#erik carierre

[nerdywriter36]

Sticky Notes and Serendipity, Chapter 17: Anxiety and Admissions

AO3

Chapter 17 is now live! It's a big one :)

Thank you to everyone who has been reading this fic so far! We are officially over the halfway mark (as of the last chapter) and Chloe and I have been enjoying this journey so much so far. Thank you for all of the love and support <3

[angel-with-paper-wings]

Live As You’ve Never Lived Before

“The sound of her sobs echoed through the silence, carrying through the thin walls to the hollow space beyond. Her voice and all its sorrow was heard, but not by an angel. That night, while the rest of Paris celebrated, two souls broken by the world wept together.”

Description: A retelling of the classic tale in which Christine and the Phantom end up together, but it works. Original work but with elements of Leroux, Kay, ALW, and 2004 movie blended in.

Read here on AO3

Special thanks to @erik-carierre for the WONDERFUL cover!!! Please check out their blog if you haven’t already!

[meilas]

@haunted-hideaway @erik-carierre @wismoth @from-aldebaran @glassprism butallislost whatyouwill @gnossienne @forestscribe4 dimmedghosts @warpweight @phantoonsoftheopera @ladystormcrow chattering-tchotchke probablynotben linguification @brendadaaedestler leeringsatyrs @emotionalmotionsicknessxx @wheel-of-fish

[lhenn]

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 😊

[nerdywriter36]

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

[angel-with-paper-wings]

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.

[meilas]

just one from tonight, featuring @erik-carierre

[nerdywriter36]

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

[nerdywriter36]

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

[angel-with-paper-wings]

Ten First Lines Game

Rules: Share the first line of ten of your most recent fanfics and then tag ten people. Don't have ten? Not to worry, just share what you have.

Thank you so much @sadeyedlady-writes for tagging me in this game!!! I do not have anywhere near ten published fics, so instead I chose some of my favorite first lines of chapters from my two multi-chapter works and my one-shot. All fics are about Phantom of the Opera.

Live As You’ve Never Lived Before

Chapter 1: Little Lotte Thought of Everything and Nothing

Turquoise waves crashed steadily onto the rocky shore.

2. Chapter 6: Let Your Spirit Start to Soar

A young rosy-faced ballerina scurried into the corps’ dressing room. She quickly found a friend and tugged on her arm. “Did you hear? Someone saw the Phantom!”

3. Chapter 7: Promise Me You’ll Try

The Opera Populaire stood cloaked in shadow, every room inside completely silent as its workers and dancers slept peacefully. Every room, that is, except for one.

4. Chapter 13: Threaten and Adore

For what felt like the hundredth time that day, Christine sneezed.

5. Chapter 20: Anywhere You Go, Let Me Go Too

Three weeks. Never before had Christine realized how long such a time actually was. She seemed to feel each second passing, every moment seeping by as if time moved through thick honey.

An Eternity of Bliss

6. Chapter 1: What Followed

The Rue de Rivoli was quiet and cloaked in nighttime shadows, broken intermittently by the glow of a street lamp.

7. Chapter 8: Resurrection

As nighttime fell upon the small seaside village, the newlywed couple and their friend exited the church with a collective sigh.

8. Chapter 9: The Happiest of Woman (and Men)

Morning light seeped into the room past the half-drawn curtains, gentle and promising. It was not what Erik was accustomed to.

9. Chapter 12: You Will Understand In Time

“Good morning, my Angel.” The musical rumble of Erik’s voice against her skin pulled Christine from her dreamless sleep.

10. The Siren’s Song (one-shot)

The sun dipped just below the west horizon, painting the Mazenderan sky a bright blood-red.

No-pressure tags: @iseedeadsneeeple, @a-partofthenarrative, @maze-zen, @garnet-xx-rose, @emotionalmotionsicknessxx, @erik-carierre, @eriksdreamery, @shinyfire-0, @patron-minette, @granhairdo and of course anyone else who sees this post and wants to participate!!

[meilas]

@brendadaaedestler @erik-carierre

[nerdywriter36]

thanks Angie!

my parents 😭 philip and aurora, i win

tagging: @brendadaaedestler @rose-margaritas @from-aldebaran @erik-carierre and anyone else who wants to play!

last fictional character in ur camera roll just adopted u

(Yes I did do this only because I want him to adopt me. Fuck off)

tags: @cryptidwithaninternetconnection @reggie-the-inferi @gingerbreadeel24 @pickupstyx

and whoever the fuck sees this

[lerouxaccurate]

Christine realizing she doesn’t have to deal with Erik’s shit:

[nerdywriter36]

thanks for the tag, Aster!

I’m losing my mind at the screaming cat, but honestly? It fits.

tagging @brendadaaedestler @meilas @rose-margaritas @erik-carierre @angel-with-paper-wings @trash-art-central-blog @achillmango @wheel-of-fish and anyone else who wants to play!

rules: go to pinterest and type [your name] + “core” to show your aesthetic, then post the first 6 images.

💀 at the Lego head but also pretty impressed at this spread

tag: @portaltothevoid @anamelessfool @copias-juicebox @writingjourney @gravehags @canarycolemine @the-lisechen @discountdemonwarehouse

reblog instead of repost so we can see all the cool pics 🖤

[nerdywriter36]

Sticky Notes and Serendipity Chapter 22: Panic Attacks and Problem Solving

AO3

Chapter 22 is now up for your reading pleasure! It's a longer one, but a lot happens. Christine and Erik have some navigating to do in their relationship as different challenges come to light. We hope you enjoy, and thank you for all of the recent kudos and comments! They mean the world <3

[angel-with-paper-wings]

10 and 12 for the fandom ask game 😈

Hello and thank you for the ask!!

10. What's your favourite piece of fanart for [character]?

You didn’t specify a character in your ask, so I’m going to go with Erik! Hhhh this is tough because I am IN LOVE with so many artists’ interpretations of Erik!! But for right now, I’m going to go with @erik-carierre’s comic “Unsatisfied”… every panel is a masterpiece!

12. What's the funniest or craziest AU idea you've ever come up with?

Hmmm… I’m not a big AU person, but a while ago I did come up with a few modern!AU headcanons for the POTO crew! The one I laughed at the most was imagining what kind of driver Christine would be… I figured she would be pretty bad at driving and get too easily distracted (she’s the kind of girl who needs the car DEAD SILENT to keep her focus on the road, because if the radio is on, she will start singing along and pay zero attention to the speed limit/destination 😂).