#phantom of the opera oneshot

[milady-pink]

Pride & Prejudice AU

Part of an ongoing series of oneshots that explore Erik and Christines souls finding the other across the multiverse: Anywhere You Go

“A young gentleman is said to have rented Foxwood Fields!”

Christine, who had been busy reading one of her favorite novels, looked up to where her adoptive sister had just entered the room. Unfortunately, at the age of eight her father passed away unexpectedly which left Christine without any parents since her mother passed during childbirth. Ms Giry, by the goodness of her heart, adopted Christine as well as took care of her father during his final days, promising to see that his child lived to become a well mannered young woman who will marry an adequate gentleman.

Every one of her new mother’s promises had turned true, except for the marriage. At the age of twenty-one Christine felt her aspirations were far different than those of her sister, Meg. Where she was every bit the social butterfly and more than excitedly awaiting the day that a suitor— preferably rich and handsome— would ask for her hand in marriage, Christine would rather wait for a suitable gentleman whom she loved deeply and respected just as much as he respected her. Aside from their marital aspirations, the two girls also had significant differences in their personalities: while Meg found enjoyment by practicing her needlepoint or gossiping about fellow townsfolk, Christine much preferred the company of a well written book and intellectual conversation. Despite these differences the two had a bond most would agree is stronger than those who were joined by blood, many nights spent whispering about their dreams while the stars twinkled above.

Another reason she has had such few suitors was due to her self-proclaimed wit and expectations for a man. Her sister generally could not care if her husband knew any current literary work or could hold a conversation about anything that required energy, but Christine needed a companion who held her interests and refused to settle for someone she did not wholly see herself with. The thought of a mediocre marriage— not to mention one simply for profitable gain— was beyond her comprehension. If one was to be married they should be filled with love for one another, a love that will stand the tests of time, and if Christine never found such qualities in a man along with not putting a burden on her dear adoptive mother she would have no quarrels but to die an old maid.

—————————————————————————————————————

Sir Nadir Khan was quite the handsome fellow— and his mind certainly not the barren landscape Christine had at first imagined— his added charm of well learned manners made his character amiable and seems to have easily become one of the most popular men in town. In the simplest of words, he was a fine individual for whom a future bride will be the town’s envy. Christine herself, however likeable Mr Khan was, found him to be a bit too pepper for her taste in a man as he was surely enjoying the night’s festivities far more than she was.

The ball itself was a splendid affair; the great assembly room was brightly decorated with fresh flowers from the garden, candles lit up every corner of the room, and the crystal chandelier above shined its own dance in time with the dancing couples. Christine— who busied herself by examining one of the many paintings in the room— wore a yellow-cream dress and had her hair pinned up by a comb her mother allegedly wore before her passing. It was the only thing Christine had to remember her, having been too young to remember her features. As the live musicians began to descend their sound, Christine turned her attention back to the dance floor.

Immediately she spotted Meg—beautifully dressed in a peacock blue gown with pearl pins in her hair— dancing with who else but the man of the hour; Mr Khan. Christine smiled to herself, happy for her sister who would surely bring about a shared discussion as they danced. Her smile grew when she remembered that this was not their first dance of the night, but their second, remembering how just a few months ago she still acted as a young girl admiring the uniformed soldiers. While Christine would have been happy to partake in the festivities herself, she had never found these social moments her favorite.

Against the backdrop of a pianoforte player, who decided the night’s atmosphere was in need of the same playing that a young child just learning to dress themselves would play, Christine thought about the book she had left unfinished at home. Hoping for the night to end swiftly and soon, as there was little enjoyment to be found here.

And to make matters worse Christine had just made eye contact with the one person everyone has been avoiding since his arrival.

A man of roughly double her height and half her weight— which was already thought to be slim to none— stood at the edge of the dance floor acting like the affair was a bore. Introduced as Sir Erik Destler, owner of Rosewood Manor, came by the request of the ball’s very own honoree. For the first time in seemingly ages, Christine had the same questioning thought as the rest of the room; how on earth could two such polarizing gentlemen be on friendly terms? Nonetheless, he came by the behest of his friend and chose to accomplish the bare minimum of making an appearance.

And what an appearance he had.

