#send calcium

[lupipuppi]

THE SKELETON WAR IS HERE

CALCIUM UP BROTHERS!

DRAFT TODAY!

[monsterroonio]

so if roo is bi and genderfluid... how do the others identify?

GREAT QUESTION ANON!!!! (Also very relevant considering the recent events in the fandom)

This is how I see my skeles! I assume you meant these skeles, although I do draw and do asks for others, these are my main ones. The only one who isn't gender funky is Edge, and honestly I might change that. I had some ideas for them before this ask, but this is an excuse to put it on my blog somewhere lol. Pretty much since I re-entered the fandom I've head cannoned Red to be trans masc and bi, but the others I kinda flip flop on my hcs for them. Enjoy!!!!

[boyfeminism]

my frog is calcium deficient but the vet said he overall looked healthy and okay and he was already more energetic after we got him to eat two calcium dusted crickets and i know what i was doing wrong BUT ALSO the fucker is shedding hes just having what may be a more dramatic shed than his last few but i forgot it was smthn that happens at all bc of the other strange behaviors happening. hes 100% shedding tho -_-

[dippyface]

Pleaaase. I haven't flushed my toilet since 5:30pm yesterday. it cannot be said when I last showered bc I was on a bad depression hygiene run before my water went out. it's becoming a crime against humanity in here.

[moonstruckme]

Can I request whimsical!reader and Sirius Black?? Or maybe poly!marauders but I just feel like Sirius would be so whipped for his quirky girl and join in on whatever shenanigans she starts 🫶

Sooo right babe, thanks for requesting :)

poly!marauders x whimsical!reader ♡ 878 words

“Darling,” Sirius keeps his voice quiet as he slinks down into the armchair. “What are you doing?” 

You look up from where you’re knelt beside the couch, bent ominously over James’ sleeping form. He’s out cold, his glasses discarded and placed carefully on the coffee table by Remus. James is a hard sleeper on a good day, but when he’s sick even the apocalypse couldn’t wake him. His breath wheezes noisily in and out through clogged nostrils. 

“I’m cleansing him,” you whisper. 

“With rocks.” 

You send your boyfriend a smile, well used to his ragging. “With crystals,” you correct him softly, placing another on James’ sternum. 

Sirius sits forward curiously. “What do they do?” he asks.

“Different things.” 

When you don’t seem inclined to go on, he reaches forward to poke at your shoulder. You sway placidly like a ship on calm waters. “Like?” he prompts. 

You hum, taking a smooth, green rock from your pouch. “Well,” you say, “this one is jade. It helps with headaches.” You place it gingerly on James’ forehead. 

“I see.” Sirius nods thoughtfully. “And what’s that blue one?” 

“It’s to help support his immune system.” 

“Uh huh. So you’re trying to heal him, is that it?” 

You consider this for a moment. “Sort of,” you say. “More like help his body heal itself.” 

Sirius grins at your breezy kindheartedness and slides down onto his knees beside you. “That’s sweet, baby.” He kisses your cheek, delighting when it dimples. “Can I help?” 

“Sure,” you say, looking pleased, “if you want to.” 

You move your little pouch so it sits between the two of you. Sirius brushes a piece of hair behind his ear, considering the stones inside. He picks up a cool-looking black and red one. 

“What’s this?” 

You glance over from where you’re setting another crystal on James’ chest. “Garnet,” you tell him. 

“And what’s it help with?” 

“Calcium deficiency.” 

Sirius guffaws. He covers his mouth with his hand when Remus pokes his head out of the kitchen, looking suspicious. 

“You think our boy’s fallen ill because he’s low in calcium?” he whispers. 

You shrug, scrunching your nose in that silly way you do when you don’t get why he’s laughing. “I guess I thought it couldn’t hurt.” 

“What are you two doing?” Remus asks, coming over with his arms crossed to lean against the wall. His voice is cautiously quiet. 

Sirius leaves you in charge of fielding questions while he dedicates himself to carefully balancing the garnet crystal on the point of James’ nose. His knuckles brush his boyfriend’s overwarm cheek as he retracts his hand, grinning at his work. He wonders if he can get one in his mouth without waking him. 

“We’re using crystals to help Jamie get better,” you explain, voice light as thistledown. “Siri, love, you can’t put it there. It’ll fall.” 

To his disappointment, you take the stone from James’ nose and place it between his collarbones. When Sirius pouts, you dig in the pouch to hand him another. 

“Here, try again.” 

“No.” Remus recognizes the glint in Sirius’ eyes and steps forward to snatch the stone from him. “Don’t enable him, sweetheart,” he tells you. “He’s just playing around.” 

You seem unconcerned, leaving Remus to deal with Sirius as he sees fit while you continue your healing rituals. 

“Excuse me for trying to help our sick boyfriend,” Sirius protests. 

“She’s trying to help,” Remus says sternly. “You’re just going to wake him.” 

“He could sleep through a tornado.” 

“He’s ill, Pads. Leave him be.” 

“Sorry, Jamie,” your voice comes, soft and sympathetic. Remus and Sirius both turn. “How are you feeling?” 

“Wha…” James clears his throat, then sniffles thickly. “What’s on me?” 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you say. Your hand comes up to stroke at the damp curls lying across his forehead. “Do you feel calcium sufficient?” 

“What?” 

“The answer is yes,” Sirius helps him out. “Yes, you do feel calcium sufficient.” 

“I suppose so.” Crystals fall from James’ face as he sits up on his elbows, rubbing at his cheek. 

“I’m sorry we woke you,” Remus murmurs, crouching by James face and beginning to take crystals off his chest. You look slightly put out, but you don’t protest. Sirius kisses the side of your head consolingly. “How are you feeling, love?” 

“Properly stuffed up.” He inhales sharply through his nose, and Sirius feels his mouth twist at the ugly snuffling sound. “A bit better than when I fell asleep, though.” 

Remus and Sirius both look at you. Your smile spreads like a slow sunrise, the tops of your cheeks turning a pleased pink. Sirius’ heart does an embarrassing little dance. He takes your hand, stamping a kiss on the back of your palm. 

“Do you feel like some tea?” Remus asks James, his own lips curved slightly. 

“That sounds fantastic,” James admits. 

Remus smiles over at you. “Want to help me make it?” 

You hop up eagerly. “I can go get some thyme from the garden,” you say, headed for the back door. “It’s good for respiratory issues.” 

James makes a face and Remus takes you by the shoulders, gently redirecting you towards the kitchen. “Maybe just a regular tea for now, sweetheart,” he says. “But we can definitely try that later.”

[shonen-brainrot]

Dragon!Kirishima, who is a huge dragon with fiery red scales that gleam brilliantly. Crowned with two razor-sharp horns, he boasts a majestic golden-red mane that billows in the wind as he soars through the skies, his massive wings casting an impressive shadow below.

Dragon!Kirishima, who is a fire dragon. When faced with a threat or an intruder trespassing on his territory, he doesn't hesitate to unleash torrents of scorching flames, leaving behind a searing trail.

Dragon!Kirishima, with an affinity for all things shiny and golden, shares the common dragon love for richness. His lair is adorned with numerous trophies and trinkets, golden coins and goblets, jewelry, gold bars and many, many more.

Dragon!Kirishima, who is all about rhubarb and figs. Every dragon craves heaps of calcium, and it comes from different sources.

Dragon!Kirishima, who experiences intense heats, making it hard for him to think straight, with his mind consumed by the overwhelming desire to relieve himself in any way possible.

Dragon!Kirishima, who's finding amusement as you navigate lost in his territory, initially contemplates swift retribution. However, upon catching a whiff of your sweet and intoxicating scent, he has a change of heart, opting for a more intriguing course of action.

Dragon!Kirishima, who waits until you enter his den before revealing his massive presence. Amused by your initial screams, he reassures you that he won't harm you and offers a deal – your assistance in helping him get off in exchange for your safety.

Dragon!Kirishima, who, beneath his impeccably sculpted strong abdomen, has not one, but two cocks. Both of his impressive cocks boast extraordinary length, a substantial girth, and a mesmerizing gradient of coloration. Starting with a striking crimson hue near his pelvis, the tones gradually transform into a captivating shade of gold at their tips.

Dragon!Kirishima, who keenly observes as you tentatively discard your garments. In a swift and deliberate motion, his forked, serpentine tongue envelops the entirety of your pussy, earning him a chorus of sweet moans from your lips. The sensation of your exquisite flavor cascading over his tongue sends waves of wild passion coursing through him.

Dragon!Kirishima, who guides you through a series of climaxes with the adept use of his to gue and muzzle. The relentless waves of pleasure leave you thoroughly drenched, creating an ideal state for accommodating one of his impressive cocks.

