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lhenn · 10 months ago

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Tag "9" people you want to know better

Tagged by @alma-amentet thanks! Always fun to take part in these

3 Ships

1. Zoro & Sanji (ZoSanZo) (One Piece) (and per extension my D&D OC Kaze and an NPC from the campaign named Muharib, they reminded everyone of them)

2. Soul & Maka (Soul Eater) (I'm not really obsessed over them, I just think they're sublime and have a special place in my heart)

3. Idgie & Ruth (Fried Green Tomatoes, they have all my heart and more and there isn't a single time I don't cry with them)

(probably should have added Erik & Christine, but even though I love them, I think the ones I mentionedhave sticked with me for far longer)

First ship

Well. Tough one. Since I became interested in fandoms? My first interaction with a fandom was due to Naruto being super gay with Sasuke, then either SasuNaru or NejiTen.

If not counting interacting with fandoms, earlier I really liked maybe Usui and Misaki from Kaichou wa maid-sama!

And from when I was a kid, I'm really not sure, but probably Eragon & Arya or Westley & Buttercup. I really liked them then.

I'm not really a "shipper"?, I have my preferences but I don't usually become focused with many of them.

Currently reading

Two years ago I started re-reading again (3rd time) Seven Realms Series by Cinda Williams Chima (I really adore this saga), but stress with university, switching from reading in Spanish to English (not being so used to it then), got me into a block soon after starting The Gray Wolf Throne.

Since then, I've read many manhwas/mangas/mangwas, some of them still not finished (Define the Relationship, Under the Green Light, Thirst...) (Mature content, be wary)

I also tried to go back to reading by beginning Treasure Island... it didn't quite work. I've read 4 chapters or so. Will go back to it in a few weeks probably, after exams.

Currently I am properly reading When the longing returns and Squirrel Girl, plus some D&D stuff from the campaign I'm currently playing.

Last film

Funny 'cause it's Treasure Planet xD

Last song

Well, this is a tough one, when I began writing this I was listening to "Hey, Little Songbird" from Hadestown and then "Todo Arde" by Juan Navazo, 6 songs later, right now Phantom of the opera (cover by Reinaeiry and Chloe Breez) is playing xD

Currently craving

Another D&D session for sure. I'm starving, I don't think I'll make it 'till the 25th

I mean, money, always money. I'm a currently unemployed broke student and living with my parents is driving me even more insane. Hopefully I'll land a job this summer coding as a still studying junior, the same one I intend to do my internship at next year. I won't make much, but I might be able to pay my part of a shared appartment with some friends once I've finished my current studies.

A hug, hormones have been driving me mad these past two days and I've been so so soft. Still am. I would like to drown in a big embrace, but honestly, right now, I don't have anyone I would like to give me that kind of hug. Am I weird? Haha I'm just not really a "touchy" person.

Time to draw and write, lately I haven't been able to.

Tagging: @night-unfurls-its-splendour @birdstooth @carpeossa @dross-the-fish @erik-carierre @gee1puu @jenjanart @muirin007 @royalavera @rose-margaritas @tondroom @toastjadan no pressure to join, and anyone who sees this and would like to participate is more than welcomed 😊

#tag game #ships #personal #about myself

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nerdywriter36 · 3 months ago

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Sticky Notes and Serendipity, Chapter 19: Emotional Visits and Embarrassing Pictures

AO3

Hello again! Chapter 19 is now up for all to read.

Just as a quick note - Chloe and I will be taking a two-week break from posting over the next couple of Saturdays. Life is getting a bit busy at the end of August and we won't have time to edit and/or post. We'll be back in early September with a new chapter! Thank you all again for the love on this fic <3

#poto #phic #my writing #that's my friend!#christine daae #erik carierre #philippe de chagny #cherik #poto 1990 #modern au #neighbour au #sticky notes and serendipity

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angel-with-paper-wings · 8 months ago

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The Magician’s Prelude

This is a gift for @erik-carierre posted with permission! Many thanks for your feedback and support!!

Summary: Erik’s morning routine while working as a magician in Russia prior to his recruitment by Nadir. Based on Kay!Erik.

Cover art and title by @erik-carierre

Content warnings: PTSD-like trauma flashbacks, bloody/gory imagery, slightly graphic descriptions of violence, body negativity (Erik is an angsty teenager)

Now on AO3 here!

Blood. There is always blood.