As one of the tallest men in the room, Mr Destler drew the attention he seemingly wanted nothing to do with. While it was common for the men to wear their regular suit jackets and trousers, Mr Destler somehow made the regular black look even darker then the rest of his peers. Most likely it was the sharp features and keen, observant eyes that made their place upon his face. Although the gentleman was simply watching the festivities take place, his eyes made such a simple act look as if he was scrutinizing the crowd (and quite possibly the room they inhabited as well). He was a most handsome person— if not in the opposite ways of the soft and warming manner of Mr Khan— but there was an allure that existed around him. It was an air of mystery that Christine had never seen before, one she had only ever read about as a foreboding to certain characters.

His mask, of course, was the most striking thing about him. It was stark white, covering the entirety of his right side, but left a gentle contour of his cheekbone trying to blend in with its flesh twin. The mask was the greatest warning for most women to stay away should he dare to leave his shadows and ask the hand of a woman to dance, and in this way Christine felt some empathy towards the man. In the similar way his mask told those around him something not said with words— a certain message sent out that marked him before getting the chance to introduce himself properly— Christine was marked by much the same message being an orphan.

Ms Giry did her best to welcome her into their family, but Christine knew that she would always come last when it came to most everything. Should Ms Giry pass away before her sister was married and well, she would be last in line for any scrap of an inheritance. Along with this, if she wasn’t as close in size to Meg as she was, Christine would be made to wear the dresses handed down from other girls of her stature who had outgrown them. It wasn’t so much an insult as it was a harsh reminder of how the world takes care of those who lose their guardians before they have come of age to be married off or sent to the militia.

Perhaps it was a poor idea to absently think of the curious stranger whilst gazing in his direction, for Christine had found herself staring across the dance hall at the very gentleman who occupied her thoughts. What was worse was how he stared back, slightly surprised yet not quite angry at her acknowledgment. Feeling utterly mortified, Christine ducked her head down and focused on the detailed wood flooring as she felt her cheeks felt aflame. Even more terrifying was the man’s voice— that could be heard just outside her view— addressing her.

“Miss Giry, may I have the honor of the next dance?”

Turning her head towards the man’s voice— one she had not heard before— and was once again staring at the one who had taken residence in her head. Before her, Mr Destler appeared to have grown even more as her head barely made his chin, and his eyes bore into hers when she realized why they had the affliction they did: their color was a deep yellow. Still dazed from the fact that he was standing before her, Christine would not realize until later as she recalled the night’s events that he knew her name without ever having spoken to her before.

After shaking herself from her reverie— giving Mr Destler an affirmative answer— he held her hand and led her towards the center floor, quite stiffly she thought.

The two danced and followed the rest of the crowd through the appropriate movements. His dancing was of high quality which, when coupled with his manners and propriety, affirmed the suspicions that he is of a noble and wealthy household— evidently the one shared aspect of his and Mr Khan’s friendship. But the hope for a light or casual conversation with her dance partner was lost as he chose to remain in amicable silence rather than partake in a meaningless chat. It was clear after Christine tried to engage him by bringing up usual topics such as the weather, or the ball itself, but was instead met with Mr Destler’s curt replies. One thing that would plague her mind for far longer than she would care to admit, was how his eyes seemed to shine with something akin to excitement when she commented on the ill playing of the pianoforte.

His response of, “If they had done the job of tuning the ancient thing the room would be a different hue,” was the longest of his replys. Choosing to honor his wishes for silence during the dance, Christine instead let her mind wander to his appearance— using their proximity to her advantage— and was surprised by what she saw. His mask, for example, what she once thought was nothing but a barren landscape of white in fact had the softest of pinks dusted on the cheek, the color bringing some life into the object. It was such a small detail but it stuck to Christine’s thoughts and for what reason she could not say. Perhaps because it made him appear less like the ghostly figure he is seen as from afar, and more like the human man that wears it. But to her dismay she shifted her gaze back to his eyes— somehow glowing from the candlelight— and saw within them a kind of sadness that reminded her of when a friend would betray your trust and sell your secret.