Dragon!Kirishima, who, once you're wet enough, confidently seizes the opportunity to simultaneously fill both of your eager holes with his cocks. Witnessing you completely engulfed by him ignites a primal surge of satisfaction within the dragon.

Dragon!Kirishima, who fucks you in a forceful, hard rhythm, thrusting into you with primal, guttural sounds escaping his muzzle.

Dragon!Kirishima, who's nearly pushed over the edge by the symphony of your sweet pleas and desperate cries, as you express your inability to last any more.

Dragon!Kirishima, who's unleashing his runny, golden cum in a series of at least a few robust spurts, roaring loudly, praising you for taking both of his cock so well.

Dragon!Kirishima, who, having reached his peak, insists on keeping you close, sprawled on his massive, scaled paws. He watches you breathing heavily, pressing his sizable muzzle against your abdomen, savoring the lingering scent of your slick wetness and of the sex you just had, still hanging in the air.

Dragon!Kirishima, who's confident in his allure, and knows you'll return for more. After a bit of post-coital cuddling, he fulfills his promise and allows you to depart from his den, fully aware that you'll be irresistibly drawn back to him.

Dragon!Kirishima, who's deeming you his mate, luxuriously spoils you with furs, trinkets, and jewelry. Whatever you desire, simply ask, and it's yours.

Dragon!Kirishima, who has a little secret he hasn't revealed yet - a human form tucked away. He decided to keep that tantalizing mystery for himself just a bit longer.

these headcanons were requested by my lovely mutual @crystalwolfblog ilysm ❤️

[tinydefector]

Cybertronian Drinks and Food

So wanted to try and make a little interactive thing for y'all to send in as request. I'm sure you guys have seen this piece I've made for some of the Energon and Minerals the Transformers consume. Send in to my ask box

So I'm giving you guys the power to send in different things from this list to be made into energon drink art. Or edibles of a sort.

Energon and Fuels

Dark Energon

Synthetic Energon

Tox-En

Red Energon

engex

High grade

Energon wine

Energon Z

Natural Energon

Pure energon

Biofuel

super energon

Energon rod

EnerGULP

Diesel

unleaded petrol

95-octane

E10

E85 - flex-fuel

Jet A and Jet A1 Jet B

JET-A, JP5, JP8

LH2/LOX

RP-1/LOX

kerosene

LSFO

Oil

Minerals, Crystal's and Chemicals    

Petroleum

Hydrogen

Copper

Aluminium

Titanium

Lead

Tin

Nickel

Gold

Zinc

Magnesium

Cobalt

Tungsten

Platinum

Chromium

Silver

Manganese

Sodium

Beryllium

Vanadium

Molybdenum

Palladium

Uranium

Zirconium

Bismuth

Cadmium

Mercury

Hafnium

Lanthanum

Niobium

Rhodium

Scandium

Tantalum

Yttrium

Cerium

Plutonium

Lithium

Neptunium

Meitnerium

Seaborgium

Dubnium

Francium

Gallium

Indium

Potassium

Rubidium

Strontium

Thallium

Barium

Calcium

Cesium

Calcite

Pyrite

Copper

Quartz

Benitoite

Diamond

Fluorite

Galena

Garnet

Gold

Oxide

Sulfides

Gypsum

Halite

Phosphates

Sulfates

Carbonates

Iron

__________

Let me know if you would like to be added to tag list (tagged for every fic)

Taglist

@angelxcvxc

@saturnhas82moons

@kgonbeiden

@murkyponds

@autobot79

@buddee

@bubblyjoonjoon

@chaihena

@pyreemo

@lovenotcomputed

@mskenway97

@delectableworm

@cheesecaketyrant

@ladyofnegativity

@desertrosesmetaldune

@stellasfallow

@coffee-or-hot-cocoa

@shinseiokami

@tea-loving-frog

@aquaioart

@daniel-meyer-03

@pupap123

@dannyaleksis

@averysillylittlefellow

@wosemoose1

[tightwadspoonies]

The 7-Item Cleaning Kit

So you need to clean your dwelling, and you don't have the resources to buy a cleaner for every occasion.

Well have I got a post for you!

Basically all household cleaning can be done with 6 items and water. And those items are fairly inexpensive.

Rags. Don't buy these. Any piece of cloth you were going to throw away/donate will do. Cut it into manageable sizes and use sewing or fabric glue to make a small hem around the outside. You can wash them in the same load of laundry as everything else (pre-treat very oily rags with soap and water) Scrap paper (paper bags, newsprint, etc...) will work for really dirty things you don't want to wash. Keep a pile going.

Water. Water is a nearly-universal solvent. It won't work on oil, wax, metal scratches on porcelain, or calcium buildup, but it will work pretty much alone (or with a rag and some elbow grease) on everyday dirt.

Soap. If water doesn't work alone, soap and water together usually will. A good rule of thumb is one part soap, one part water, and one part whatever you're trying to dissolve. The only things soap and water won't work on are those metal scratches and calcium buildup.

Melamine Sponge. What will work on metal scratches and calcium buildup without damaging porcelain, you ask? Melamine sponges. That's the generic for a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser and let me tell you they're dirt cheap if you buy non-brand-name.

Broom and Dustpan. These are two things technically I guess but they usually come purchased as one. This will do general duty to sweep your floors, dust your walls and ceilings, and when you tie a large rag to the broom, damp mop too.

Medium or Hard Bristle Brush. This one is useful for loosening caked-on dirt on your floors and upholstery, and getting into tight spaces you can't with a rag.

Blade or Scraper. This can be an old credit card or a razor blade. This is for getting the bulk of gum, wax, mildew, stickers, or other hard-to-clean goo off of things.

Have questions about how to use these items for a specific cleaning project? Send an ask to @tightwadspoonies!

[enarratives]

Elemental Haiku by Mary Soon Lee

Hydrogen | Hydrogen | Helium | Lithium | Beryllium | Boron | Carbon | Nitrogen | Oxygen | Oxygen | Fluorine | Neon | Neon | Sodium | Magnesium | Magnesium | Aluminum | Silicon | Phosphorus | Sulphur | Chlorine | Argon | Potassium | Potassium | Calcium | Scandium | Titanium | Titanium | Vanadium | Chromium | Chromium | Manganese | Iron | Cobalt | Nickel | Copper | Zinc

Gallium | Germanium | Germanium | Arsenic | Selenium | Bromine | Krypton | Rubidium | Strontium | Yttrium | Zirconium | Niobium | Molybdenum | Technetium | Ruthenium | Rhodium | Palladium | Silver | Cadmium | Indium | Tin | Antimony | Tellurium | Iodine | Xenon | Caesium | Barium | Lanthanum | Cerium | Praseodymium | Neodymium

Promethium | Samarium | Europium | Gadolinium | Terbium | Dysprosium | Holmium | Erbium | Thulium | Ytterbium | Lutetium | Hafnium | Tantalum | Tungsten | Rhenium | Osmium | Iridium | Platinum | Gold | Mercury | Mercury | Thallium | Lead | Bismuth | Polonium | Astatine | Radon | Francium | Radium | Actinium | Thorium

Protactinium | Uranium | Neptunium | Plutonium | Americium | Curium | Berkelium | Californium | Einsteinium | Fermium | Mendelevium | Nobelium | Lawrencium | Rutherfordium | Dubnium | Seaborgium | Bohrium | Hassium | Meitnerium | Darmstadtium | Roentgenium | Copernicium | Nihonium | Flerovium | Moscovium | Moscovium | Livermorium | Tennessine | Tennessine | Oganesson | Ununennium

As inspired by @simmyfrobby's project, celebrate Worlds this year with a collaborative edit project! Share your favourite narrative or pro player with the rest of the lolesportsblr and maybe make a new friend or two.

To join in:

1. Select a haiku and a player or lolesports moment 2. Find photos that correlate to each line 3. Create four panels (photopea, GIMP, Canva or google slides are free to use if you don't have something like Photoshop) 4. Tag or send your post to @enarratives or tag with #lolelements

[nuttytani]

Oh no! My suicidal big tiddies man got isekai'd

fandom: honkai star rail

characters: blade and gender neutral reader

tw: none except- maybe not proof read?

a/n: a silly birthday gift for my lovely friend here @tsubaki3192

It was currently 2 AM and you have been playing video games for hours now. Looking at the time made you instinctively yawn and stretch those stiff arms. You were interrupted by a strange gurgling sound coming from somewhere…. Actually, it was just you and your hungry tummy. Since it was super late to cook anything (and risky because it might wake up the entire house), you quickly sneaked into the kitchen and rummaged through the fridge.

