to do and there was only so much time for a break, especially since the headaches had become such a common occurrence he could not afford to stop his work every time one of them hit. He’d never get things done that way, and there was nothing that could make him give up on his agency now that it was going so well.

Push through it. It’s not that bad.

There had been considerable stretches of time — a couple of weeks, sometimes even a month! — where the headaches left him alone. Lockwood had tried more than once to discern what exactly triggered them, but turned up empty each and every time. His best guess was stress, which was unfortunate, considering there was no way to avoid it in his profession and the life he led. Pity. Guess there was nothing to do but to push through.

It had been a while, against all odds, since he’d had one. This particular plague of inconvenience had left him alone for nearly three weeks and Lockwood fell trick to the same illusion he did each time when they were gone for a while: assume he had been magically cured and did not need to worry about his chronic headaches ever again, free at last from this recurring torment. Like a fool.

Alas, he was not.

The sharp pain behind his eye gave it away and Lockwood jostled the papers in his hands as he flinched, grimacing. The dull pressure was building, creating the feeling that something was pressing down on him, squeezing his brain like a sponge. Great.

Other than the fact that his illusion of a miracle healing had been shattered, Lockwood was displeased because there was an important case he was preparing to set out on with Lucy and George.

It was no matter, of course. This would not stand in the way of his duty to the agency, especially now that they needed the money desperately.

Lockwood groaned quietly, setting down the case file on the kitchen table and rubbing his forehead. This case would be a pain. What were esteemed to be three Type Two’s haunted the old family home of Mrs. Tillberg and she was willing to pay handsomely for their containment. The job came with the warning that the Visitors were quite strong and should therefore only be taken on by professionals.

When Lockwood had seen the advert in the paper, he had immediately thought it to be the perfect job for them. They could tackle their problem of money and publicity in one neat packing. It was a gift he was unwilling to refuse and the others had agreed.

Their meeting was scheduled for today. The Visitors were being dealt with today — headache or no.

It was unfortunate that the headaches came on stronger after leaving him alone for as long as they had now. Well, it did not matter. He could deal with it, had done so before and would do so again.

“This house is huge,” Lucy commented when they stood in front of Mrs. Tillberg’s mansion. George hummed in acknowledgement, diving into an explanation about the layout and arrangements of the rooms, pointing to different windows occasionally. The only thing Lockwood noticed about the mansion was the unsettling brightness of the white bricks. It seemed as if they were shining.

He was not feeling too well, pushing the nausea whirling inside of him to the recesses of his mind to ignore for the moment. The right side of his brain felt like it was being carefully carved out with a spoon and the mental image the pain produced in him was enough to make Lockwood swallow thickly. Beyond all reason, he hoped this job would be done quickly.

“Let’s go, this should be fun,” George’s monotonous voice cut through the haze in his mind and Lockwood started moving towards the front door, wondering if he had missed the appearance of Mrs. Tallberg and her giving them the key. “Lucy, after you,” George spoke again, stepping to the side and allowing her to approach the door. Lockwood remained standing on the porch, puzzled.

The dull pressure in his head was morphing into a pulsating sensation, which meant he would soon have to deal with a sharp pain in his head. It would be impossible to ignore then and leave him unable to think clearly.

There was still time before that set in, however, and with a bit of luck the case would be all over by then and he could retreat to his room to be dead to the world for a few hours until the pain lessened.

Lucy had crouched in front of the door and pulled something out of her pocket when Lockwood turned his attention to his surroundings again. He wanted to ask what exactly she was doing, when she rose again, giving George a sly smirk before opening the front door with ease.

“Did you just pick our client’s lock?” Lockwood asked her incredulously and Lucy turned around, her smirk turning into a sheepish smile.

She was so beautiful, so amazing. Her smile was a radiant sun warming the depths of his heart that had frozen-over years ago. With his entire being, over and over again in every little thing she did, Lockwood found again and again that he loved—

George chuckled heartily, the sudden noise making Lockwood flinch. The pain was on the way to become a distraction, he was already distracted. “I told you Mrs. Tallberg had to cancel and gave us permission to use more unorthodox methods,” George explained, stepping into the house quickly.