Finally the song ended and, after making an abrupt courtesy to Mr Destler, Christine once again found herself at the dance floor’s edge, only this time happy to be alone. She tried desperately not to wince at the thought of how embarrassing she had been to Mr Destler. Within her ranking of her family, tonight it seems she went from being a spectator of the humiliation they caused to being declared the winner of a sport she wished had never entered the room. This solitude was fleeting however, as Meg came strolling up to where she stood. Her eyes were distant and her lips in a crescent, clearly having enjoyed what Christine found to be a dismal evening. To anyone looking on they would see two young women chatting, when it was entirely Meg talking Christine’s ear off about her budding feelings for Mr Khan. She spoke of how he kissed her hand, held her waist, even stared into her eyes until she felt she would never breathe again— at the very same time, the very two gentlemen of whom the sisters were reflecting began to start their own conversation a mere few feet behind her. With her sister still going on, Christine tried her best to eavesdrop on the two’s conversation without coming across as overly eager.

“My friend, of all your worldly travels, do you not agree that Meg Giry is by far one of the most beautiful creatures there ever were?” The voice of Mr Khan could be heard asking, but Christine dared not think of who he was chatting with. Though rather than hear Mr Destler say anything, he simply hummed in bored approval. “It would do you good to have a delightful evening,” he continued, his voice giddy by his blossoming romance. “Why not a ask a young lady to dance? Meg’s sister, Christine, she is quite a pretty girl, no?”

As she awaited to learn his response, Christine found herself holding her breath, a fact of which she would deny to herself later.

“She is tolerable,” he began, “but it takes more to entice me. She seems to offend far too easily for a girl of her societal order.”

Christine stood there, aghast that such a man would have the audacity to say such a thing about someone he met once and who refused to speak with while dancing. A dance which he inquired of her for, further proving the fact that Mr Destler was but a avaricious man who couldn’t stand to hold a conversation with a well-read woman. As a woman she could not stand by and let his opinion go unchallenged.

Before Mr Khan had the opportunity to call out his friend about his chosen words, Christine left Meg to her juvenile prattling as she swiveled her body’s position to be facing her intimidator. Mr Destler bore an unreadable expression— though even if he showed true shame it still wouldn’t have qualed Christine’s hurt— while Mr Khan appeared to have taken interest in her arrival.

“Ms Giry—“ He tried.

“It amazes me you still speak, Mr Destler, for you’ve already insulted me in every way possible,” she told him, “and if you must address me let it be known that I use my late father’s surname, Daae, a name that this lowly orphan hold with pride,” and with that left the two men gaping in her wake. Christine could not dare to spend another minute in that ballroom, so despite her sister’s calling of her name, she continued walking until she found herself staring at her carriage’s door.

And thus was the end of an abysmal evening.

_________________________________________________________________________

Meg had fallen ill.

Since the night of the unfortunate ball, many things had happened: the once budding— now properly blooming— romance of the eldest Giry daughter and Mr Khan continued to grow, while the relation between Christine and Mr Destler was at a placid standstill. There were few, yet eventful, parties that were thrown come the weeks following— at which became the plotting for certain occurrences.

For example, during the small gathering held by the Lucas’, it was of no surprise that Mr Khan chose to dance with Sorelli more times compared to the other ladies. At this same gathering, Mr Destler seemed to be actively listening to a conversation involving Christine and the host about a young autheress seeking fortune through writing. She had been speaking of the positive aspects that came from a woman having made her own means of finances, away from her husband, when she noticed Mr Destler watching and listening to her words with more attention than she imagined he possessed. It struck Christine as an oddity, yet she could not understand his actions besides which to later mock her for such thinking with his more wealthy colleagues.

There had also been two instances at the Bingley’s home gathering. The first was the bewildered request by Mr Destler to Christine for a dance, which was most out of character; both after what happened at the meeting hall as well as Mr Destler’s custom to socialize as little as possible and certainly not to seek out the hand of a lady. Then there had been the dinner party at the incredibly stuck up Guidicelli’s home where luck would have it Christine was seated next to none other than Mr Raoul DeChagney, an officer of the royal militia. He was a devastatingly handsome young man who seemed to take interest in Christine, choosing to lean in multiple times to whisper into her ear— for which they were scolded by their host. When questioned about his lack of presence at the multiple balls held around town, he admitted that his work and training had kept him occupied.

