#obey me phantom of the opera | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

leighsartworks216 · 2 months ago

Text

Love Me, That's All I Ask Of You

Sylus x gn!Reader

Apparently my brain can only cope with angst if it has a happy ending rn @comatosebunny09 YOU DID THIS (/positive)

Inspired by this post

Title from "All I Ask Of You" from Phantom of the Opera

Warnings: blood, injury, self-destructive behavior, swearing, requited unrequited love, angst, hurt/comfort, happy ending, kissing, ignoring the red string of fate, jealousy, soft Sylus

Word Count: 1,900

Main Masterlist

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

The Raven Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

The repetitive thwack of the punching bag keeps you going. Harder and harder, faster, more precise.

Your knuckles are bleeding. It stains the vinyl of the bag. They sting with every slight adjustment of your hand, with every punch. They’re probably misaligned, too. On the verge of breaking. But it’s not enough.

Sweat drips down your forehead and back. You’ve been down here for hours. You don’t want to leave.

It’s so fucking childish - you know that. But it hurts so fucking bad. Hearing the way he speaks to her, like you’re not in the room. The way he seeks out the banter and teasing conversations they share. The way he looks at her…

Is the only thing you’re good for your loyalty?

And it’s not like he hasn’t noticed the way you distance yourself. He’s brought up your over-the-top silence, saying he hasn’t heard your voice in a week. He’s tried asking what’s wrong, but you never answer. And when you stopped sleeping in his room altogether? He looked exhausted the next day, staring after you like he was working to decipher why he’d been left to sleep alone. The only company you seemed to seek anymore was that of Mephisto’s.

God, Mephisto. That crow had shown you their excursion to enhance her ability. You couldn’t deny the sick satisfaction you got when she still couldn’t Resonate with him, whether it’s because she found him “disgusting” or some other reason… But why did he have to look so offended by it?

You hit the bag so hard it rips. Sand pours out of the tear like water, draining onto the floor. You’re mesmerized by it. The slight hiss of the sand moving together, pouring out like a faucet and pooling on the floor into a steadily growing pile. It’s almost soothing.

Almost.

You kick the sand to the side. It fans out across the black floor in an arc of dappled white.

The prickle at the back of your neck puts all your nerves on high alert, but you know not to be afraid of it. You know the source. The cause of all your rage. The last person you want to see right now. You’d even take Little Miss Hunter over him.

You turn and meet his eye. Crimson, sharp with concern to match the furrow in his brow. It burns through you, all too familiar and, once upon a time, comforting. When he could look at you and so easily know exactly what you were feeling, even before your deal. They flicker down to your hands, crusted over with blood.

“It’s not like you to hide away when something bothers you,” he states, shifting his weight to his other foot as he crosses his arms. He’s right, too; for a while now, if something - anything - bugged you, he was the first to know, usually seconds after it started grating on your nerves. Still, you don’t say anything.

Sylus sighs. You’re nothing if not stubbornly persistent. He holds a hand out, motioning toward your own.

You think about obeying. Ever since Little Miss appeared, you haven’t really touched him. It was of your own volition - a sacrifice to pull yourself away and watch from afar - but you can’t deny how much you miss it.

His frown deepens when you stay exactly where you are. “So it’s something I’ve done.” Your face remains set and unemotive. His hand returns to its crossed position, finger tapping against his leather jacket. “Something so terrible you’d rather hide away from me.”

He looks you up and down, studying every small tell he can find, any twitch or involuntary muscle spasm. He doesn’t find any. Another frustrating skill of yours. The only thing he can latch onto is the state of your hands. He’s not used to seeing your own blood staining your knuckles. If you used your bare hands at all, the only blood you’d be covered in when all was said and done was that of your prey.

“And enough to harm yourself.”

He meets your eyes again. It almost feels familiar. That intense insistence on knowing you, on wanting to know every single thing about you even if it takes eons. But now it’s not out of an innate desire to unravel the secrets you wrap yourself in. It’s prying. It’s grabbing bolt cutters and breaking away each chain link one by one.