There were no leftovers. Just some sauce bottles, pickles, butter and milk. The fridge was positively empty of any food. There wasn’t even bread. What were you going to do with sauce and pickles? That didn’t sound appetising at all.

“Awe… There’s nothing,” you said while closing the fridge. Then you opened it again and finally grabbed that milk. That was your only hope.

At least it’s good for my bones, calcium and shit yeah?

Your legs and particularly knees have been creaky and making weird popping noises recently. Maybe those bones might be thanking you for the milk. Chuckling to your silly thoughts, you head back to your room, with a cup of milk and proceed to turn your computer off.

A weird green horizontal line appeared on your screen and your wallpaper surrounding that line turned pixelated. The speaker connected to your computer emitted creepy static-y noises like those really old radio. Something was not right and that something would land you in shit because this wasn’t some cheap ol’ computer. You painstakingly saved up for this bad boy after hours of part time jobs here and there while also struggling with your uni life. The model wasn’t anything new but it was good enough for you and it was your baby. That very baby was dying in front of you. You needed to fix it.  You instantly scrambled back into your chair and tried to check for cables. Maybe some cables were loose. Before you could even touch a wire, the entire screen turned green and turned black. The static noises stopped as well.

“Well… Guess I’m doomed.” You slide your hands down your face and slump down like that Shinji in a chair meme. If this was some horror story though this would be the perfect timing for a hacker or weird murderer to send a message like “I see you” or something of the sort. Actually, what if some weirdo dark web hacker was onto you and wanted to kill you for whatever reason?

Okay, that’s it. This was sleep deprivation talking. You need sleep. Like right now. There’s no hacker that wanted to murder you, it’s probably the lack of sleep frying your brain cells. You were a normal college student, trying to survive in this cutthroat dog-eats-dog world. Even if something does happen, it won't happen to you. Well, your computer dying aside…. NPCs such as yourself don’t get “fun privileges”.

That’s what you thought about 5 minutes ago when you didn’t have a razor-sharp blade pointed at your eye and you laid in your bed wondering what wrongs you committed in your past life that was happening to you. Did you steal a priest's robe? Did you offend some god by swearing at them? Fuck you past life self.

The person holding the sword was still hunched over you and didn’t move their sword. Not even a single centimetre. One wrong movement and you could lose your lovely sight once and for all!

“What is this place and who are you?” asked the person. Judging by their deep voice they were probably a man. They sounded really familiar. You squinted your eyes at the person. Hmmm, bluish-black hair, red highlights… He had some… Real nice assets... Meaning nicely shaped tits…. Hmmm.

“W-what are you doing!” the person raised their voice in surprise and took a step back.

Oh, they must have noticed you ogling. Was it that obvious? You keep staring at their assets because who knows when you’ll have the chance next time? And then your attention finally falls on his sword, it was a deep black that slowly turned into red towards the end and the shaft of the sword had golden crack patterns, you assumed it’s kintsugi.

Wait hold up, that sword looked too familiar. You have seen that many times.

“Holy shit! Are you Blade? Like the Stellaron Hunter Blade?” you exclaimed at the person.

“....Yes. Don’t you dare call the IPC. Or you will face my sword.”

“Well, I’ve been facing your sword for 10 minutes now…. Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m talking to THE Blade. One and only Blade. Like actually from Honkai Star Rail? Who is basically lovers to enemies with Dan Heng? Can I touch you? Actually, I always thought your hair was pretty, can I please braid it?”

Blade was speechless and looked like a fish out of water and slowly sheathed his sword.

“Am I dreaming right now or is this what you call a sleep-deprived hallucination… I can’t tell.”

You were met with silence… He didn’t reply.

“I guess it’s a hallucination. ‘Mkay, goodnight, Mr. Dream-slash-hallucination-Blade.”

Just like that you slumped back into your bed, closed your eyes and snoozed.

.

Blade was left terribly confused.

Well, he was a Stellaron Hunter, you should be scared for your life. He kills people for a living. Most people would just have one glimpse of him and go running down the hill while screaming for their lives. But you didn’t? Even when you knew his identity? And his not-widely-known relationship with Dan Heng?

Clearly, you didn’t see him as a threat. He also noticed the way your eyes lingered around his chest.

Silver Wolf did say that he had “some big tiddies” for a man. Whatever that meant. And he’s currently stuck in this room. He had no idea how he ended up here. Just that he was speaking with Kafka about their latest “script” and the details given by Elio. And poof. Some strange glitch happened, and he ended up here. In this tiny room. A huge mess of a room. It was devastating to look at. The desk was covered with stacks of unorganised documents and some random trashy novels. There were also a few strange items that looked nearly identical to him… he tries to recall Silver Wolf’s terminology sessions… Merch? Clothes were all thrown over the office chair like it was some cover.  And the bookshelf was a wreck. An absolute wreck. He could even see how your closet wasn’t even fully closed! How many things were just packed in there?

Looking at the room triggered his migraine. He needed to do something about the state of this room, as soon as possible. Since he basically had nothing to do, he decided to clean stuff up. He organised your shelf– the books were in the order of the genre as well as the titles. He folded and hung your clothes and lined them up according to colour, as well as length. Cleaned up your desk, put away your documents into your drawer, hung up the merch on your cork display, vacuumed and mopped your floors and everything else that he noticed that was out of place.

By the time he was done it was already morning.

.

The birds were shining– no, hold up, that’s wrong, it was supposed to be the sun was shining. Yeah so, the sun was shining! The birds were singing! But why was your favourite game character in the flesh, right in front of you. Were you still dreaming? That’s impossible. You were definitely 100% awake. So you decided to simply stare at the video game character, who was acting like a total malewife cleaning your room. Your mind quickly flashed a Pikachu surprised face at the scene. You were sure that your face was looking like that too.

After what felt like an eternity of staring, you finally spoke, “So you’re real….?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Blade replied in a deadpan voice and a straight face.

Ok so he was real. That was established. Here’s the issue though. How were you going to keep a used-to-be-a-bunch-of-pixels-but-isn’t-anymore man in your room and your house? How were you going to explain this strange man being present in your room overnight to your family? Although you loved your suicidal big tiddies, man…. He needed to go. All those isekai stories and novels you read never talked about what to do when a fictional man just poofs into your house that you share with your family. How does one handle the situation? Someone better make a novel on this now… How does anyone even expect to cope with something like this? What to do now?

You muttered under your breath while thinking and paced around the room like a manic and started, “Should I hide you under the bed? No, you’re too huge for that. My closet doesn't have enough space for you either…. Oh, maybe you can hide in the bushes? Like jump out of my window and stay in there… for some time till I call for you.”

Blade motioned to you to shut up. Fair enough. You guess you were being too loud. Suicidal man needed some quiet time, you supposed.

“No need, I can simply do this.” Blade snapped his finger and he disappeared into thin air. There was another snapping sound, and he came back.

“This is a high-tech feature made by the Stellaron hunters that helps us to appear as if we’ve become transparent,” Blade explained.

“Cool. You should have just told me that sooner.”

And that is how your daily life with the suicidal big tiddies man started. Well it started-ish. He needed to go back to his universe but he said that the Stellaron Hunting could wait. Blade decided that he was on a paid vacation. Thankfully he could still converse with his colleagues, and they were figuring out how to get him back, although they assured you and Blade both that it wouldn’t be a difficult task except it might take a few months till Blade could reunite with the Stellaron Hunters. In the meantime, however, you were tasked to take care of Blade by Kafka and Silver Wolf. 

You and Blade had lots of fun, or at least you think he did. Every day was like a sleepover. Having facials and putting on face masks on each other while watching movies. Or playing some multiplayer games. Blade sucked at gaming, so you had to teach him a bit. You also read him trashy romance novels and even some funny fanfics to him. One day you two even went out to go shopping for some clothes because your big tiddies man could not wear the same pair of clothes every day. Plus, he needed some variety and those cowboy jeans needed to go. Immediately. He looked funny with them on, and no one wore bell bottom jeans in this era.

Though Blade was very sad to part from his fanservice clothes, he fell in love with hoodies and sweatpants. He said they were soft and comfortable to wear. He also wore his hair in a high ponytail or a low bun to blend in with others. You suggested him to get his hair trimmed but he didn’t like that suggestion at all. Blade even gave you a nasty glare for that.

Meanwhile, your family thought you were getting too lonely because they kept hearing you talk to yourself or “someone”. They tried to gently poke you about it every now and then since they were concerned for your mental health, but you would always brush them off.

Recently they saw you holding hands with thin air. Your family definitely knew something was going on now. They even considered calling an exorcist because that was so weird. They even heard a man’s voice speak.

That’s a whole different story though. Maybe for another time!