“As long as we don’t set her house on fire,” Lucy added with a chuckle, following after him.

That debacle was something neither of them would forget anytime soon.

Lockwood muttered his approval and stepped over the threshold as well, following the two of them. He tried to remember the details of the case — place and reason of death, lives lead, prior purpose of the house — but he came up empty, unable to remember any details despite reading over the file carefully before setting out.

It was as if an invisible wall had been put up between him and the things he wished to know, the knowledge he wished to remember, and he could not break through it. He could not think properly.

This was not good. The worst of his headaches were accompanied by a sort of fog in his brain, making him unable to comprehend things properly. He saw everything, but he could not truly process and respond to things, needing an extra few seconds before understanding what was going on — for his brain to connect the dots, as it were.

The temperature dropped suddenly, making Lockwood’s head throb painfully. (Temperature changes were a trigger evidently, good to know.)

Lucy drew in a sharp breath. “I sense something,” she said in a hushed voice, closing her eyes to Listen. Lockwood stepped around her, going further into the room and looking around, trying to See.

He entered a large sort of sitting room, filled with paintings on the walls, an armchair and a sofa standing around a little coffee table.

His gaze landed on a death glow so bright and blinding, the pulsating pain in his temples turned suddenly into a sharp, stabbing sensation, which stole his breath and made him double over in pain, his eyes shut tightly. A moan of pain escaping him unwillingly.

It was swallowed by the sound of loud knocking on the walls, a drumming so deafening Lockwood felt it echo in his skull long after it had stopped. He was out of breath already and the Visitors had not yet appeared. This would be a long night.

Keep it together. You’ve had worse.

They all drew their rapiers in preparation for a fight. Lockwood was unsteady, hands shaking slightly and vision swimming dangerously. His usually so clear and important vision was troubled by waves and stripes, strange patterns seemingly imprinted on his eyes. They were dancing, hindering his sight and he blinked furiously to clear them away. He had to see, needed to See!

It was no use and he had to strain his eyes to make out what was in front of him. The death glow was so bright, it made his eyeballs ache and water from the stab of pain it sent through his skull. It was all he could do not to close them and bury his head in his hands, away from the aggravating light causing him pain.

“Lockwood!” Lucy’s cry made him straighten immediately, turning all his attention to his surroundings and ignoring the waves of pain washing over him at increasing frequency. He stared numbly as a Visitor charged towards him — a short, round woman with a face that seemed to have contained radiant happiness while she was alive but was now disfigured distastefully through a mixture of rage and betrayal — and regained control of his mind just in time to remember how to defend himself.

He pointed his rapier at her, taking a startled step backwards on instinct. Lockwood managed to draw her back with a few hasty flicks of the iron, but his unsteady footing made him fall and he landed flat on his back on the hard tiled floor.

The force of his fall knocked the wind out of him, making Lockwood take a few gasping breaths as the dull sting traveled from his upper back to the base of his head. It made him cry out in pain. For a short moment Lockwood was blinded by the burning ache.

It was all it took for him to drop his rapier, leaving him defenseless against the Visitor inching closer to him once more. When the pain subsided enough for him to open his eyes without withering at the radiating light of the death glow on the edge of his vision, he saw her towering over him. Her haggard face mere inches from his own, he could see her clearly now, dirty, twisted and angry.

Their enraged faces were what stayed with him the longest. Lockwood could forget about the house they died in within the day of getting the money for a job well done. The death glows he saw stayed longer, lingering in his mind for maybe a month or until the next case, where he would see others, making the previous ones flee his thoughts. But their anger — the furious expressions on the faces of the Visitors — could never leave his head. If he thought of it hard enough, he could recall every face that ever made that expression of uncontained fury at him.

She was closer still now and he tried to remember his training. His thoughts came sluggishly, incredibly slow considering the urgency of the situation and he could do nothing but panic, puffing out frantic breaths as he squirmed on the ground.

On instinct, his hand was moving hurriedly to feel for his rapier.