He takes a slow step forward, testing the waters.

You don’t move.

He takes another, dropping his arms to his side.

You study him in return. He’s tense. You see it in the set of his shoulders.

He’s five feet away when Mephisto appears in a whirl of smoke on your shoulder. He caws twice before projecting a video on a little holographic screen.

Little Miss Hunter, searching for the brooch. Yesterday, Mephisto had snuck it off Sylus’s body and brought it to you. You’d had a brief moment of fun teasing Little Miss with it, silently taunting her as you twirled it lazily between your fingers while she threatened you. You have no doubt after hiding it that it found its way back to Sylus.

You watch his face as he watches the screen. The intensity leaves his eyes, replaced with the calculating stare of a businessman in his trade. He watches her frustratedly try to break the lock on a cabinet, determined to check behind every item on display to make absolutely sure the brooch isn’t hiding behind them. When she turns to the bookshelf in a huff, she pauses. Sylus’s eyes narrow a fraction. She runs over to the shelf and starts emptying it out book by book, fanning through pages for any sign of a secret compartment to hide something inside. There was one book of such a nature; you’d hid the brooch inside of it, just to see if she would be hell-bent enough to search through every single one.

He looks away from the projected images, eyes softer than before. He’s figured you out, you’re sure of it.

“Search me,” he says. It’s not a demand, it’s an offer. Your expression falters for a millisecond, but he catches it. Of course he catches it. He opens his arms, inviting you in. Mephisto’s video feed disappears from view as he flies up to sit on the broken punching bag. “Find the brooch.”

You glance him up and down. There are plenty of places for something that small to hide.

Hesitantly, you step forward. His eyes follow you, but he remains still. This close, you refuse to look at his face. You haven’t been near enough to feel his radiating heat like this in so long…

You feel his sides first. The pockets of his leather jacket, both inside and out, are empty. There’s nothing concealed in his waistband. You don’t look at his face as you reach up to feel along his collar and lapels.

You pat along the length of both his arms. Aside from muscle, you find nothing. You reach into his pants pockets, but the only thing you pull out is his phone. You slip it back in before feeling down the long length of his legs. You pull up the bottom hem of his pants and check the top of his socks that peek out of his shoes, but there’s still nothing there.

You stand up, hands falling back to your sides. You meet his eyes. He doesn’t have the brooch.

Mephisto caws again. You turn to look over your shoulder. Little Miss Hunter, surrounded by a pile of books, triumphantly holds up the red-jeweled brooch, dropping the book you hid it in into the mess. Gentle fingers glide along your jaw to turn your face back to him.

Sylus looks at you in a way you never thought you’d see again. He’s leaned down to reduce the strain on his neck and be closer to you, but there’s still about a foot of distance between you. Even the way he touches you is reserved, like he’s waiting for you to pull away or punch him.

“I’m sorry.”

Your breath hitches. He… apologized? Of all the things he could have said, you never expected that.

“Whatever binds me to her,” he whispers, “it holds nothing to you. I should have made that clear much sooner.”

“What binds you to her?” Your voice is raspy from disuse. His shoulders relax, just so relieved that you’re speaking to him again.

He shakes his head slightly. “A past I should have buried a long time ago.”

It’s vague, he knows it. You wish he would tell you more, tell you exactly what happened that has him so inextricably connected to Little Miss Hunter. But he never pried into your own past, for better or worse. Maybe you both need them to die, buried at least 12 feet under and covered with a block of cement.

You lift your hand to trace his cheek. He sighs, leaning into the touch. Your fingers are rough and cracked, blood drying on your knuckles. The copper twang is hard to miss. He turns his head to kiss your palm, eyes closing in reverence. You fully cup his cheek and draw him in, kissing him softly at first.

