queerly-anxious

[queerly-anxious]

08.15.2025 | philadelphia, pa

my photos.

[queerly-anxious]

i’m such a “i want your attention” but “won’t bother you” kinda person

[queerly-anxious]

Hi, I have a request for Erik Destler since you’re insanely good at writing POTO :) how about a fic about Erik taking pins out of the reader’s hair and brushing it because it calms him down, and the reader tells him how grateful she is for him while caressing his hands? I loved that detail in your hand appreciation fic because it felt very apt.

In your hands.

this was so cute and fun to write

erik destler (phantom of the opera) x reader

warnings/tags: emotional intimacy, comfort fic, gentle touch, hurt/comfort, love confessions, Erik needs a hug, Erik Destler lives, mask stays on, reader is patient, reader is loving, second person POV, no smut, canon-compliant feelings

It begins in silence, as most things do with Erik.

You’re seated on a low velvet stool, your back warm from the nearby hearth, the scent of beeswax and old parchment heavy in the air. Erik is behind you—so quiet you wouldn't know he was there if not for the gentle heat of his breath against the crown of your head. The cave is lit softly, diffused by the amber glow of oil lamps and the flickering fire. Somewhere behind the curtain of your lashes, you feel the day's weight settling into your bones.

Neither of you has spoken in some time.

Then, with the quiet reverence of ritual, Erik lifts his hand.

One pin. He plucks it gently from your hair, setting it in a dish with a faint clink.

Another. And another.

Your scalp tingles as he works, removing each hairpin with practiced care. He’s done this before—many times now—but he always approaches it with the solemnity of a man in prayer.

You glance down at your hands folded in your lap, letting your lids drift shut. The tension of the day—its obligations, noise, light, people—is slowly dissolving into the hush Erik makes around himself. Around you.

“You never say no when I ask,” he murmurs, so softly you might have imagined it.

You smile, small and sleepy. “Because I like when you do it.”

“I thought it was simply my... oddities you were indulging.”

“I’m indulging myself, too,” you say, tilting your head just slightly into his touch. “I like the way it feels. I like being still.”

He doesn't respond to that, but you hear the way his breath hitches faintly, how his fingers pause before returning to their careful work. There’s a restraint in Erik, even in the smallest gestures—like his hands are always bracing for rejection that never comes.

You wish he’d believe you when you say you love this. Love him.

Your hair is loose now, the last pin carefully laid to rest. Erik lifts a silver-handled brush from the table beside him. You’d found it months ago in a shop above, convinced it suited him more than it did you—elegant, intricate, old. Of course, he’d polished and restored it until it looked brand new, though it never left his lair again.

He begins brushing.

Slow, even strokes from crown to ends, like a pianist rehearsing a sonata he knows by heart. His hand steadies on your shoulder while the other draws the brush through your hair, untangling the day with every pass.

This is when Erik is most at peace—his voice quieted, his mind no longer storming. When he’s touching you like this, gently, reverently, you think perhaps he forgets the face behind the mask. Perhaps he just feels.

“Does it really calm you?” you ask after a while.

The brushing stills. “Yes.”

You turn your head slightly—not enough to disrupt him, but enough for him to see your profile.

“Why?” you ask.

He hesitates. Then: “Because it reminds me I’m not alone.”

The answer lands quietly between you.

Erik resumes brushing.

You feel something in your throat, small and sharp and aching. You’ve always known that Erik feels isolation like most feel cold or heat—an ambient condition of his life, something endured more than observed. He doesn’t know how to ask for company. He only knows how to retreat, to bury himself in sound and stone and secrecy.

So when he brushes your hair like this—when he touches you so softly, as though he fears you’ll vanish—it means the walls are coming down.

It means he trusts you enough to rest.

When he sets the brush down, your hair falls in smooth sheets down your back, warm from his touch. Erik doesn’t step away. You turn to look at him over your shoulder.

He’s seated now, knees to yours, mask illuminated by the glow of the fire. His eyes—always the first thing you see when you look at him—are quiet and dark, but not sorrowful. Just present.

You reach forward, slowly, and take his hands in yours.

His fingers twitch once, reflexively, before going still. You bring them to your lap.

The silence between you shifts. It becomes something held.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you say softly. “I hope you know that.”

He watches your hands over his like he can’t believe you’re touching him again. You caress the back of his hand with your thumb, tracing faint lines, calluses, scars. Erik’s hands are so expressive—so human, when he thinks the rest of him is not.

“I don’t say it enough,” you continue. “But you’ve made this—us—feel like home to me.”

Erik’s breath comes a little sharper now. You can feel it, hear it, the way his chest rises like he’s bracing for the pain he’s sure must follow any soft thing. His fingers twitch beneath yours.