Until then, Fin <3.

a/n: yeah this was very crack and not serious lol.

here's my taglist if you ever wanna get notified about my fic/hc posts!

[devotion-disorder]

Heya! this is the intro post!

About this blog:

this is where i post about yandere content which usually consists of my ocs and other cool stuff out there!

there is NSFW + dark content (mostly noncon/dubcon/cnc) so follow at your discretion and MINORS / AGELESS BLOGS PLEASE DNI!! or else you will be blocked.

Commission info here!!

feel free to send asks!! I dont bite :D

my main is @i-have-no-calcium because im dumb and didn’t think this through LMAO so follows will be from this blog -u-

Navigation:

✦ #my art — my drawins... or #sillydoods for doodles that are too silly to be in the art tag lol

✦#yandere oc — my silly ocs! or their individual tags: ✦ #Noel posting ☆ #Kuuya posting ☆ #Killian posting ✦ #elf fever hours — my recent descent into elf-related debauchery

✦ #ask — watch me come up with a silly dumb response for everything!

✦ #text  — my rambles and incoherent thoughts!

✦ #art reblog  — other people’s amazing art! check em out!! NOW.

✦ #devotion.irl — gaze upon my physical form. if you dare.

Info about me (😳) under the cut:

Im Audrey! or Devo, if thats easier to remember :p

my pronouns are she/they! 

20 y.o. loser college student that doesnt go outside enough. if i ever stop being as active its probably cause college is beating my ass into the ground again

bisaxual........................ 👍💗💜💙

my zodiacs are Sagittarius sun, Capricorn Rising and Cancer moon :)

ive been told by my irls that apparently im applejack-coded. i dont watch mlp so i dont really know what that means but you can do with that what you will

I’m suuuuper shy both irl and online so I’m sorry that im not the best at interacting/ answering asks TT but im trying to get better at it!! I’d be very happy if you sent anything regardless and i’ll try my best to get to them!

thank you for reading up to this point ^_^ have a nice one! mwah 

[hexcia]

CALCIUM CAT TURNED OFF REBLOGS SEND THIS IN HER ASKS AND SUBMISSIONS

[melit0n]

Miasma

- Synopsis: In the halls of the Palais Garnier, a ghost holds a grasp on the minds of almost all those who enter. A ghost, a creature of the imagination of the artists, the superstition of the managers, or, perhaps, a product of the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet, their mothers, the box-keepers, the cloakroom attendants, or the concierge.

In the glory of the golden auditorium, the burn of his eyes can be easily mistaken for the glare of the calcium lights.

- Oneshot

- Stalker Phantom/Reader

- Word Count: 5.2K

- Warnings: None

- Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50298724

Gracefully, your feet move in carefully practised synchronicity with the fellow members of the soloists, different shades of expensive tulle twirling in time with the orchestra. You were nearing the end of the final, full run-through rehearsal for to morrow's show; a new production long awaited to be displayed to the public.

The choreography was tiring, yet not the worst you had ever done: the repetitive, five to ten hours of practice each day with a ballet master who was unwilling to take anything but utter perfection brought more ache to your muscles than completing your role in the show itself. Yet, even with tired, overworked calves, you continued to strive for the grace and refinement that your teacher had forged into your very bones.

The surge of the orchestra reverberates in your chest, adrenaline habitually coursing through your veins, practice or live show aside. Despite the seemingly endless hours you had spent practising this piece, you still had the innate fear–whispering in the back of your mind–of tripping over your own feet and falling. Or, even worse, crashing into one of the other fast-moving girls, subsequently earning a condescending reprimanding from the ballet master. 

Nothing but perfection. Something hard to achieve with bruised ankles and lungs constricted within a too-tight corset. 

Even with the distinct lack of a large, judgemental audience, the sting of observant eyes burns into your figure. Being a ballet dancer in a prestigious company, with delicately crafted productions showing to the public almost every other day, you were used to the stare of thousands on your figure. 

This, however, was different.

It was an almost eerie sensation; an uncomfortable tingle raising goose-flesh on the back of your neck.

Covertly, you scour the darkened auditorium. In between fast moving limbs, the blurred faces of the orchestra and your fellow dancers, you find nothing but the bright red velour of the thousands of seats and the rich gold of the engraved private boxes. 

You would have left the odd feeling to be the result of nerves, or the watching eyes of the stage director, or even members of the chorus, yet it felt unrelenting. Eyes somehow managing to stay trained on your figure and your figure alone, even through the organised flutter of tulle.

As you pirouette, however, you catch the stare of one of the violin players, shrouded in darkness within the cavity of the pit. 

Ah.

Augustine would laugh at me for my paranoia, you think to yourself.

Regardless, the swell of the orchestra sends a strain through your legs; your muscles pulled taught in anticipation of finally finishing for the day, if not to only repeat it the next.

Finally, the woodwind and strings grow louder, along with the leading soprano, and bring the piece to a finish. You flourish your legs outwards in an arabesque, holding yourself delicately on the tips of your ballet shoes, careful not to wobble. 

Careful not to be considered anything less than perfection. 

Simultaneously, you flinch slightly as the sound of ripping fabric meets your ears.

You can feel the beads of sweat running down your back, soaking into the itchy fabric of your costume. Chest heaving, you hold your position for a few moments before a loud, happy applause erupts from the observers of the final rehearsal. Gracefully, the leading lady bows as members of the chorus and corps de ballet surround her; congratulating her on reaching her notes, as if that wasn’t what she had trained tirelessly her whole life to be able to do.

The glare of the calcium lights burns. 

Eventually, the stage director himself praises your group and, as it has finally struck six pm, calls for the members of the ballet, the chorus members, the orchestra and the leading actors to part and leave for home. You walk, tiredly, off stage right, rubbing the back of your neck. 

You avoid the eyes of the violin player, trying to catch your gaze yet again. 

Squinting in the gloom, you find a large rip on the back of your costume’s bodice. You scowl as you run your hands over the ripped threads, nails plucking the strings of fibre like those of a harp.

A careful hand finds your shoulder, and you look up to see your friend; Augustine. Happily, you smile at her, her clean white teeth smiling back while she tilts her head in question at you. You stand straight and state, annoyed, “My bodice ripped.”

“Good riddance.” She replies sarcastically.

“For the amount of funding the costume department receives, I would have hoped they would make one of the main pieces of our costume more durable-”

“-And less itchy.”

“And less itchy.” You agree. “The costumers are not the ones dancing in those for two hours,” You sigh out as you run your hands over your bodice again, feeling the threads of the expensive fabric and praying, quietly, that the costumers would not ask for payment in fixing it. Considering how close you were to the official show, you have no doubt they’ll be annoyed that you somehow managed to rip it. 

Augustine laughs joyfully at your expense, saying, “Perhaps you should send an official complaint to the costume department, or even-” You huff loudly, already knowing what she was about to suggest, “-The Opera Ghost himself! He’d be sure to scare the costumers into submission, no?”

Laughing tiredly at her jokes, you continue to walk backstage, cautiously avoiding the moving scene–directed by the shouting stagehands above–and passing by your fellow actors. Each are either gossiping, rubbing their fatigued muscles or talking amorously with the sweating stagehands. Though, it is mainly the younger girls trying their luck with the older men. 

“I don’t think I’ve been so tired in my life,” Augustine mumbles.

“Perhaps you are getting old?” You joke back.

“Don’t you even start!” She nudges you harshly in the side, smiling, while you cry out in faux pain. “I don’t think I’ll even be able to walk home. God above knows if I’ll be able to move after I’ve gotten into bed.”

“I wonder if you will fall asleep in our booth after dinner?” You jest. You both had a ritual of going out to dinner, trying a new restaurant for each occasion, the day before performing a new show. While you saw each other every day, you both found it to be a pleasant way to unwind after practice. 

“If I am to afford new ballet shoes and my rent, I think I may have to give dinner itself up for a few weeks.” She smiles a tired smile, one that does not reach her eyes.

“Do not speak so, Augustine. I’ve told you once and I’ll tell you again, if you ever need help with your finances,” You place your hand on her shoulder, “Just say so, and I will be there to aid you.”

You both pause in your walking, and she looks at you with lapis-like hues as she speaks, “I could not–would not–burden you so.” You open your mouth to reprove, but she begins speaking again, “Yet, I appreciate your offer.”

Raising an eyebrow at her, you pat her shoulder empathetically as you intertwine your hands. You walk further into the ever moving and humming guts of the theatre, squeezing up stairs too thin and creaky to be safe and down darkened corridors only illuminated by the dim gleam of the oil lamps not yet put out for the evening. 