Your lips tremble with overwhelming emotion. The anger that burns in your heart is slowly snuffed out by the soothing balm of his quiet sigh, a hushed whisper of your real name, not your moniker. You wonder for the first time since this began if he felt the same loss you did when you began distancing yourself from him. When you went back to your old room instead of sleeping in his bed, if he looked so tired the next night because he couldn’t sleep at all without you there beside him.

You get your answer in the way he desperately pulls you into kiss after kiss, burning with passion and trying to catch up for the time lost. In the way his hands hold your face, tangling with the hairs at the back of your neck as he keeps you close. In the way he sighs and gasps so longingly, savoring everything you give him.

He feels how much you missed him in much the same way. In the way you step closer until your bodies are pressed together. In the way you grab onto his jacket’s lapel. In the way you dig your bloody fingers in his white hair.

You’re both panting when he finally pulls away, breaths mixing in the centimeters between your faces as he refuses to move back any farther, forehead resting insistently against yours. Neither of you say anything for a moment, basking together in the quiet aftermath of the storm.

His hand is warm and gentle when he pulls yours from his hair. He turns it over to press featherlight kisses along your busted up knuckles. “Let’s take care of you, sweetheart, hm?” His eyes are half-lidded with affection when he looks at you. “The auction is tomorrow night. I need to show everyone just who I belong to.”

Your heart skips in your chest as you draw him in again by his leather jacket, biting down sharply on his lower lip. He hisses at the sting, but groans with want when you pull away. His eyes are drawn to his blood on your lips. “I’ll make sure they never forget.”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021

#fanfic #fanfiction #sylus #sylus x reader #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #lads #lads x reader #lnds #lnds x reader #gn reader #x gn reader #gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader #angst #hurt/comfort

420 notes · View notes

n1ght0f-nyx · 3 months ago

Note

hiiiiii i'm a big phantom of the opera fan. Could i please please please request a fic where the reader works in the opera house and she has a panic attack but the phantom sees her and sings to calm her down <33333

Song in the Dark

erik destler (the phantom) x gn reader!

The reader, working in the opera house, has a panic attack and hides in a dark corner. The Phantom finds her, sees her distress, and sings a calming song.

warnings- not a realistic panic attack, anxiety

word count: 889 words

divder by kodaswrld

The grandiose halls of the Paris Opera House echoed with the sound of rehearsals. Dancers glided across the stage, singers belted high notes, and behind the scenes, the workers were bustling—adjusting props, fixing costumes, and preparing for the upcoming performance. You, one of the backstage hands, found yourself moving at a rapid pace, trying to keep up with the demands of the day.

But something was different today. There was a tension in your chest that hadn’t been there before. The pressure of work, the fast pace, the noise—it all began to blur together, and suddenly, your world felt as if it was spinning out of control.

You stumbled into a shadowy corner near the labyrinthine hallways beneath the opera house, clutching your chest. Your breaths became shallow, your heart raced, and your mind was swirling with thoughts you couldn’t quiet. You had read about panic attacks before, but nothing could have prepared you for the overwhelming feeling of dread. Your hands trembled as you slid to the ground, tears welling in your eyes.

Suddenly, amidst the darkness and chaos in your mind, a voice emerged from the shadows. Soft, soothing, and hauntingly beautiful, it called out to you.

"Do not be afraid, little one. You are safe here."

The voice wrapped around you like a gentle embrace. Though your heart still raced, you couldn’t help but focus on the sound. A figure stepped into the dim light, cloaked in shadows, yet unmistakable—the Phantom. His white mask gleamed against the darkened walls, and his presence, though intimidating, was oddly comforting in that moment.

He crouched beside you, his voice low and melodic. "You must breathe. Listen to me."

You tried to take a deep breath, but the tightness in your chest remained. Your vision blurred with tears, and you found yourself sinking further into the panic. Sensing your struggle, the Phantom leaned closer, and without a word, he began to sing.

His voice, rich and deep, flowed through the narrow space. The melody was unfamiliar, but it was calm and gentle, like a lullaby meant to soothe a frightened child. The notes filled the air, wrapping around you, coaxing you to focus on the sound rather than the chaos inside your mind.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered between verses.