It oozes around the shards of mirror buried in the skin of my hands…it drips in thick crimson blobs onto the bundle of golden fur…it spatters in hot torrents against my chest and sticks to the open buttons of my shirt…

And it is there again that night. In the rooftop garden, I stand paralyzed staring at the gap in the crumbled balustrade. My chest feels hollow—I cannot breathe, I cannot scream—all I can do is watch as the gap yawns before me, pulling me closer. Against my will, I peer over the edge to view the sight I know is there.

I wish I could blink. I long for even the tiniest respite from what lay before me, but all I can do is look. Her body is small amidst the shattered rubble, her thin delicate limbs laying at odd angles, her soft barley hair matted with flecks of blood and gore. And her eyes…her pale eyes snuffed of all fire that had once bubbled inside of her like smoldering lava. They stare blankly up at my unmasked face, looking but not seeing.

All she ever wanted was to look at me…and now all I can do is look. Look at what I have done.

I awakened with a jolt, my eyes flying open and clenching the thin woolen blanket to my chest. One skeletal hand flew up to my face, and only once I felt the smooth hardness of the mask did I relax. After a moment of composure, I opened my aching jaw and heaved out a sigh of annoyance. The nightmares were as persistent as they had always been.

I sat up in bed and fumbled to light the oil lamp on the nightstand. I had no difficulty getting prepared in complete darkness, but I simply preferred not to after a night of haunting visions. A small clock beside the lamp told me it was early in the morning—earlier than I typically rose, but I was already resigned to the fact that I wouldn’t be sleeping any more if I tried.

I flung the woolen blanket to the side and felt the floor creak beneath my bare feet. The inn’s modest wooden room was comfortable enough for my needs: a bed with sheets, a chamber pot, a pitcher and washbasin, and most valuable of all, privacy. There had been a mirror, but I removed it soon after arriving.

I yanked off my nightshirt, letting the room’s warm air graze the scars slashed across my back. Russia had intriguingly hot summers; the books I had read as a boy only bothered to describe the harshness of the winter months, so I confess to being slightly bemused upon my arrival three years ago to a city with a climate only moderately cooler than the one I had left behind in Italy.

Her twisted body flashed before me again, the broken masonry wet and crimson from the split in her skull… I closed my eyes and angrily shoved the image back into the shadows of my mind. No. No more thoughts of that place. I poured water from the pitcher into the washbasin and dunked in a bar of perfumed soap. Once it had worked up a lather, I soaked a clean cloth and derisively began to wash myself.

The dawn of my body’s maturity had proven to be a dismal affair. It took my bones the full extent of my nineteen years to finally cease their growing, leaving me wretchedly gaunt and pitifully covered in pasty yellow skin. I had the strength of a man twice my age and triple my weight, but my frame still refused to resemble anything but a corpse. In my frustration, I scrubbed harder at my own flesh, attempting to cleanse it of its rotten color. But it remained as it always had, pulled tight over my arms to display veins and tendons, with the only thickness found in the old silvery scars adorning my wrists and hands.

Once I had scoured myself raw, I slung the cloth over the rack of the washstand to dry and stared down into the bottom of the basin. Silence screamed in my ears and my stomach twisted with dread. I turned my head to glance at the door behind me; the lock was securely in place, but the familiar prickle of eyes stung my skin all the same.

With trembling fingers, I removed the mask. Warm air rolled across my bare skin like a caress, or what I imagined a caress to feel like. I set the white sculpted shard aside on the stand, and after a heavy sigh, I bent over the basin and scooped handfuls of water over my head, scrubbing the soap’s lather deep into my thick black waves of hair. Droplets ran down the edges of my face, as if even they were afraid to touch the horror that was there. But I forced them to touch it, rubbing the water into the cracks and distorted furrows of my skin, smearing it around the protruding bones and into my eyes’ sunken pits. I braced myself with a grimace before carefully wiping the dried mucus away from the edge of the hole that was my nose.

The torture ended when I finally buried my repulsiveness in a towel. I held the soft cloth against my face as my other hand reached for the mask, slipping it back into place with a relieved sigh. I squeezed my dark hair free of water, then picked up a comb and worked it through the curls until they attained sufficient softness. I laid the towel and comb to the side and stepped over to the tiny wardrobe, withdrawing one of many black satin shirts and slipping it on. After dressing myself, I left my room and slinked down the stairs as a soundless shadow.