Oddly, with each dim hallway you pass, goose-flesh seems to arrive on the back of your neck. As you did during your performance, you chalk it up to a member of the ballet, or the orchestra, silently vying for your attention. That, or perhaps an unfelt draft coming from the cellars.

Now, hidden away from the burn of the calcium lights, your practised facade of expected neatness slowly unfurls. You gently pull out the hair pins keeping your hair in tight buns, wisp like strands following. The tight ribbons that keep your shoes together are also loosened, allowing your feet to finally breathe. Augustine’s are quickly falling apart and, while it wasn’t usual to have them replaced frequently, the price had increased dramatically in the past months. You expect all your fellow dancers–at least those without donations–were beginning to struggle to come up with the money. 

As you do so, many people meander past you; male members of the chorus with bottles of liquor in their hands, hopeful, seasoned members of the corps de ballet, as well as your fellow soloists, and stagehands unhappy with their pay alike.

“What do you intend to do with this month's payment?” You ask, in an attempt to begin conversation again.

“A new-” Augustine begins.

“-Other than the new pair of ballet shoes.” 

She glares at you, half annoyed and half entertained; “A restock of oil and new candles, most likely. Perhaps a new sewing kit. What of you?”

You shrug. “I expect something similar; a restock of oil and possibly some soaps.” She nods, understandably, at your decision.

As you turn past another unlit hallway, your goose flesh arises on your arms now, and you quickly glance over your shoulder to look for anyone in particular, perhaps that violinist. Yet, you find no one. No one but the average crowd of gossiping dancers. 

“Y/N? Are you well?” Augustine stops and looks over her shoulder at you. “Are you looking for someone?” She squints into the crowd along with you, searching the different heads for who you may have been looking at.

“No, I apologise, I just…had an odd feeling.” Augustine looks at you incredulously, before a sly grin makes its way onto her pretty face. 

“Hm…mayhap The Phantom is eyeing you from the shadows…” She shrouds her accent with an ominous tone, the same tone the stagehands place upon themselves when telling ghost stories to the younger chorus members.

“Don’t-”

“-Eyeing his next victim-”

“-Agustine!” You begin to laugh.

“-Waiting for the perfect moment to drag you down into his cellars and make you a part of his bone collection!” She grabs you by your shoulders and shakes you vigorously as you laugh heartily; relieved of your paranoia by her jesting. Easily enticed with mention of the renowned Phantom, some members of the chorus walking past let out a nervous laugh. Expectantly, some even linger or slow their gait to listen in on any gossip about the local ghost. 

Still laughing, your chest aching with both the strain of your corset and the joy flooding out of your mouth, you finally reach one of the many dressing rooms. Your pace had been slowed talking to Augustine, so you find it already full of the other female chorus members and soloists; some already changed, others half nude. 

The dressing room was made of dark, shined oak, and was lit in a lamp-light glow, fire-formed rays spreading like spring petals upon the peeling, ivory-coloured wallpaper of the walls. Multiple wall-length mirrors hang upon them, the glass of them scratched and worn with time and bristling skirts. It’s spartan in comparison to the official, commonplace elegance afforded to a select few of the principal dancers, let alone the dressing rooms of the main actors, yet, it's a comforting place of shared fatigue and tired conversation.

However, once, you visited one of the secondary operatic vocalists in her room, invited to share tea and gossip as she had taken a liking to you. While the only thing she had need to do there was change and perhaps receive the occasional public visitor, she was provided a room that oozed refinement and grandeur. 

The warm lodging contained an intricately designed pier glass, a sofa, a dressing table and a cupboard or two. Along with an astounding number of fresh bouquets, a second floor length mirror lay on the far left. The walls themselves were covered in delicate, floral wallpaper and accented by odd art pieces that appeared to be original.

You’d later learn that while she deeply enjoyed the attention of her older patrons, she tended to take a liking to artists.

Overall, it matched perfectly with the marble palisade that was the Théâtre National de l'Opéra. A complete juxtaposition of the sparse changing rooms you now currently stand in.

Different shades of hats were sat, as per usual, on dress hangers, as well as dull evening dresses. The more expensive, elaborate dresses with long trains were usually kept tucked away until show night, when rich patrons–ring-bearing or not–usually paid visits to the female members of the chorus and troupe of ballerinas.

Reaching your designated changing area, where your own evening dress lay folded neatly upon the wooden bench, you began to converse with Augustine yet again.

“Are you sure you won't join me for dinner this eve?”

Sympathetically, she watches your form from the corner of her eye as she slips out of her costume, reaching around to finally undo her corset, “I am sure, I apologise, you know what it’s like-”

“-Do not apologise.” You sigh deeply as you undo your own corset, letting the warm air of the dressing room fill your lungs. “I will not berate you for wishing to save some extra money.” 

She gifts another warm smile in your direction, before averting her eyes, almost shyly, away from your partly naked form. Aimlessly, she begins to chatter to you about the ache in her calves, and how she believes she’s found yet another ‘life-saving’ treatment for her damaged muscles. Your conversation filters in with the rest of the conversations that flows around the small room, and, half listening to Augustine, you pick up on some of the other’s words. 

In the left corner, a group of girls surround one of the newer members of the troupe of ballerinas, chatting to her with large grins placed delicately on their rosy faces. You spy the glint of gold and the glint of some sort of large gem on her ring finger.

Lucky, you think to yourself, beginning to pull on your chemise and stockings.

In another corner, there are whispered nothings between two girls, one you know to be a young woman named Blanche; a tall thing with peachy skin and hair the colour of a golden sunrise, almost always kept in a tight plat. She looks at the shorter girl, half-dressed, next to her with the same sort of eyes some of the comtes and young vicomtes give to members of the chorus in the parlour.  

You’re pulled back from your people-watching by tumultuous shrieking outside the corridor. Were you not accustomed to the trainee ballerina’s rambunctious shouts after they had finished practice, you would have expected them to have seen a ghost.

Or, rather, the ghost.

A collective sigh resounds in the small room as the noise dissipates down the hall, followed by your own dressing room door opening as three giggling girls enter. Augustine gives you a weary sidelong glance as the pitter-patter of ballet shoes approaches your corner. 

“Hello Mademoiselle L/N, Mademoiselle Charbonneau! We finished practising for Polyeucte this eve!” Lucille, a lithe creature with a button nose and bitten-down fingernails speaks, excitedly.

“Yes yes! Yet we didn’t spot either of you,” Little Jammes begins to moan. She was a favourite of the chorus and existing members of your troupe of dancers, what with her tip-tilted nose, forget-me-not eyes and rose-red cheeks. “You promised you would come watch!”

Before you or Augustine could respond, another voice adds their opinion to the situation; “They couldn’t! They have the performance for the new production tomorrow eve, halfwit-”

“-Don’t insult Jammes so, Elaine,” Augustine reprimands. “I-” She quickly glances your way, “We apologise. Myself and Y/N are quite fatigued; we were not granted a break to day. If we have time, we will watch your practice in the morning on the Monday.”

The younger girls let out a happy cheer at their small success. Elaine and Lucille skip off to where the other apprentices and members of the corps de ballet were changing, while Little Jammes lingers behind.

Nodding to both yours and Augustine’s forms, she says, “I hope your performance goes smoothly tomorrow, mademoiselles.” She begins to turn back to the rest of her group, however, glances at you and speaks yet again; “Oh! And don’t forget your scarf.” She giggles, almost maniacally, before prancing out the door and off to her group.

“Will do, Little Jammes.” You call out after her. She turns and smiles, acknowledging you.

Little Jammes was one fond of jokes, one being stealing your scarf and having you chase her around the Opera House looking for it. A game of hide and seek, if you will. You had kept up the game for almost three years now; her having just turned fifteen. While she was adamant in becoming refined and elegant, as all girls that age are taught to be, she still held onto some of her child-like tendencies with you.

One of the girls, just putting on her bonnet, turns to you as she fixes the ribbons; “I’m unsure how you put up with such boisterous creatures, even Little Jammes; the lot of them are such brats.” She jokes somewhat sarcastically. You smile at her as her eyes, black as ink, look into yours for an answer. 

“It is not much trouble, even if all the majority speak of is the fabled Opera Ghost.” The young lady and Augustine both laugh at your jest. As she finishes with the ribbons of her bonnet, she waves, and wishes you both a good evening. 

Slowly but surely, the girls drift out of the room, some by themselves, and others in larger groups. 

By the time you’re finally fixing your dress, most have left, including the members of the corps de ballet and trainees; eager to leave the domain of the Opera Ghost for the comfort of warm blankets and dinner. Augustine and you are slightly behind schedule, taking extra time to chat aimlessly.

“I cannot believe it takes you so long to dress,” Augustine jests as she finishes buckling her shoes. 