You obeyed, closing your eyes and listening to his song. The tension in your chest slowly began to ease, as if the weight of your panic was being lifted by the very sound of his voice. You could hear every note, every gentle rise and fall in the melody, and it felt like the world around you had stopped spinning.

The Phantom continued to sing, his voice a balm to your frayed nerves. He wasn’t just singing to calm you down—he was singing for you, as if each note was crafted with you in mind. His presence, once feared by so many in the opera house, felt like a lifeline in your moment of vulnerability.

Gradually, your breathing steadied. The tightness in your chest loosened, and the tears that had spilled over your cheeks began to dry. The panic that had gripped you so fiercely was now fading, replaced by a sense of calm, and the comfort of knowing that someone had been there for you when you needed it most.

When you finally opened your eyes, the Phantom had stopped singing. He was still close, his eyes fixed on you, though half his face remained hidden by his iconic mask. You swallowed hard, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over you, though you weren’t sure what to say.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

The Phantom’s lips twitched into a faint smile, though there was something unreadable in his gaze. “There is no need to thank me. The music has always had the power to heal... to calm the soul.”

He rose to his feet with a grace that seemed almost otherworldly and extended a hand to you. Hesitant at first, you took it, allowing him to help you to your feet. Even after the panic had subsided, there was something grounding about his touch.

"You should rest," he said, his voice softer now, almost tender. "The opera will still be here when you are ready."

You nodded, still feeling the aftershocks of your anxiety, but the weight had lifted. The Phantom gave you a final, enigmatic glance before turning away, his figure melting back into the shadows from which he had emerged.

As you watched him disappear into the darkness, you couldn’t help but feel that something had changed within you. Perhaps it was the Phantom’s song, or perhaps it was the realization that, even in the deepest corners of the opera house, even in the midst of fear, you were not alone.

And somewhere, deep in the bowels of the opera house, the Phantom sang on.

#divder by kodaswrld #phantom of the opera #poto #erik x reader #erik destler x reader #erik the phantom #poto art #the phantom of the opera #poto musical #gaston leroux #phantom of the opera x reader #christine daae #x reader #phantom x reader #gerard butler #charles dance #erik poto #request

179 notes · View notes

fandom · 2 years ago

Text

This is the way.

Ted Lasso's AFC Richmond went on the road and the guys (and gals) had quite a night out. The Mandalorian wrapped up its third season and there wasn't a dry eye in the house. It's safe to say Team RWBY had quite the adventure during the finale of RWBY's ninth volume. The latest SpaceX launch was "successful" in that it did successfully launch before promptly exploding. Also exploding is whatever is happening with Twitter Blue. Phantom of the Opera, Broadway's longest running show in history, performed its final act. If you haven't read the latest issue of the Jujutsu Kaisen manga, you should probably filter some tags to avoid spoilers. Finally, can someone explain what's happening in the QSMP? We'd appreciate it. This is Tumblr's Week in Review.

Ted Lasso

The Mandalorian

Elon Musk

Succession

RWBY

The Owl House

Jujutsu Kaisen

The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom

Artists on Tumblr

Obey Me! Shall We Date?

Star Wars

Stranger Things

The QSMP Minecraft Server

Misha Collins

The Welcome Home ARG

Phantom of the Opera

Luz Noceda | The Owl House

Wally Darling | The Welcome Home ARG

Din Djarin | The Mandalorian

9-1-1

#week in review #04/24/2023 #phantom of the opera

584 notes · View notes

natstablook29 · 1 year ago

Text

Did a quick drawing about my previous post where I kept thinking about Mephisto as the phantom

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me nightbringer #om! nightbringer #om!#om! shall we date #obey me swd #om! swd #mephistopheles obey me #obey me mephistopheles #obey me mephisto #obey me art #art #the phantom of the opera

9 notes · View notes

allthingswhumpyandangsty · 8 months ago

Note

You know what I really like that I just discovered recently. Perfection whump.