A flash of silver above him caught the light of the death glow and made him close his eyes against the wave of nausea overtaking him. Light was a curse, it felt like a ray of ice shooting through his eyes. George had rushed in to charge at the Visitor and draw her away from him. Lockwood starred as George made complicated movements with the iron, edging her further away.

His hand met something cool and he was momentarily relieved before he felt a sting against his palm. When he looked, Lockwood saw the blade of his rapier stained red lightly with his blood.

The cut hardly registered, nothing but a faint twinge in comparison with the tidal wave of agony in his head. Lockwood drew himself up regardless. He had a job to do and he was failing his team.

There was a faint glowing of a different visitor appearing and he breathed deeply through the pain, readying himself for their attack. They drew closer and he flicked his rapier at them, taking a few steps back.

A loud crash vibrated through the room and Lockwood choked, losing his footing for the second time that night. He fell forward, making the Visitor disappear into nothingness with a lucky stroke of his rapier and collapsing to his knees, head bowed and breaths shallow.

He needed a break, needed to retreat and collect himself again — a safe space to catch his breath.

There was so much noise around him, things shifting, people talking and he longed to curl up into a tight ball and hide until this all was over. It was too much and Lockwood did not know what to do. He had a vague feeling about needing to go somewhere, but his mind was not working properly to tell him where and it frustrated him to no end, making his eyes take on a shimmer of wetness. Every noise hurt terribly.

“Chains!” George’s scream cut clearly through the haze in his mind — making him whimper — but giving him a thought he could latch onto. Chains, the circle. He would be safe there, he could have a respite.

As Lockwood heaved himself up, concentrating all his energy in dragging himself to the safety of the circle, Lucy and George were still occupied by the Visitors. They were fighting one each and Lockwood got the feeling that there was something missing in the scene, something he had forgotten but could not quite place.

A new faint light materialized behind Lucy and he regarded it with confusion. How many visitors were mentioned in the case file? He could not remember and simply watched uncomprehendingly as a Visitor appeared behind Lucy.

She had not noticed them and neither had George, busy with his own engagement.

The Visitor drew closer to Lucy and Lockwood felt a sudden dread overtake the nausea within him. This was bad, somehow. Lucy was in danger! Three Visitors and there were only two of them.

Lockwood launched himself forward despite the warning protests of his body, and charged at the third Visitor, drawing them away from Lucy’s back with his rapier. When her eyes met his, he saw surprise and gratitude flash in quick succession before her gaze settled on determination.

“Keep them away,” she told him, motioning to the two Visitors, “I’ll contain the sources.” He had no time to object as Lucy ran towards a wall, leaving him to fight or at least stall for time. The movements of his rapier were less than precise and more than once, he feared the two were closing in on him dangerously.

Lockwood’s breathing was erratic again. The movements he had to make hurt his head and the brightness of the death glow was making the nausea overwhelming. All his movements were made on pure instinct, his head was entirely empty but for the pain he desperately tried to ignore.

He was about to slice through one of the Visitors when they all disappeared suddenly. The surprise made Lockwood stumble again and had him falling unceremoniously to the ground. At least he had not braced himself against the blade of his rapier.

“I’ve got them,” Lucy exclaimed, standing next to an iron net, which was draped over a painting.

It was over, at last. The job was done.

They took a cab home. George had insisted, with a warning glance towards Lockwood and he had not objected, wanting more than anything to stop moving for a while and exist in silent darkness.

The pain did not subside. It remained stabbing through the right side of his head, making him wince, making it hard to think.

George led him through the front door of 35 Portland Row, having him sit down on the sofa in the living room. “Stay,” he told Lockwood firmly, but in a quiet voice. He had not turned on the big lights, instead having the small lamp on the shelf by the sitting area illuminate the entire room in warm yellow lighting.

“Give me your hand,” Lucy advised him, now kneeling in front of him and Lockwood wondered how scattered his mind was to be unable to tell when George had left and Lucy appeared.

He held out his hand for her numbly. She took it gently, turning it around so his wounded palm was facing up. Ah. He had entirely forgotten about that.