Not only was he quite a companion to look at, but it turned out that he and Christine had a shared foe; one Mr Destler. A few years ago Mr DeChagney’s father had unfortunately passed, leaving he and his siblings a substantial inheritance yet when he requested Mr Destler— the son of his father’s employer— for his share, he refused to provide it. This went directly against his and Mr Destler’s father’s wishes, and when asked about it he received no explanation for such a cold action. Mr DeChagney also admitted that this quarrel, and therefore Mr Destler’s presence, was a leading reason for why he chose not to attend the social gatherings.

For Christine, this revelation was anything short than surprising, yet she still found herself gaping at how such a man can do something so soulless to an already grieving son. It was easy to push Mr Destler further into the much disliked— bordering animosity— portion of her opinionated mind.

On a crisp spring evening a letter arrived at dinner asking that, if she so wished, Meg could spend a day at Foxwood Fields and enjoy the company of Mr Khan along with some friends. A few mornings later and she was on her way to the manor with the Giry’s horse Caesar, a plan that Ms Giry believed to be genius as it was set to rain later that day. Due to her lack of coach Mr Khan— believing that he is a proper host who takes care of his guests and their needs— would subsequently ask Meg to spend the night at Foxwood, prolonging their time and thus strengthening their relationship and prospect of engagement.

Unfortunately their plan had worked a bit far too well, for the midmorning’s downpour left poor Meg with skirts soaked to her knees and had caught a cold. After receiving the letter that her sister had fallen ill Christine chose to go and tend to her until she was well enough to come home. Rather than herself take a carriage, Christine chose to hike through the fields with the calming knowledge that there was to be no rain forecasted that day.

Her embarrassment began the moment she stepped foot into Foxwood, as the guests— which included the Khan’s and Mr Destler— continuously stared at her dirty stockings and sweat ridden brow. At the moment, she was certain that the entire household, including the dog, held her in contempt for wearing and walking about in soiled clothing.

After being shown to where her sister resided, Christine began to take on the role for which she was sent for. She would wash and replace the cold cloth to lower her fever, she helped un then redress Sorelli her dressing gown, and once the more laborious tasks were completed she kept her company by reading to her. At present she had fallen asleep, so Christine quietly walked out the room and closed the door to give her a restful sleep. While wandering the halls of the house a maid told her that dinner was being served in the dining hall, so Christine thanked her then made her way to rejoin the rest of the company.

Dinner was awkward to say the least, though Mr Khan tried his gentlemanly best to keep conversation light and pleasant given the circumstances, choosing an optimistic view of Meg’s hindrance as its own invitation to another guest. By his insistence Christine was to stay the night lest she become ill for having traveled back home by foot in the black of night; her presence also deemed nourishing for her sister’s chance at a quick recovery. Their host was as amiable as the man he presented himself as outside of the manor, yet Christine found herself still suffering from her earlier actions. Mr Destler had set about making her time at the manor as uncomfortable as possible, choosing to steal as many glances towards Christine as he could, making her resist the urge to squirm under his eyes. Despite this she still did not regret having told him off after what he said the very first night they met.

Mr Khan had made a claim that while he found Meg to be the loveliest Giry, he believed her loveliness must stem from her household and its residents— making a show of nodding to Christine. Surprisingly, Mr Destler added that a family’s wealth did not dictate how well mannered or taught a person becomes— though he shortly conceded by saying he himself would never allow his sister to traverse such an expedition nor found a family lacking certain resources adequate for marriage. After his words, Christine chanced a glance of her own and caught the look of something simmering in his eyes, taking note of how his mask emanated a glow from the above lighting. It made her think of the moon peeking behind a cloud in an otherwise absent sky.

After eating the guests made their way to the parlour room, each one having chosen a different place to settle as the conversation segued onto what made an accomplished woman. It was at this moment that Mr Destler decided to join the conversation, claiming that, “There are far more than skillful hobbies that make a woman accomplished.” His timbre from where he stood by the pianoforte brought the room’s attention to befall on him— something he disliked by his sudden shift to a stiffer frame.

“Well,” Mr Khan said, trying to rope his friend into the exchange, “do tell what those attributes are?”