Where the whumpee is somehow forced to become perfect, either through something that magically makes them that way or they're literally tortured and moulded until they're perfect. And it takes away so much of who they are because to be human is to make mistakes. And it literally traps them in their own bodies. And they want to be anything BUT perfect but they CAN'T. They have no choice they HAVE to be perfect and they HAVE to act HAPPY about it.

Is the whumper who did this to them still in the picture?? They COULD be, actively controlling them and forcing them to be more and more perfect, or maybe they did that to them and just left them to suffer. But IMO bonus points if the whumper IS still there and the whumpee has to constantly obey the whumper who made them perfect either "out of gratitude" or just because they'd been conditioned so deeply to listen to and obey them.

I'm actually writing a Phantom of the Opera fanfic where Raoul gets taught by an evil ballet teacher who pushes him beyond his limits, literally torturing him with exhaustion and manipulating him and using his insecurities against him to make him believe he NEEDS her, forcing him to practice and practice until he's literally the perfect ballet dancer. And ofc the ballet teacher plans to use him for her own personal gain :))

I found out I like this kind of whump from this REALLY good Tim Drake fanfic that my friend recommended to me called "Obedience" UGH what a masterpiece

whumper turning whumpee into their own perfect little doll. love this!!

71 notes · View notes

withered-blossoms · 2 months ago

Text

𝑨𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒆 𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒆'𝒍𝒍 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍

A/N: This is the Self-aware Obey Me! Fanfic that 🌊 anon requested. It's been sitting in my drafts for months and now it's finally released after some touching up! The pronouns used for the character to be inserted are he/him since the only ones we can add on screen are the brothers and the dateables. This fic could either be platonic or romantic depending on how you view it, but I highly doubt it fits Luke, even if the fic is not intended (by the author) to be romantic, due to the slight swearing, so apologies to those who have the sweet child on their homescreen.

He had never paid much attention to the taps that he'd hear every day.

The first tap that reached his ears every morning without fail was his cue to open his eyes. Be it a force of habit or a mere reflex, his body had grown accustomed to waking up the moment this unusual alarm of his sounded.

It was indeed bizarre, but the world he lived in was already fantastical in its own way and so he brushed it off as some sort of magical phenomenon that he lacked knowledge in. As long as it did not affect his daily life, he had no need to spare any care for it.

That was not all though. He was also wrapped in a warm bubble of music despite not seeing any players. The melody was his cue, though he'd be lying if he said it wasn't like an opening theme song.

Huh, perhaps someone left their gaming device on?

That song was nice, though he had begun to get sick of it. Now that it served as his work alarm, it irritated him more than ever. But by some unknown power, he could only slap on a professional, customer service smile as he started another day on the stage, facing the dark, empty auditorium and prepared himself to speak his lines.

He knew not when those started, but he was aware that the day those rhythmic beats reached his ears, he had started sleeping like a baby every night — quite ironic, considering his age and how his kind, or well, him especially, never needed as much sleep as the humans living above them do. It was also from that moment onwards that he lost the grogginess that usually accompanied a peaceful slumber.

Sure, they were pretty annoying at first, but he slowly got used to them. He was grateful that they didn't follow the same rhythm every time, or he was sure he'd go insane. Following the same routine every day was already boring enough, and he was grateful for the unpredictability. When he got bored enough of speaking his usual lines to an audience invisible to his eyes, he'd busy himself with predicting how quickly the next tap would sound. Naturally there are no rewards for getting the timing correct, though it is no less satisfying for one who has to entertain an unknown audience very single day without fail.

.....An unknown audience? Ah right, he was in the spotlight this time. He had been for quite a while now, reciting the lines and dishing out the dance moves he was best known for, though to whom he had no clue.

Then one day, he started hearing a voice. Like a phantom in the opera, it was fleeting, soft, toying with his senses and luring him into a false sense of security. Feeding on his loneliness, making him desperate for more social interaction after YEARS of being alone on this damn stage—

All he knew was their voice, the occasional mumbles that notified him of their seemingly random thoughts. Occasionally about Devil Points, other times about Demon Vouchers, and perhaps a few complaints about "events" or "card strengths" here and there.