“I know you wish to leave for your apartment Augustine; go. I will walk home on my own to night.” 

Her eyes turn to you, body still bent with her shoes. “Are you sure? Will you be well?”

“Of course I will be. I am a grown woman, Augustine. Either way, I must talk to the costuming department in order for them to fix my bodice; I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

Augustine raises an eyebrow at you, as if thinking this is some test of friendship, before nodding and pulling her shawl across her slim shoulders.

“Good evening, Y/N. Be safe.” She calls over her shoulders as the click-clack of her heels descends towards the exit. “Oh! And I promise to go to dinner with you next week!” She peeks her head over the door frame to call back to you. 

“Sure.” You call back sarcastically. You catch a small smile on her tired face before the sound of the door echoes in the empty dressing room. Finally, you finish dressing, placing your hair into its usual updo again. As you do so, a newspaper, left behind by the young woman of whom you had been talking to, catches your eye. Its newsprint page open on the Opera and Theatre periodical, and a title in bold reads; ‘800 Pounds on a Conserige’s head.’

You recognised the tragedy almost instantly, for it had only occurred but three weeks ago. You were surprised the headline was still making rounds, let alone at the top of the periodical. Although, you suppose, this may be an old paper. Underneath the title shows;

On the evening performance of Helle, May 20th, one of the counterweights for the Théâtre National de l'Opéra’s chandelier fell, suddenly, upon Madame Colette Auclair, aged fifty-six, during her first and last visit to the Opera House; as she passed on impact. Stagehands deny any and all involvement with the tragedy, and report no issues with the counterweights. However, many of the members of the Théâtre National de l'Opéra claim it to be the work of the ever-so-infamous Phantom of the Opera; The Monster of Paris.

You cease reading the moment your eyes graze over the word ‘Phantom’. You felt it ludicrous that an official newspaper would accept and continue to publish such a superstitious and almost mocking piece. Someone’s death shouldn’t be attributed to a spectre that exists and lingers, purely, in the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet. 

As are the faults of journalism, you suppose.

Sighing loudly, you close the paper and check the date, which reads that it had been re-published not but a week ago. You glare at the bold print while reaching to the hanger for your scarf, and, when your hands find nothing but cold air, you turn.

All you find is an empty hanger. 

How odd, you think to yourself. It was there but a minute ago. Where could it have gone?

You begin to scour the dressing room, before realising what Jammes had hinted at beforehand. Yet, you frown. How could she have gotten in while you weren’t looking? Even if you had been distracted reading the paper, you would have most definitely heard the loud creak of the un-oiled door.

Eyes searching methodically around the room, you finally spot the hue of your scarf peeking out from the ajar dressing room door. The tassels lying, spread, across the scuffed wood of the floor. 

Sighing yet again, you call out for Jammes, who you still swore had left long before you had, and begin to walk across the room. 

I don’t know if I’ll even have time to visit the costumers at this rate. I can never remember how late they stay into the evening.

The heels of your boots send a resounding click-clack across the now bare room. As you near the door, you crouch ever so slightly; haunches rising like a cat ready to pounce on its prey. 

“Jammes…” you mumble out with a smile growing on your face, slowly reaching out to grab your scarf, preparing for a tug of war with a giggling ballet girl, before your scarf zips out from beneath the pads of your fingers. 

You scoff, surprised, before peeking your head out of the doorway, like some weary animal, and looking down the left hall. Innocently, your scarf sits at the end of it, hidden partially around another corner.

Mocking you. 

It was unusually silent. You didn’t hear a laugh nor giggle come from the teasing girl. Glancing down the other hall, you keep watch for the lamplighter. 

You hear no steps echo against the wood and stone. You surmise he has not arrived yet.

Softly, you step out of your dressing room and begin walking down the hall to your beloved scarf. 

The oil lamps send shadows down the hall, long, gangly ones that claw at the hem of your dress as you walk forward. Long, gangly ones that you swear whisper in the dark of the halls. Whispers that sound much too like your fellow dancers, asking for you to follow them.

“Jammes?” You call out into the moving mass of darkness. 

No reply. 

Yet again, as you creep closer to your prize, it is pulled away from your grasp; spirited away and down another ill-lit hallway. 

“Jammes,” you whine, quietly. “This is not funny Jammes. I have to go see the costumers before they leave for the evening.” Despite your worries and growing annoyance, you still follow your scarf down hallway after hallway. Ones you find lead deeper into the Opera House, down passages you were sure were only touched by stagehands. Down routes that only the spiders and their webs called home. 

Quite admittedly, you begin to grow afraid. Afraid of both the dark and the odd whispers that you pray are simply the evening wind whistling. The gossip of the corps de ballet begins to catch up to you too, murmuring descriptions of a man, a monster, with the body of a corpse; skin rotting off his own bones and the Night itself hiding in the sockets of the ghost’s skull. 

Perhaps you are just as paranoid as the brats of the corps de ballet. 

Augustine would laugh at me for this, you repeat as your scarf slips out from under your fingers yet again. Just wait until I tell her this to morrow morning.

Eventually, you find yourself in a dank hallway deep in the Opera House, near the storage room for all the set pieces, you suppose. 

Jammes must have been dared down here by her friends at least once, you reason with yourself.

A trapdoor, locked, sits to the left of you, a bit further up the hall. The wood of the floors let out a cry with each step you take; bending around your feet. You fear it may snap from right under you. 

“Jammes!” You call out frustratedly. You had spent twenty or so minutes travelling down into the depths of the Opera House for a mere scarf; you could have spoken to the costumers and been on your way home by now! Typically, your cat-and-mouse chase with Jammes only lasts ten or so minutes, for her mother calls on her before she can go too far. You were tired and frustrated, with fear building up in your dry throat.

As you begin to turn yet another corner, one you would suppose would lead down into the storage rooms and the vaults of the opera, you are met with pitch black itself. It was as if there was a wall of night standing before you; a mirror reflecting a pitch-black sky you couldn’t see.

Out of the void reaches a white, silken gloved hand, holding your scarf, and your scream echoes loudly in the empty hall like the first chords played in a silenced auditorium. Your hand immediately goes to your chest, to squeeze your thumping heart into submission as your lungs heave for the air they can’t seem to inhale fast enough.

“Apologies, Monsieur, I…” You try to catch your breath, incomplete thoughts rushing through your brain. “...I did not see you.” 

He wears the type of expensive glove that only those who visit the Opera House and its members wear. Clean, white as pure as a dove’s wing, and well made. Immediately you question, mentally, what someone of supposed high status is doing so deep in the belly of the Opera House, especially since there had been no public show today. Further, if Little Jammes is nowhere in sight, then is this who has been leading you around the Opera House with your scarf? Or, perchance, has Jammes given your scarf to him in order not to get caught?

He speaks not a word; you do not even hear him breathe. Your nostrils are met with a terrible stench as a breeze ascends from under the trapdoor and behind the man, sounding more like agonised cries than wind. Mould, stagnant water and…and death. The type of miasma that lingers in your apartment when a trapped animal passes in the cage of your walls; rotting to dust. 

Rotting. Rotting flesh. Rotting flesh pulled taught against bones like a drumhead. A horrible image infiltrates your fatigued mind. 

You are unable to see a single inch of him other than his silk-covered hand, the beginning of his clean, nicely dyed overcoat and of course, your scarf. In the dim lighting, his hand seems to be trembling, as if holding a tremendous weight. Let alone the grip he seems to have on your scarf; the fabric wrinkling under his fingers. Despite him holding it out for you to take, the grip he holds onto it with makes it seem he almost wishes not to let go. Conditioned by years of interacting with the higher class, your mouth immediately goes to asking on his well-being.

“Are you well, Monsieur?” You whisper emphatically. You’re sure he can hear the fear laced in his voice. Considering the habits of the other patrons, you wouldn’t be surprised if he finds amusement in it.

The hand reaches further outwards with your scarf, and makes a motion for you to take it. You stand there, between the stagnant air and the man, looking back and forth between your scarf and where you believe his eyes to be. 

You look at him with an uncertain stare, before gently reaching out to take your scarf. You approach this like you would approach a wild animal; with slow movements, and careful eye contact. Cautiously, your hand meets the soft fabric of your scarf, as well as the coolness of his gloves. 

A shudder seems to run up his arm, and you’re half sure he flinched from your touch. Yet, your scarf remains in an iron-grip, despite your light tugging. 

Again, you squint into the void, trying to find his eyes in the dimness of the oil lamps. “... Monsieur?” You mumble, even quieter than before, with an increasing amount of panic in your voice. As if suddenly remembering he’s holding your scarf, he jolts, yet again, and releases it. 

Yet, his hand still lingers in the air.