The empty tavern on the first floor simmered with the savory scent of shchi. This early in the morning, the only other soul awake was the ancient innkeeper preparing the first meal of the day. I scattered a handful of kopecks onto the bar, letting the clattering sound echo into the kitchen. A minute later, the shawled woman doddered forward and set a steaming bowl of cabbage soup and a chunk of crusty bread before me. No words or glances were exchanged, no questions were asked, as was our routine.

I suspected she found me strange—indeed, I have yet to encounter a soul who didn’t—but she seemed to tolerate me well enough. After her defective coal stove found itself repaired the day following my arrival, I was able to convince her to let me use her inn’s far room as a flat for several months. Unlike my fellow tenants, I paid precisely on time, never returned drunk or belligerent, and there was no risk of women being snuck into my bed. After all, what woman would be desperate enough to lay with a corpse, regardless of the payment offered to her?

With this bitterness lingering in my head, I ate my meal quickly and slipped out into the morning’s haze. It was a rare day; the air was pleasantly cool and the clouds had chosen to don a color besides their usual dismal grey. I assured myself that no one was watching before I lifted my head to admire the way the branches of trees cast their dark silhouettes against the paling sky.

The western quarter of Nizhny Novgorod was largely deserted, making it easy to dart through the city’s shadows unseen in my black attire. Once the day hit its sweltering peak, the cobbled streets would resemble the Volga river with rushing currents of wealthy merchants and colorful travelers from Europe and India and Persia. By that time, I would be waiting for them in my magician’s tent, where they would be shown more wonders than their feeble minds could possibly comprehend.

I rounded a corner and walked along the silent boulevard, until the trees bordering the street gave way to a wrought-iron fence. Beyond the fence, majestically imposing against the northwest horizon, stood the blinding white structure of the Spassky Cathedral. Pink wisps of sunrise stretched across the sky and barely kissed the golden spire atop its great dark cupola.

As I so often did on clear mornings like this one, I felt compelled to stop and gaze up at the splendid piece of architecture. My eyes danced over its fine pillars and elegant façade, admiring the expert carving and delighting in the exquisite use of symmetry and proportion. I had snuck inside once in the dead of night to glimpse its interior—what beauty! It lacked the scale of greater cathedrals, but in golden grandeur it did not disappoint.

There was a time when I had imagined building such great works myself. Beneath the creaky bed back at the inn lay several journals filled with sketches of the spectacular monuments I saw when I closed my eyes. The pages overflowed with details of magnificent marble façades and great towering pavilions, gilded figures in copper and bronze, ornate mosaics with details that dazzled the imagination. My architectural creations would be shrines of worship, not to any one god but to all forces that stirred the spirit and awakened man’s deepest emotions—art, geometry, magic, and most of all music. Oh, how I missed music.

Often this fantasy crossed my mind, and with every day and every kopeck in my purse, it seemed less and less like a child’s dream. After all, I was still very much in my youth…perhaps that day was still to come.

Once I had admired all I could bear, I tucked my masked face back down between my narrow shoulders and trudged off through the neighborhood of shops and teahouses. A smattering of humans were beginning to converge on the street that I walked: small groups of traders bickering in foreign tongues and leading wooden carts filled with wares to sell. Like me, they trampled up the soggy road to the shadow of the large red and yellow stone building, beyond which lay a great courtyard overlooking the bank of the Oka. It was here in the summer months that the great Markaryev Fair was held, where tradesmen and entertainers alike earned their gold.

I proceeded underneath the building’s archway and entered the city’s courtyard. Vendors were already busy erecting tents and unloading their goods in designated sections around the square. Past cotton bales and crates of tea and spices, I spotted the oval shape of the familiar black yurt tucked in its corner, untouched as always. I never worried about the tent’s safety during my absence, for a rumor of a deadly curse had found its way amongst the traders that effectively warded off potential burglars.

As I walked, a warm breeze wafted through the market’s open air, carrying a strain of musical notes to my ears. My heart jumped and I whipped my head towards the sound. On the other side of the courtyard sauntered a muzhik fiddler, beard scraggly and legs stumbling as if drunk, the bow screeching as it was dragged across the rusty strings. A couple passing by threw a few coins into the hat that lay at his feet.