She set to work dressing his wound, disinfecting the cut and wrapping bandages around it. Lockwood tried to protest, wanting to argue that he could do it himself, but when he tried to form the sentence, he lost the words and had to admit to himself that he was not much use for anything in his current state. He closed his eyes, willing the darkness to elevate the pain in his skull a bit.

“How bad is it?” George asked him, voice low. He was concerned, so much was evident. Lockwood gave an uncommitted hum and opened his eyes to find George glaring at him in a nonverbal threat of ‘don’t fuck with me right now’.

Lucy rose, taking a seat next to Lockwood. “What’s going on, George?” she asked inquisitively with a glance at him.

She deserved an explanation, of course. Lockwood had become completely unreliable — a burden — on a case and put them all in danger. This could have gone terribly wrong and it would have been his fault!

“Lockwood gets headaches. He’s all snappy when he has them, but they usually don’t affect his days much. Sometimes, they’re worse, like this one,” George explained bluntly, “So answer me, Lockwood. How bad is it?” All this was delivered decisively but very quietly in George’s soft voice. He knew him too well.

“Not good,” Lockwood murmured, having no fight left to muster denial or resistance to George's inquiry. It was bad and he wanted to crawl into bed and lay there for a while until the storm in his head passed over.

George leaned back while sucking in a sharp breath. It was unusual for Lockwood to admit he was not feeling well, even less common for him to give in so easily. Less his words and more the fact of his immediate surrender spoke volumes of the pain he was in.

George nodded, mind racing through Lockwood’s usual headache remedies. “I’ll grab some water with ice,” he whispered, giving Lucy a profound look. She understood.

Lockwood muttered a small ‘thanks’ to George and sighed shakily. He turned to Lucy, looking at her through half lidded eyes in a mixture of pain and guilt. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice hushed.

Sorry for putting you in danger, sorry for not being able to help when you needed me. Sorry for being a disappointment, so sorry for not being good enough. Sorry for being incapacitated every now and again by these headaches—

The two of them did not deserve to have to deal with him in such a state. He had not wanted them to see him like this, had not wanted them to think less of him because of it.

Lucy looked at him with a slight frown. “This is not your fault, Lockwood,” she began, before cutting off, deciding this conversation should be held when he was in a clearer state of mind and in considerably less pain, “just tell us next time, alright? I hate to see you pushing yourself until you get hurt like this.”

She reached her hand out to his head slowly, fingers brushing against his temple in a feather-light touch until they moved up to his hair, stroking through it softly. Her motions against his head were so gentle, Lockwood wanted to cry at the infinite care she demonstrated to him, the consideration poured into her motions for his benefit.

“Luce,” he whispered, voice cracking with emotion. She shushed him.

“I know. It’s alright, I’m here,” she said, continuing the movements in his hair. They would continue for as long as he needed them to, Lucy was more than happy to keep him company and offer relief in any way she could.

Lockwood leaned into her touch. He could feel Lucy's dimm smile in the way she shifted closer to reach his aching head better, squirming a bit to get comfortable. I love you.

#lockwood and co angst week #lockwood and co #save lockwood and co

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moonstone27ls · 23 days

Text

Chucky season 3...

Warning...

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Spoiler warning....

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After this I'm done warning....

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I warned you.....

Sooo quite a bit happened. Some of it felt crazy, maybe it was rushed. But considering they went through a writers' strike, etc. And its Chucky in general, I kinda let some of it slide. It was still a decent season. And I'm hoping they'll give it a fourth season. Especially since it ended on a cliff hanger.

Ep 6 was pretty decent. I mostly felt sorry for Henry, poor kid was manipulated so badly and all that he saw. He's gonna need a lot of therapy.

I almost can not get over that out of all the things Chucky wanted he wanted to blow up the North Pole, just to ruin the kids belief in Santa. In fact his last words were "Fuck Santa".