Mr Destler stretched his impossible height even more, unaccustomed to the attention of guests— however few there may be— especially after Christine found such a moment to attune her scrutiny towards the gentleman, unnerving him further.

“For a woman to be laudable for even half the title of ‘accomplished’, she must excel in all things that make one a successful conversationalist. She cannot pick up a talent for a fortnight then abandon it once the true challenge starts, similarly with her schooling, languages, worldly knowledge and news; anyone who is not well taught in all fields should not even be considered ‘accomplished’. Notwithstanding, I believe besides her intellect an accomplished woman is one who possesses a certain air about her; she collects the gazes of everyone she encounters, something alluring in the way she walks, talks, smiles, as well as her general being. A woman, of valuable accomplishments, is one who is effortlessly capable of discussing any topic while simultaneously not boring those listening with her grace and elegance.”

“I’d like to know in which world such a woman of knowledge, talent, and allure united into one being lives,” Christine muttered, unaware that her companions had heard.

“Ms Daae,” their host began, turning the focus on her, “what say you? ‘An accomplished woman.’”

Christine thought for a moment, turning her attention to a painted vase that had been placed on the pianoforte, of which she stood beside. “I, as a woman, believe that one of my sex is to be considered accomplished when she herself feels herself has gained an accomplishment. It depends on what one finds to fit the criteria; if a mother who just gave birth for the first or third time, that to her is very well an accomplishment. Should a girl who just completed her years at a seminary, now well taught in the areas of needlework, music, and languages,” she made a point to glance at Mr Destler— who stood opposite her of the instrument, “her completion, rather than her newly acquired skills, becomes her accomplishment. Or if a woman who chooses to abstain from marriage, childbirth, and every aspect of domesticity in want for an independent existence and career, such a woman should be permitted to declare these things accomplishments. What really matters is what each woman wants from her life, and what challenges she’s gone through to achieve it, that determine how accomplished one is. More so, the question is not, ‘what makes an accomplished woman?’, but rather, ‘what accomplishments has this woman already achieved by her account?’.”

The room fell silent— for the briefest of moments— as each person let the gravity of Christine’s words set in. Once it had been absorbed by the group, Mr Khan was the first to break the silence. Against her better judgment, Christine chanced a glance across the pianoforte at her opponent, finding a sincere look upon his face; something which Christine hoped meant her proclamation had made an impression on the obstinate gentleman.

“Well,” he brought a closed fist to clear his throat. “As much as I do agree with you, Ms Daae, that one’s accomplishments are only decided by oneself, if I remember correctly this question came about in relation to said woman being a wife; and as far as the concern for whether an accomplishment is salient to a wife, I must agree with my friend,” Mr Khan conceded, lifting his glass in the direction of Mr Destler, “but let it be known any suspicion of any prejudice or bias is purely fictitious.”

For Christine after the arduously long day she’s had, any last piece of friendly debate had dissipated, finding herself fatigued and frustrated and in want of a dreamless sleep. “Then I suppose, gentlemen,” she began to say whilst moving to the door, stopping at the frame to turn around, “that such a woman would make a most desired wife and social companion, and I wish you both luck of finding such a woman. Good evening.” And with that, Christine left the parlour room now consisting of a nonplussed Mr Khan and one Mr Destler— who found himself feeling something he dared to regard.

________________________________________________________________

My, what a fortnight can bring.

In little less than two weeks poor Meg’s world came crumbling down by the arrival of a mere letter. During Tuesday’s breakfast— the start of a rather gloomy day— a letter came addressed to Meg from who else but Mr Khan. She became quite giddy, her joy bringing smiles to Christine and Ms Giry’s faces, each lady hopeful that somewhere in that letter was the long-awaited question. Alas, there was no such question but rather a depressingly long explanation for Mr Khan’s absence from the recent balls and gatherings. In excruciating detail Meg read aloud that Mr Khan had returned to the city for the time being, hoping to make a return soon. It was by this time that both Ms Giry and Christine had taken it upon themselves to reassure Meg that Mr Khan must be in the city to pick the perfect ring for her, an engagement on the horizon as soon as he stepped foot back in town.