Under the mask, my lips pulled back in a snarl. How dare these fools reward such a tuneless, insolent mockery of music! That drunken bastard did not deserve the right to place his filthy hands on an instrument and spoil its sacred beauty for the whole city to hear. My bony form seethed beneath its black clothing, but I successfully fought back my fervid rage and stomped off towards the yurt. I clenched my shaking hands at my sides, imagining the feeling of the man’s throat beneath my fingers; a sharp snap from his neck and those dreadful notes would finally fall silent.

A crunch against the stones. The heavy tumble of rubble against the ground dampens the sound of her skull cracking open…

I entered the dark tent and pulled the fabric flaps closed behind me, blessedly muffling the horrid noises. A deep breath steadied my hands, and with practiced precision I navigated the small space and lit candles tucked in little red lanterns, banishing the darkness and revealing the blood-red of the yurt’s interior. Swooping red curtains hung from the concave ceiling; samples of shyrdak hangings formed the walls, weaving in swirls of black and gold into the otherwise scarlet room. I kicked off my shoes and felt the luxurious softness of the thick Persian rugs buried beneath velvet cushions.

I ignited the small charcoal stove to boil water in the samovar for tea. While it brewed, I reclined back against the cushions and turned my attention to the long wooden box tucked near the back of the tent: the trick casket. My fingers deftly pranced over the mechanism to open the box, and I withdrew the materials for my magician’s performance: decks of cards, stacks of silver coins, hand-carved trick dice. I arranged them all in neat rows upon the central rug with a small grin.

I struck another match and lit a few sticks of incense to flood the space with their heady, sweet fragrance. I had learned over time that it was beneficial for the minds of my audience to be stripped of their defenses—that way, they found my tricks more dazzling and dropped more rubles into my bony hand. Sometimes this state of enchantment would make them too bold, and bring out their insatiable nature that they otherwise hid from their gods during prayer in the temples and cathedrals. They became ravenous, foolishly curious; they would grope for my mask and demand to see what lay beneath…

All she wanted was to see me.

My hands curled upon themselves, extinguishing the match’s flame between my fingertips. The wretched visions played through my mind again and numbed the burn on my skin.

A mirror shard clenched between the tips of tweezers…bloody hands furiously digging at the grassy dirt…the heavy clunk of a knife’s hilt as the belt dropped to the floor… It was difficult to understand why I remembered certain details so clearly, while others merely faded into murky shadows.

Over the course of three years, the girl’s living face had become fuzzy in my memory. Indeed, I had only dared to look at her a handful of times while living with the master stonemason. Every time I did, my chest would fill with an uncomfortable constricting sensation, and I would be forced to look away or else stop breathing altogether. Her eyes had a heat that scorched all the way to my soul. She was fire—bold, passionate, all-consuming—and I knew better than to risk being burned. Or perhaps I was afraid.

But it was the moment I finally gave her what she pleaded for, the moment I ripped off the mask—her expression of pure horror, anguish and primal fear, grief for love she had never truly felt. That image would always remain in my memory perfectly in focus.

I slowly opened my hand, and I stared down at the two spots of black soot left upon the pale skin of my thumb and forefinger. Temporary scars, easily washed away. That’s all these dreams were to me…but still the pain they carried hurt more than the deep wounds left on my body.

With a harsh huff, I flicked the remnants of the match away and reached over to the samovar to pour myself a cup of tea. The earthy liquid seared down my throat and revived my senses, kicking the brooding memories away in favor of my present enterprise. Outside my tent, I heard the growing clamour of the fair coming to life—my audience awaited me.

A familiar pang prodded at my heart. Was this all? Would this pitiful life, shrouded away in a performer’s tent, forever be my purpose? In my heart, I longed to use my skills to create the majesty that filled my mind: grand palaces, ingenious machines, symphonies without equal. If I had to be confined to mindless magic tricks for greedy imbeciles, then they would be the best magic tricks ever conceived. In a way, I thought to myself scornfully, I had not left that traveling fair…perhaps I never would. But at least things were different now. I was my own master, and no one would ever cage me again.

As the incense swirled its sickly-sweet aroma through the air, I slipped further back into my tent and drew a sheer red curtain across my masked form. I laid back in my trick coffin and heard several soft clicks as the mechanism closed the lid and cloaked me in darkness—the one place I have ever truly belonged.

Long ago, I had accepted my place as prince of darkness, and I would reign over my realm with proud finesse. So let them in now, the merchants and peasants from all corners of the world. Let them think they are the kings and I am their fool. Let them believe they know what it is like to be afraid.