Bigger picture wise (yes I know its a horror/comedy but I still have a right to nitpick 8B)... I am a LITTLE surprised that the military did not even remotely question the "President"'s orders to blow up those designations. You would think one would be "Uhh... sir why the North Pole?". I mean you'd think one person would question whats happening the moment they hear him go "Abort" later that it should been a big red flag to turn EVERYTHING off.

And also.... though its the North Pole and climate change in all.... still feel there should have been some effect from blowing up the North Pole oO;. What I dunno. I'm not a scientist but still should have done something.

Ep 7: Feel like the Underworld was a nod/or inspiration from Beetlejuice lobby scene. And I dunno if its because they're all "ghosts" still... a bit confused why Chucky's victims were there with Damballa. Since you know they assuming didn't worship him.But I enjoyed the scene still.

I really did enjoy his banter with his god. Lol Damballa's own surprise to hear he killed the President. And he's "Oh well of course I wasn't paying attention, YOU cheated on me with other gods".

Though... and yes I'm nitpicking. Chucky's other chance... Damballa said he needed to kill without a body. I thought it was already achieved when he killed the three people at the seance... but I guess Jake's killing in the next ep still counted? Or maybe that was just an ad on for "kill counts". And as confused as I am where G.G. stands (good/or villain wise). I did like the message they left their mother

Then we get onto the finale... as much as it was interesting to see world of the dead/limbo, etc (I dunno). It honestly felt a bit obvious it was a trap. Why... because as much as Jake kept stressing there was "good chucky".

That was technically brainwashing. Brainwashing that was never really proven/or even successful. Cause... they did that in what in a couple of days. That can take weeks or months, maybe years. Not to mention all the other Chuckys. I dunno don't think thats how death works. But this was probably more fun I guess.

Did enjoy Jake's scene with him forgiving his dad. Though I do feel they missed a good opportunity for him to make up with all his family. His uncle, aunt and even Junior. (cousin) Junior I think especially considering, Junior died with no resolution between his animosity with Jake. Yes, yes I know Lexy "love". Butt doesn't scrape off the kid died with issues. He murdered his father (whom he had daddy issues). He spent his last days either bullying/or hating his cousin. Whom from I can see Jake didn't hate him, it was like his dad. He just hated how he was being treated.

But oh well, maybe they couldn't reach the actors/or didn't have time.

Not entirely surprised the CIA group would bomb the house to "cover up things". Would be shocked/or sadden by the medium Timmy dying... but he was only there two eps. The impact isn't as strong/or surprising. Did enjoy Pyrce was somewhat haunted by the ghosts before he died. I dunno feels almost poetic. Though it was cute Grant saw the ghost of his father holding hands with his baby brother Joseph... felt so sad/or bittersweet.

Then there's Tiff's escape.... uhh don't get me wrong I was okay. She's practically part of Chucky's entourage. And I'm not shocked she'd get out/maybe even reunite. Its just the continual luck that baffles me. I mean again this Chucky, so I went with it. But still lol.

She was so adamant about having those dolls. Making it implied she needed them or her spells wouldn't work(though I always find it strange her "dolls" influence feelings is a stretch). But literally they all come to her without even touching them. And if its the case they're all acting odd, you'd think someone family/or staff would notice oO. And I'm not buying that a random convict is that good of a shot at killing a sniper. Lol but I guess Chucky's gotta have his kill count.

And also how DID Tiffany know to come RIGHT to Wendell's house or that he'd be there oO. Had they been talking about that plan and when? But oh well. They brought back Chuck/Tiff which I'm okay with. There aren't that many "horror" couples and I feel they just kinda fit. Like a horror verse of Dr Girlfriend/Monarch.

I admit it was cute they actually tried to make these two like normal parents. And were nostalgic about G.G and wished to hear from them.

Then we have Caroline.... guys I'll say it again I have mixed feelings with her. And I'm gonna give fair warning, this is MY observation. I know I don't speak for a whole community. This is just from what I HAVE seen and read from other commentators on such topic.

Now bigger picture. The evil kid trope is not shocking or even unheard of. Same for killer kid trope. And if done right, they become icons like Children from the Corn, Rhoda Penmark, Sadako, and Damien (young Damien). And no just to make obvious, I'm not expecting Caroline to be an automatic icon.