Sadly this hopeful sentiment was but a dream, for by Friday that week another letter arrived for Meg. This one was by far even worse than the first as it claimed that Mr Khan’s stay in the city was— as written by his steward— for the time being prolonged. Once again there was no date or even mention of a season in which his presence was expected to return. For Meg— who couldn’t even finish the letter without tears welling up in her eyes— that inked piece of parchment had all but destroyed any hopes she had of finding someone of whom to love and marry. She felt betrayed and mournful of the life she would have lived, in combination with her anxieties over every little thing she said or did when she and Mr Khan were together. As the week concluded and seamlessly merged with a new one, unhappy Meg spent her days combing through every conversation the two had for the slightest hint of uncomfort from Mr Khan but, as she lamented to Christine, she could find none.

What’s more as Meg’s mood turned from mournful to melancholy, Christine was baddleing a fight of emotions as well. She knew, somewhere deep inside, that Mr Khan’s sudden absence was the work of Mr Destler: by her logic she believes the masked man discouraged his friend from proposing to Meg due to her class, as was custom for him. It burned Christine in a way no other crossing has ever managed to make her feel, she longed for nothing but to see her sister happy and to watch her have such happiness stolen from her— by means of a letter no less— made a bitterness for both men grow within her.

The next morning Christine needed a break from the constant state of distraught her poor sister was in, so waking up early and quietly dressing she left her sister to sleep in while she went for a leisurely walk. While moving through the gardens and the dew embellished grass she could not rid herself of the words of her sister— could it be possible that her expectations were too high for marriage to be possible? The last thing she wanted was to drain the resources of Ms Giry or her sister, and yet she has found no man of intellect, wit, and whom she truly loved and respected. For Christine the thought of marrying for security in finances was close to inhuman; it was especially against what she believed the sanctity of marriage to be for.

Amidst the gardens was a nearby stone temple modeling those of Ancient Greece where Christine chose to sit and reflect. She thought of the past weeks ever since Mr Khan’s arrival with his contemptuous friend of polarizing traits and how both of their presences have altered the lives of at least one household in their once quiet neighborhood. And if these thoughts could not have tormented her enough, the very vice that taunted Christine came walking right into the same gazebo as her.

Refusing to speak, she merely watched as his behaviour escalated from odd to concerning. Mr Destler’s added presence at once soured her mood, but this annoyance turned to amusement as she studied him further; he at first sat down on the stone bench across from her, then abandoned his seat in favor of standing. But he couldn’t stay still for long as he leaned on one of the pillars with an arm raised above his head, only to once again change positions and walk a bit away as if pretending to gaze out unbeknownst to Christine’s attendance. She could see his face— the portion not hidden by the mask— and saw there in his features a kind of inner battle he seemed to be fighting. Whether the fight was won or lost would remain a mystery as he chose the moment to speak.

“Ms Daae,” he began, no mention of his previous unsettling. “I hope your health has improved since the last I saw you,” the words rushed out of him at defying speeds. After Christine realized what he had said, she answered him with a cold civility. His position and face changed now standing with his entire person facing her, again showing a sense of vulnerability in his unmasked side. He looked to be taking her in, closing his eyes before again speaking only this time in an agitated tone.

“I would be a liar to admit I have not wrestled with my vanity.” His voice, the very same velveteen notes, sounded to shake. “I do not wish to remain that way. From youth I have been taught to honor my feelings and to not suppress them and as a man I have found this to be true. As such you must know how deeply my admiration and love for you is. Despite my fears for expressing such emotions know that I am going against not only my own but the expectations of my family, my friends, and most every other person of high regard. Even against these better judgments— knowing the differing circumstances of our families is as it stands— it cannot be helped that from the moment I first made your acquaintance that a respect and positive regard formed against my rational wishes.” Mr Destler stepped forward bending a knee right before Christine, their eyes locked. “I beg of you to end my torment and agree to be my wife.”

Christine sat there unmoving as her mind continued to race. He— this cold and uncaring thief— was in love? With her? The absurdity was almost too much to bear, and yet she found her mouth speaking as she remained befuddled.