Wrapping the scarf around your neck, you can almost feel his eerie gaze following your hands as you do so. His hand still floats, trembling in the air. It almost seems like he wishes for you to take it. Take it and follow him into the vaults of the opera house. 

Take it and make you a part of his bone collection. 

You waft the idiotic thoughts away from your head with a swift movement of your hand, disguised by pushing the ends of the scarf behind your back. 

Idiotically, with worry entangled in your movements, you reach out for him again, gingerly placing your hand on his upper arm. A shiver of your own rattles through you, like a cold finger caressing your spine. The pads of your fingers find the expensive threads of his overcoat, and, dear Lord, he is so cold. Even through his coat, you can feel the wintery burn of his skin. He was so bony; ever so skeletal. With such a gentle touch, you felt as if you could crush the bones of his arm. 

Something between a gasp and a sob quickly escapes his mouth, regardless of the distraught tone he held, he manages to sigh with perfect pitch and time. 

“Forgive me-” Taking a step backwards, you apologise immediately, but you’re met with the quick swish of fabric through the dank air as another foul-smelling wind arises from the trapdoor. It flutters through your hair and causes a chill to settle in your chest. It curls up around your lungs and heart and makes every breath difficult.

Your scarf does nothing to keep you warm. 

Most of the dimming oil lamps are quickly blown out by the strong gust, and the little you could see of the man is engulfed by the darkness. 

One oil lamp remains, barely lit, behind you. 

Quickly, you step backwards until your back hits the wall, and you reach for the lamp. Unhooking it, you bring it forth to the hall, thrusting it outwards into the void. 

There is nothing there other than lingering dust. 

Another gust of wind arises, and quickly puts out the lamp. As you now stand in the dark, a cacophony of whispers erupts upon the cold wind.

He’s here, The Phantom of the Opera.

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

I had an unbelievable amount of fun writing this. I'm sorry if this doesn't read completely right; I was doing my best to imitate Gaston Leroux's writing, since I wrote this for Leroux!Phantom rather than Musical Phantom (or any other phantom for that matter). Further, I apologize to any possible ballerinas reading this, for I know the terminology Google and some ballet Tumblr blogs gave me may be incorrect.  I know there isn't that much actual Phantom interaction, but I wanted to focus on the more creepy and touch-starved version of him. I'm thinking about doing a series of Phantom one-shots, hence why I'm leaving this as 'incomplete'. Either way, thank you for reading <3

Historical Notes:

- Calcium Lights = Another word for limelights.

- Théâtre National de l'Opéra = The name given to the Palais Garnier from September, 1870 to January, 1939. 

- Pier glass = A mirror that is placed on a pier, i.e. a wall, between two windows supporting an upper structure. Generally used to fill the space between the windows.

- 800 pounds on a Concierge's head = An actual headline written by Gaston Leroux himself. On May 20th, 1896, a performance of the opera Helle was underway when a counterweight, one of multiple that held the chandelier up, broke loose and fell through the ceiling; killing a Concierge on her first (and last) visit to the Palais Garnier, which inspired the falling of the chandelier in Phantom! Forensic investigators later said a nearby electrical wire probably overheated and melted the steel cable holding up the counterweight, causing its fall, yet, for all the superstitious opera workers, it was said to be the famous Opera Ghost. The name used for the concierge is made up. 

[names-for-alters]

Hello one and all, alters and headmates! I am Charlie! I like to make lists! I also hoard names! Are you looking for a name? GREAT! You can send an ask and request a specific aesthetic or origin of name, or you can look at my list!

With that said…

…Cracks knuckles…

Findo Tach Tails Flicker Tracer Kat Iris Blu Brick Arlo Sammy Artie Finn Stein Aleksandr Vora Olive Luna Nyx Cyrus Qrow Orian Cello Onyx Skye Grim Opal Dawn Azure Fish Bones Poppy Bronze Eggs Sparky Specs Snickers Trout Navi Bingo Chili Bandit Stripe Busker Socks Brandy Frisky Winston Lucky Chucky Bently Judo Rusty Max Honey Indie Calypso Striker Merle Moxxie Vex Ant Bugger Bee Spider Tails Hook Indigo Amber Coco Coral Scarlet Ivory Jade Ruby Emerald Chuck Loden Copper Hamelin Neo Shepard Cinnamon Visor Macalister Soul Hack Hiccup Flynn Rider Astrid Jay Raven Robyn Bolt Dagger Viper Tracer Cornwall Flock Sapphire Crystal Ghost Mochi Trick Catra Rose Raven Flip Chani Racket Red Crimson Dragon Runt Scotch Tellie Gator Croc Crow Goat Duck Creeper Kuma Jet Jeep Draco Poppy Sombra Raine Squish Spike Blaze Ender Drake Sandy MK PJ DJ CJ MJ King Creak Shadow Clay Dusty Miles Dart Willow Antonius Husk Moth Cypher Jin Yin Yang Daisy Gray / Grey Alistair Halo Angel Cake Fennec Fox Null Lull Bastion Lucky Sun Star Cosmo Tweety Vox Nerys Sonic Bark Birch Oak Cherry Blossom Peaches Velvet Shell Coffee Valley Fang Moot Redpath Pudding X V Jr Ether Fig Trunk Joy Frogger Snowflake Snowball Snow Jumper Racket Flare Vendetta Loonie Coin Six Eleven Tropica Stelina Mojave Ink Sud Fender Zero Pollen Wysteria Page Ozias Rex Tortch Buck Nickel Stripe Lynch Tramp Wolf Pup Tank Jhariah Kharma Zenith Sparrow Prism Lemon Mune Lamb Pyke Diamond Parker Graves Fizz Nugget Melody Tink Blight Fangless Ambress Vulture Eclipse Luka Bangle Constance Constantine Sommar Babble Clank Bobble Chipper Aidan Slate Tin Twire Zephyr Silver Misty Faunus Atlas Birdie Brook Cedar Chip Coal Daisy Ember Faye Fate Fern Flint Harmony Helios Ivy Junx Kit Lyria Phoebe Piper Lady Beacon Elos Rumble Ida Cross Zed Scootie Smidge Clauger Happy Sonny Hath Soldier River Song Clawtor Videl Legen Onen Chunk Reid Pop Cobra Cash Clover Saris Volante Donna Belladonna Gale Chopper Morphias Vidia Loft Kape Levi Licker Howl Dustin Newt Creek Breezy Polaris Blight Archer Sirius Warren Dream Goon Cookie Ranger Amity Jericho Viggo Besko Asra Alice Olaf Mossfeld Issic Missy Rascal Creasy Nonya Hex Pita Miguel Manuel Rayburn Daisy Dash Lucky Becky Steele Cylo Featherstone Kingston Netherfield Reacher Saltburn Quick Rubble Dust Brimstone Humble Ado Grover Norvanos Leshy Blade Cooper Calcium

Leo

Leonardo

Lebony

Silver

Linzier

Pearl

blackberry

Tatin

Bud

Raphael

Pebble

Mina

Linda

Oolong

Daeo/Dayo/Dao

Inco

Ketlyn

Risa

Ines

Lora

Flock

Lux

Rix

Reah

Destinty

Bet

Ange

Krixa

Lalien

Gloom

Bug

Rozy

Mars

Screech

Jenny

Robert

Patrick

Pierre Rosemary

Henderson

Mayfield

Sinclair

Sullivan

Hart

Solace

Daughtler

Stoll

Gatlin

Yearwood

Amos

Graves

Rothschild

Halley

Spektor

Presley

Redd

Blackwood

Notvletti

Valerie

Milo

Marian

Lychee

Aiden

Nova

Vel

Bel

Yuri

Puro

Pluto

Ramona

Angel

Nada

Shen

Mog

Hania

Udge

Kinetic

Kikos Wathel

Dupa

Sierre

Jimor

Teddy

coc

Scara

River

Shade

Foenem

Duck

Emily

Toast

Reunna

Ichigo

Rae

Sonic

MoonL

Lennus

cabaran

Marto

Leveer

Granite

Tongle

Gavril

Luella

Malachite

Leonard

[ghostdice]

CHREON WEEK 2024 - Day 3: Rescue/Whump (+ Day 6: "I thought I was going to lose you." "You almost did.")

SYNOPSIS: Incapacitated after a mission gone wrong, Leon laid in a hospital bed- Chris, all the while, by his side.

➷ angsty but heartfelt, hurt w/ a special side of comfort, & a special guest star. era not specified, but i did envision it around post-ven, pre-re7 :] ➷ 1.4k words!

A/N: sorry that this is late! i know chreon week is over, but i still had ideas. this was actually meant to be shorter, and then longer, and then shorter again, so i hope the pacing isn't too jarring for anyone! thanks for stopping by, hope you enjoy <3

now on ao3!