To explain better... its that she's been hinted to be autistic. And for that matter her automatic switch to evil while its not completely out of the blue... feels problematic. Again I am NOT autistic and I know I shouldn't get on a pedestal and rant about something I'm not a 100% familiar with. But I bring this up for one reason, (there might be others but this is the only one coming to mind) The Predator made in 2018. Several people were not fond of how the portrayal was used. Furthermore making her a killer/or would be killer felt like it was going with a bad trope/stereotype. Again this is my understanding.

Do I think Mancini did this on purpose? That he's being an ableist following a stereotype. I ... don't think so. But even good creators can make mistakes. I think for the most part... this feels bad because this came out of no where and had no development. From all acounts Caroline was a normal, sweet kid. That judging by the writing was struggling to be understood by her family.

Yes that part I got. Cause I can imagine its tough for parents with a child thats most likely autistic, while the other one isn't (Lexy). Yes she ignored some of Chucky's violent stuff. But with no REAL development you can chalk it up to she's just a kid. Orr yes they'll just go "oh she's autistic".

In all honesty her going to the "dark side" was more of a plot twist for season 2. HAD we seen actual signs or development it'd be different. Show Caroline showing a big interest in dissection or tormenting animals. Have her be actual violent. We've seen Chucky influence children. They could have done that, SHOW Chucky telling her how to think. Show her enjoying it/or even questioning before giving in. But up until then we had NOTHING.

So her abandoning her family because Chucky told. So her "thats why I never fit in" and "this is who I am now". While I don't think Mancini meant to bring a bad representation. But without real development or something. It just looks like "oh she was evil cause she's autistic". That this is who I am moment just feels like a BAD allegory for autism. Sooo.. yeah have mixed feelings on Caroline.

But all my griping aside. Thats not to say I didn't love this show. No it was still good. The effects were great, you still had feels for the First family. Anddd we still had everyone alive. And although I'm sure some were hoping we'd get Andy and Kyle. I'm okay with it. Because it means they're still alive. And thats all I want. I want the originals to still be alive. If Mancini wants them to retire and let the new kids handle evil, thats also fine. Just don't kill off the original kid heroes.

Then we have the unknownnnnn.... SEASON 4!! Will we get it? Hope so cause that was a cliffhanger and I hate cliffhangers, lol.

Is there anything I want for season 4 if its greenlighted. Uh... I dunno. I'm okay with Chucky getting away (I'm sorta use to it from watching Elm street and Jason movies). Killer dies, comes back or you get a clear hint of sequels but heroes are still alive so you can be happy.

I know there are rumors? or confirmation Mancini was given a greenlight to make another Chucky movie. But as the show, if he wants to continue it I'm all for it. I would just like one episode to have Robert Englund. Cause I heard rumors of a Freddy/Chucky crossover. And while I don't know if it'd work for a movie. I think its a great chance for a season/or at least couple of episodes. Get Englund and Dourif together before I dunno they get/or feel too old to voice the roles again. Yes I said voice, cause I can imagine 76 yearold Englund might not wanna go through that make up process again. I dunno get a double to wear it and let him voice act. Fiona did her dad's "younger self".

Keep Tiff/Chuck together. Let Andy and Kyle live. I would like to see G.G. just at best to know what are they? Evil? Good? Good but you can't poke too much cause they'll go Norman Bates on you. Let Nica... let Nica get therapy oO;;. Poor gal couldn't win this season.

I don't have much aspirations for our new gen of heroes. They're okay but most of their conflicts feel resolved (aside from cliff hanger)... so yeah I guess skip them. Though I do wanna know what they did with their bodies. For that matter Tiff's ... no Jennifer to go back to her old body... so does that mean she just died?

Figure out... what the heck do they plan to do with Caroline. The rant I just wrote aside... what is there to do? Kill her off? Send her to a home for delinquents? No seriously I dunno.

#chucky syfy #Chucky USA #chucky tv show #chucky tv series

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