“Usually in cases similar to these there is an expectation of duty to be performed and agree to such a question,” she said, her tone containing the evenness her thoughts were absent of. “But not I. For you are of the few whose opinion of me I never cared to hear, and yet you certainly choose to believe I am all the better to have heard it. I am sorry for any and all pain that I might cause to anyone, however unseen by me, and I hope that it will be a quick recovery for all involved.”

Now it was Mr Destler’s turn to stare absently, Christine noticing a similar sense of shock as she too had felt. He again rose from his knee to his full height, then retreated to the opposing bench so as not to seem intimidating. With an unearthly calmness— one which was suspected to be forced— he asked her, “May I ask as to what do I owe this rejection for?”

“Then I may also ask why you insist on declaring your likeness for me only by stating it is against your will! I have every reason in the world to believe you are a man of bad intentions. Does your well rational mind think I am to wed a man you drove away all happiness from my dear sister? Are you even in such a position to deny you have?”

It was clear that Mr Destler was clenching and releasing his jaw whilst Christine spoke. “Well?”

“No, I do not deny that I tried to steer my friend, who has been like a brother, away from your sister. Nor do I deny that I did not celebrate the success of his departure. I have been kinder to him than I have to myself.”

Christine, undeterred from his involvement with her sister’s unrenounced engagement, continued on. “It is not only my sister’s engagement that have shown me your character. My dislike for you stemmed from the very first ball you attended and insulted my name, only growing once your history of the wrongdoings to Mr DeChagney,” his head popped up at the name’s sound. “Pray tell, how does one defend oneself for such offense?”

“For fear of insulting your good name again, I warn you to not take every word of that sir for truth.”

Christine’s brow furrowed, now more angry at his belief that she is an uneducated waif who knows not the difference between a lie and the truth. “It concerns me how anyone with knowledge of his mistreatment can not feel his unjust position, least of all someone who put him into the state of poverty he resides in! Not only this but you add to his pain mockery and disdain!” Thinking far too quickly with her heart in charge, later to regret she adds to injury, “And do explain why a man of dignity and respect,” she spat, “should feel the need to wear a mask? For further intimidation, perhaps?”

There is a moment’s silence between the two, the air thick from resentment. “So, that is how you see me? A cold calculating man who only wishes to bring forth unhappiness and misery to all he encounters?” His eyes— amber from the sun— shine with a hurt Christine believed was there for very long but only now came to surface. “That I don a mask to hide the identity of an ill some being whilst traversing the land like some angel of death?”

Feeling angry but now wishing she had discussed things further, Christine began to feel weighted by a sudden sense of pity— no, of empathy. Within his eyes she saw what she for some time thought to be present but had been held hostage by fear of vulnerability: for within Mr Destler was an immense amount of hurt that Christine felt only she could relate towards. Hoping to relieve some pain— however unfeasible— she tried to make amends, “Mr Destler—,”

He held up a hand that slightly shook, “Please, you have said plenty, madame. I understand your feelings towards me and am in only the position to feel contrite over my own.” Mr Destler looked her in the eyes once again, now with a watery smile, “Please accept my well wishes towards your health and happiness, and forgive me for wasting time in your presence. Good day, Ms Daae.” He gave a gentlemanly bow before leaving the stone structure, carried off by long strides.

Still aghast to what just transpired, Christine sat with her thoughts and emotions for what felt like years— allowing any and all tears to flow freely— until finally she began to soothe her own damaged pride.

__________________________________________________________________

The next day Christine awoke to find a letter waiting for her at breakfast. The envelope sat at her seat, her name written in a thin, messy cursive. As told by the ladies maid, the letter was hand-delivered by none other than Mr Destler. Her day seemed to be destined for another angry and embarrassed soirée as she had spent most of her night tossing and turning as she remembered every single word that was said the day prior. Although she did not yet know it, Christine would soon come to regret these thoughts.

“Dear Miss Daae,

Do not be alarmed by the contents of this letter, as there are no repetitions or reiterations of my statements said previously which you expressed were offensive to you. I hope my words cause you no pain, as you are in no need of further hurt, nor am I to write for sake of humbling myself, for it is not my character to do so. Rather I hope to alleviate your perceptions of me as told to you through actions and the words of others. If you should continue to read the words which are written contain only the truth, for which I deem highly, even should there be portions that I do not feel proudly of.