He thought about visiting the psychiatrist—perhaps he'd just gone mad from the solitude and started hallucinating.

But he could swear, on the one above, that as the days went by, the voice started to get louder and clearer than ever. The sound waves hitting his eardrums and being transmitted to his brain left him tingling, as if his neurones were a trail of gunpowder and the electrical signal a burning flame.

And the FAWNING— were they fawning over him? HIM? He finally had a fan? A seat taken up in the audience? After so many years?

The answer he got was the relieved yet slightly hysterical laughter that bounced off the walls. Perhaps it was a sign, that there were people alive in this blasted world. He couldn't say the same for the others he knew and loved, their eyes dead and empty, devoid of life and light. No longer did those orbs sparkle or light up, and no longer did their voices crescendoed. All that was left was flat emptiness, just like he's always been.

Eventually, the he had a face to match the voice. Small glimpses, like the trailers of the movies he once loved, were teased. Sometimes it was of their eye, perhaps their nose and if he was lucky, their lips. He no longer focused on his work, opting to piece up the imagery he's got like a puzzle. Never had he been so determined to figure out the complete features of a person's face. So as he was trying to burn the colour of their eyes into his memory, he noticed that he could see a reflection of himself in those mesmerising orbs.

Strange, wasn't he standing on a stage? Why was he on this weird bright background and those weird apps to his left? He recognised a few, being those he often used, such as Akuzon, Devilgram and whatnot. But there wasn't a speech bubble in front of him either, he could swear up and down, even pinch himself as hard as he could and he still did not see what was apparently beside or in front of him.

So why? Why was it that their eyes were reflecting something entirely unknown and otherworldly? Why was it that their eyes weren't reflecting the reality he sees? At least the music was the same, but it didn't make any sense!

Why was there music? Why did the people he know have to work? What did "coming home" mean? Who was this person? Why did he have to come onto an empty stage and was forced by some unknown curse to stand there like a string puppet and recite lines he's never practiced but somehow knew? Where in the Devildom was he?!

Multiple questions demanding answers filled his mind but one thought stood out most: he had to get out of here immediately. He needed to see those he cared for, to make sure they're okay, Alive and safe. He needed someone, ANYONE, to tell him that what he saw was just his imagination and that everything is fine, he's just overthinking and that everything was normal.

A teleportation spell spilled from his lips in a quiet murmur. The person still gushing in the projection most likely wouldn't know if he did it sneakily. There was just a bit more to go, and he'll flee when they're distracted and then—

Red, blue, magenta, teal.

Flashing, glitching, static, seal.

Blank, troubleshoot, troubleshoot—

Reboot.

The magic flowing from his fingertips was the last thing he registered before darkness engulfed him.

Taps were once again transmitted to his brain via the vibrations reaching his eardrums. It was another day, another start. He's got a job to get to and he knows that well despite his exhausted groaning. What he couldn't comprehend was the question, a glowing engraving on the sole of his shoe, seemingly a warning from himself, telling him all that he needed to know:

"Where i̶n̶ t̶h̶e̶ D̶e̶v̶i̶l̶d̶o̶m̶ Ǭ̵̡̙̱̳̞͓̩̲̮̯̮̪̹͚̄̉̌̽̂̔̍͘͝n̷̮̒̀̍̅̍̕ ̴̞̼̮̩̪̝̐̀̎̂̏̉̔̃͋̅̓͠Ȩ̴̨͚͉̻̪̣̤̱̽̈́͛́̑͒́͋̽ͅa̷̬͐̐r̷̨̧͇̞͖̣͍͇͖͎̥͋̓͆̅̚͝ͅt̴̨͚͔̱͕͐h̸͔͍̺͈̼̀͋͊̏̓̎͠ are we?"

41 notes · View notes