⁀➷｡⋆ ༄

The doctors said he’d been too close to the blast radius. Seared right through the skin of his abdomen. Metal scraps and shards of glass littered his body, having filleted the flesh, embedded in various levels of skin and fat and muscle. Not to mention how a few particularly impacted sections of bones had simply burst, unable to bear the weight of all the pressure, sending calcium shrapnel tearing through his insides.

Code blue. Critical condition.

Chris didn’t need to be told any of that. He’d been the one to find him, carry him half a fucking mile to evac. “Stay with me, Leon. You’re gonna be alright,” he’d said through grit teeth, trying to convince himself more than his unconscious counterpart. The longer he’d walked, the colder the tacky stream of blood had become against Chris’ warmth, leeching him of any semblance of calm he’d managed to steady himself with until his words had become a mantra of, “Don’t leave me.”

Days turned into weeks as the time continued to pass, blurring into an ugly without. There was the time with Leon in his life and now- this limbo of here and, yet, not.

(Chris vaguely recalled something Rebecca had once explained to him, just before he’d been deployed at Kijuju: Schrödinger’s cat, both dead and alive.

“Why’s that?”

“Well, it’s about perspective,” she’d said, closing her laptop. “You can’t observe the cat or whatever happens to it while it’s in the box. Whether it lives or dies depends on a subatomic quantum event that might trigger the poison, which you also-”

“Can’t observe. So you don’t know whether it’s dead or alive.”

“Basically. It’s all about quantum superposition.” Rebecca took off her glasses, placing them to the side as she watched Chris’ arms fold over his chest, eyebrows furrowed. His plight was clear as day; she smiled at that.

“The cat might be alive, Chris.” She placed a comforting hand on his bicep. She gave him a knowing look. That’s all that matters to you.)

A vegetative coma, the doctors had explained. From all the violent bodily trauma, the carbon monoxide in his blood. There was a chance of waking, they’d reassured, but really it was a waiting game.

Chris wasn’t a praying man. For Leon, though, he could be.

“He’s lucky, to have someone like you,” the nurse had commented as they updated Leon’s IV sheet. They paused, turning to face him properly, and for a moment he assumed they were going to correct themself. Say they meant that he was a good friend, wave off the impossible implication with a nervous laugh. But their expression was something soft, circles under their glassy eyes like bruises. Sincerity that they couldn’t quite say aloud. A quiet knowing.

They hadn’t given it a label, but they had given each other a spare key. A drawer full of their own clothes in the other’s bedroom. Shared the bed, since the couch was too cruel to send the other off to. Occasionally helped one another “relieve stress” as Leon would joke, despite the crushing gravity of his touch against Chris’. Helped with bathing, when the task was too daunting, too much of a strain on their aching joints.

Was the other’s emergency contact. Apparently. Chris hadn’t known until Leon had been rushed in, sent straight to an operating room; the hospital had confirmed it with him. It had never been this severe- never so bad that Leon felt he needed someone to check up on him. (It had been that way for a long time. Longer than Chris could guess.)

Leon’s condition seemed to be improving, though. The doctor’s consciousness evaluations indicated progress in waking- he was beginning to respond to stimuli. So when Chris received a call, officially a month and four days since his initial check-in, he’d had higher hopes for the news he’d receive. The doctor’s words sent him reeling, hands trembling as he reached for his car keys.

Leon had momentarily flat-lined.

He was stable again, but the possibility loomed overhead. Chris officially called out for an indeterminate amount of time. A family emergency, he’d insisted- and if anyone at the BSAA questioned it, they didn’t say anything.

“I’m worried about you.”

Chris idly traced a finger over the creases of the blanket, just around the outline of Leon’s body. As the fabric rustled against him, Leon’s fingers twitched at the sensation. He adjusted his phone with the other hand.

“I’m fine.”

“You can’t bullshit me, Chris.” Claire’s voice was firm, but not punishing. “I just-” There was chatter in the background. Someone called her name. Her quick phone break was up. (The world didn’t let up for them. For anyone. All it knows is the axis it spins on.) She sighed; Chris could imagine the way she smoothed her hand over her forehead.

“I don’t want you to be alone right now.”

“I know,” Chris responded. He trailed his hand upward, sliding palm up underneath Leon’s. A beat. Leon’s fingers curled around his, not quite intertwining but connecting nonetheless. An inarticulate noise. (Chris wishfully imagined that Leon had been trying to call his name.)

“I’m not alone.”

Two months since hospitalization, and Leon had cleared into almost definite consciousness. Sure, it wasn’t usually for long, and he was never truly lucid, but progress was progress. His wounds, too, were healing well. Chris felt like he could almost let go of that breath he’d been holding in.

The door to Leon’s room opened, and to Chris’ surprise it wasn’t medical staff- rather, a blonde woman with a mousy, sweet face. She strode across the room, over to where Chris had been sitting, half-asleep.

“Chris?”

He stood up, rubbing at the back of his neck- she seemed familiar, somehow. He extended a hand politely. “I don’t think we’ve met before.”

She chuckled, tilting her head to the side as she glanced at Leon before her gaze swept up to greet Chris’. Her eyes sparkled, a subdued green with hazel flecks.

“No, we haven’t. But he talks about you enough.” She clasped her hand with his. “Ashley. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Ashley.” That rang a bell. Leon had mentioned her in passing; last he’d heard they were trying to get together whenever their schedules might permit it. He shook her hand, smiling. “Glad I can finally put a face to a name.”

“Really? We take a picture like. Every time we see each other.” Ashley frowned, feigning offense, swiftly unlocking her phone. “He seriously didn’t show you any?” Just as she had swiped to the album titled ‘Kennegramz’ Leon groaned, hands flexing at his side before he attempted to reach up and wipe at his eyes.

Ashley shot Chris a look. Does he do that often?

But he was too busy watching as Leon’s blue eyes seemed to focus on him, the ghost of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“What happened to what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas?”

“Leon,” Chris tentatively called out, palm cascading over the sheets, resting gently on an unscathed portion of his thigh. He was weary- from the constant back-and-forth, the fleeting tide of consciousness. For all he knew, this was just another moment of clarity before Leon was swept under the waves again.

But he couldn’t deny the way Leon peered up at him, baby blues twinkling with something unspoken.

“I thought I was going to lose you.”

“Not gettin’ rid of me that easy, Chris.” Leon’s voice crackled slightly, strained with disuse. His hand traveled to meet Chris’, trembling with effort as he interlaced their fingers. He gave the lightest squeeze. I know. You almost did.

“Who said anything about getting rid of you?” Relief crashed over him. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to Leon’s temple. He dropped his voice lower, just for Leon to hear. “I missed you.” I love you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.

“Mm,” Leon hummed back. Hey- you beat me to it. I love you too.

As Chris pulled away, Leon glanced back at Ashley, who had been looking on quietly. He chuckled to himself. “What? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

A pause.

“…Too soon?”

[elicathebunny]

Electrolytes.

(Information from online sources)

Electrolytes are minerals that have an electric charge when they are dissolved in water or body fluids, including blood. An electrolyte imbalance occurs when your body's mineral levels are too high or too low. This can negatively affect vital body systems.

Staying hydrated is key to maintaining a balance of electrolytes. Water is the most natural choice for hydration. It is less expensive and more available than any other drink. Coconut water is another alternative for replenishing electrolytes.

Sodium:

Balances fluid levels inside and outside cells

Regulates blood pressure

Helps send nerve signals

Helps your muscles contract

Potassium:

Helps move nutrients into your cells

Helps your nerves and muscles function, especially your heart

Supports your metabolism

Calcium:

Builds and strengthens your bones and teeth Helps muscles contract and sends nerve signals

Aids stable blood pressure

Magnesium:

Aids muscle and nerve function

Builds and strengthens your bones and teeth

Phosphorous:

Builds and strengthens your bones and teeth

Aids nerve and muscle function

Chloride:

Balances fluids inside and outside cells

Regulates blood pressure

Foods and Drinks With Electrolytes.

Many foods are rich in electrolytes. Some of the top sources include:

Potassium: Bananas, beet greens, salmon, white beans, avocado, potatoes, milk, mushrooms

Sodium: Dill pickles, clams, table salt, cheese, dry-roasted sunflower seeds

Magnesium: Spinach, pumpkin seeds, lima beans, tuna, brown rice, almonds

Phosphorous: Yellowfin tuna, tofu, milk, chicken, scallops, pumpkin seeds, quinoa

Calcium: Milk, cheese, spinach, tofu, yogurt, okra, trout, acorn squash

Homemade electrolyte drink recipe!