Let them in, and let them look.

#poto #phantom of the opera #susan kay phantom #my writing #fanfiction #poto fanfiction #erik poto #erik phantom

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meilas · 3 months ago

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just one from tonight, featuring @erik-carierre

#poto shitpost #poto #phantom of the opera #earl carpenter

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nerdywriter36 · 8 months ago

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thanks for the tag @frommarshtheycome! this is cute! (OOPS this tag got saved as a draft and never posted hahahahaha)

tagging @brendadaaedestler @meilas @ablatheringblatherskite @rose-margaritas @erik-carierre

i found a cool tag game on twitter and i really wanna import it (o^ ^o)

this picrew + the last song you listened to :]

no pressure tags: @blood-loving-leech @overtaken-boredom @lesbianthatyaps @kameonerd566 @hexedvampire @laczki @anonymous-shxtposter @fleurafae @flovqy + anyone who wants to do it <3

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nerdywriter36 · 4 months ago

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Sticky Notes and Serendipity, Chapter 18: Good News and Ghost Stories

AO3

After a week off, we are back with a new chapter of Sticky Notes! It is short and sweet this week before it gets beefy again over the next couple of updates.

Thank you again to everyone for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting! We appreciate every single one of you <3

#poto #phic #my writing #that's my friend!#christine daae #erik carierre #gerard carierre #cherik #poto 1990 #modern au #neighbour au #sticky notes and serendipity

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angel-with-paper-wings · 9 days ago

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Fanfiction Author Interview Game

Thanks @brendadaaedestler for tagging me! ❤️

How many works do you have on ao3?

Just 3 (soon to be 4 hopefully 😉)

What's your total ao3 word count?

192,612

Your top 5 stories by kudos:

“Live As You’ve Never Lived Before” (358 kudos)

“An Eternity of Bliss” (199 kudos)

”The Magician’s Prelude” (102 kudos)

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Always! I love comments!! I love engaging with my audience and getting feedback about my work.

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

I’ve written some angst in past unpublished fics, but for my published fics, I guess I would say “The Magciain’s Prelude”. Teenage Erik angst is the best angst 🥰

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

Definitely “Live As You’ve Never Lived Before”!

Do you write crossovers?

Nope.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

No, thankfully!

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

There is a bit of non-graphic smut in a few chapters of “An Eternity of Bliss”. Since I’m not primarily a smut writer/blogger, I won’t go into detail on this post.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I don’t think so, I hope not!

Have you ever had a fic translated?

No but that would be really cool!

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No, but I would be interested in giving it a try if anyone wants to collab!

What's your all-time favorite ship?

I gotta go with Erik/Christine. It would NEVER work in canon and it’s not supposed to work, but who says these two can’t be happy in another universe?

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

I had an idea for a LND sequel recently, but I don’t know if it’ll get very far past the brainstorming stages. But we’ll see!

What are your writing strengths?

I like to think I have a pretty good grasp on the characters that I write, both their internal motivations and their dynamics with other characters. I prefer a good character-driven story over a plot-driven story, so that might explain why I devote so much writing energy to it.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Sometimes I feel like I haven’t quite mastered how to write scene descritions or character actions (aka the “filler” between lines of dialogue in a scene) without it feeling stilted or awkward. I feel like I write too much detail in these sections, but I tend to see a scene so clearly in my head and I find myself wanting to write down every little detail.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I like it and use it a little bit when it’s appropriate for the story/characters.

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

Erik/Daroga speaks to me on a really peofound level; that is a really interesting dynamic that I would love to explore someday. Raoul/Christine would be fun too, but honestly Raoul/Christine/Erik would be crazy in a fun way!! Lots to unpack!

What's your favorite fic you've written?

I really love “Live As You’ve Never Lived Before”; it’s the one that started it all and I’m still really proud of what I was able to accomplish with it. But honestly, I think I am most impressed by “The Magician’s Prelude” from a writing standpoint. I wrote that fic pretty fast and I kinda just relied on spur-of-the-moment inspiration for it, and I ADORE how it turned out. It feels the most artistic out of all the things I’ve written and published.

Tags: @sad-eyed-lady-of-the-paperbacks, @the-sparkling-diamond-satine, @erik-carierre, @shinyfire-0

#tag game #tag games #poto #phantom of the opera #fanfiction #poto fanfiction

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