“You give me peace,” you whisper. “Even on the worst days. Even when you don’t say a word.”

Erik bows his head slightly, as though ashamed to receive such kindness. But you hold firm, bringing one of his hands up to your cheek.

“I’m not afraid of your hands,” you murmur against his palm.

His breath stutters.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

His eyes lift slowly to yours, and the mask can’t hide the way they soften. Not with that look. Not with that raw, aching question that always seems to hide in his expression:

Why me?

Why would you love me?

You press a kiss to the base of his fingers before speaking again.

“I know what it means that you touch me this way. That you let me touch you this way. I don’t take it for granted.”

His thumb moves, trembling, to brush against your cheek.

“You make me feel…” he tries, voice catching. “You make me feel real.”

“You are real, Erik,” you whisper. “You always were. Even when no one else saw it.”

His hand slides down to cup your cheek, and you rest your palm atop it.

“I’m grateful for your music. For your mind. For how fiercely you love, even when you try to hide it behind thorns.”

He closes his eyes like he’s in pain, but it’s not pain you fear.

“I see all of it,” you murmur. “And I want all of it.”

You lean forward, gently brushing your lips to the knuckles of his other hand, cradled still in your lap. He watches you like you’re doing something holy, and perhaps you are.

This is the worship he deserves.

“I am…” Erik begins, voice rough. “So afraid.”

You nod. “I know.”

His mask tilts as he lowers his head, shoulders curling in like he wants to disappear. You guide both his hands back into yours.

“I’ll be here anyway,” you say.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but breath. The fire crackles. The lake far beyond the stone walls sighs. Somewhere, an old piano waits for him to return.

“I used to think my hands could only hurt,” he says finally, voice hushed. “That anything I touched would break.”

“They don’t,” you whisper. “Not with me.”

He lifts your joined hands to his lips, pressing a reverent kiss to the back of yours.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs.

“You do. You always have.”

You see the shiver ripple through him then, so small it might go unnoticed to anyone else. But not to you. You know the tremors that live in his soul. The old ghosts. The memories that scratch at the walls when it’s quiet.

So you lean forward, brushing your forehead against his.

“I love you,” you say.

His hands tighten around yours. Just slightly. Just enough.

When you sit together like this, with your hair loose and his mask soft in the firelight, there is no Opera Ghost. No Phantom. No monster.

Just Erik.

Just the man who brushes your hair because it calms the hurricane inside him. The man who lets you hold his hands like they matter. Like he matters.

And he does.

He always will.

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incredible dividers by @saradika-graphics

[queerly-anxious]

i like the phrases "it's not for me," "it's not my thing," and "i'm not the target audience" because they're the most concise way to express "this thing that you enjoy has merits but idgaf about it" without being aggressive

[queerly-anxious]

I keep thinking about this...

It's driving me nuts- 🙂

[queerly-anxious]

scary dog privilege

[queerly-anxious]

i am massively overdue for a very very good week where not a single bad thing happens and everything is easy

[queerly-anxious]

[queerly-anxious]

being anti ai is making me feel like in going insane. "you asked for thoughts about your characters backstory and i put it into chat gpt for ideas". studies have proven its making people dumber. "i asked ai to generate this meal plan". its causing water shortages where its data centers are built. "ill generate some pictures for the dnd campaign". its spreading misinformation. "meta, generate an image of this guy doing something stupid". its trained off stolen images, writing, video, audio. "i was talking with my snapchat ai-" theres no way to verify what its doing with the information it collects. "youtube is impletmenting ai based age verification". my work has an entire graphics media department and has still put ai generated motivational posters up everywhere. ai playlists. ai facial verification. google ai microsoft ai meta ai snapchat ai. everyone treats it as a novelty. every treats it as a mandatory part of life. am i the only one who sees it? am i paranoid? am i going insane? jesus fucking christ. if i have to hear one more "well at least-" "but it does-" "but you can-" im about to lose it. i shouldnt have to jump through hoops to avoid the evil machine. have you no principles? no goddamn spine? am i the weird one here?

[queerly-anxious]

The hardcore way to eat ramen: 1. Boil water 2. Eat block of ramen 3. Drink boiled water 4. Snort flavored powder 5. Fuck bitches

[queerly-anxious]

Steve: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯  

[queerly-anxious]

my back: too much walk!!!!

my back: too much sit!!!!

my back: !!!!!!!!!!!!

[queerly-anxious]

[queerly-anxious]

you know how cats always wake you up from your slumber by slapping you and then demanding food. yeh, yeh that's grogu to me 🙂‍↕️

[queerly-anxious]

Alucard, Son of Dracula 😌🫰

[queerly-anxious]

A painting, most ardently

[queerly-anxious]

How I feel reading smut while being scared of intimacy in real life