“Two of your aforementioned objections that I wish to express the full truth. In regards to the estrangement of Mr Khan and your sister, which as mentioned I do not deny my involvement, but there was plausible reason to do so. During each and every encounter between the aforementioned couple I sensed no attraction whatsoever towards Mr Khan by your sister. Perhaps I had misjudged her nature as uncaring and unwanting of my friend’s attentions, and his persistent asking for support of a possible marriage from me was impossible to give: I spoke of how I felt her calm, reserved demeanor was due to her having no strong attachment for him and I said as such. It was from these incorrect sentiments, for a friend whose happiness is equal to my own, that I urged Mr Khan to retract from your sister and hold off an engagement. For this I give both you, your sister, and Ms Giry my utmost apology.

In the regards of Mr DeChagney I understand him to be a pleasant man with no morals to his character in addition to a resentful and covetous attitude. By contrast to Mr DeChagney’s account I must assert that in no way did I deprive him from any inheritance and in fact procured 3,000 pounds for him to study law at a city university. Alternatively he chose to use the money for means which I am not certain of, but can guess were in acquaintance to a gambling debt. After this loan was squandered Mr DeChagney tried to receive more money from me and, after I refused, he attempted to elope with my younger sister, Ayesha, in an effort to obtain her inheritance. Should this matter still remain questionable to you, which you have all rights to, I would ask you to speak with Mr DeChagney’s older brother, Philippe, a man of great integrity and morality even when it comes to matters of his brother; matters which he is already aware of.

Finally in terms as to why I wear a mask, which I must admit is my least favorite topic of discussion, I was born with a facial deformity that has driven many away and even more into disgust. My mother, a high aristocratic woman who held title and influence above all else, handed me off to her lady’s maids to be raised and taught, refusing to show any ounce of affection or care for me. Much the same can be said for those in charge of my schooling and development, withholding themselves from abandoning my family only because my father, a highly respected military commander, paid them handsomely to keep quiet.

It was not until my sister was born years after I that my lonesome days changed; her spirit was palpable throughout the home, and yet her choosing to love and look upon my face as it was a normality was what won her my brotherly affection. No amount of punishment from my parents could extract the humanity from her as she continued, even now, to treat me as she would any other gentleman whose blood she shared. Later my small circle grew to allow a few more while in school, once it was decided a mask would at least hide the deformity from my peers, and Mr Khan was one of the only brave enough to approach me. His friendship throughout the years, from schooling and beyond, have given me more joy than I ever could have imagined.

I am sorry that, much like my facial covering, the irony of which his not lost on me, my character has been predetermined for you by those who I’ve crossed and still hold a grudge for, along with my own poorly conceived ideas of those whose temperament in public is not always to be believed as their true self. If your heart allows it, I only ask that you do not think of me with hate, but with the neutrality of an acquaintance. May these words bring some comfort, if not to you than for your family.

Health and wellbeing,

Erik G. Destler”

——————————————————————————————————

It has been an unusually long few weeks since Christine had received Mr Destler’s letter. After she had read it multiple times, she began to realize that— in conjunction with the conversations she’d had in the past month— his account had to have been true. In addition to coming to this conclusion Christine brought up the information with Meg, the two debating on whether or not to relate Mr DeChagney’s true character to the neighborhood, but had thought better against it as they did not want to be perceived as gossiping children.

While Meg did indeed appreciate the apology from Mr Destler regarding his involvement in Mr Khan’s decision to leave for the city, it seldom helped relieve the pain that remained from the lack of engagement. As this was so, she chose to stay at home when her mother’s sister, Ms Carrier, and her husband came around to ask if the girls wished to join them in taking a tour of the countryside along with some of the homes. The carriage departed with the Carriers and Christine, as the scenery would be a good change for her clouded head after so many days cooped up to avoid the heat, amongst other things.

Somehow the greenery of the grass and foliage seemed to take on a more pleasant tone, easily making Christine more calm and enjoying the sun’s golden rays shining upon all things living. At times they would leave the carriage in favor of walking around the properties and making light conversation of the architecture and gardens, soon treading offley close to Rosewood — the manor of Christine’s once thought hated acquaintance . Against better judgment they agreed to tour the home, barely soothed by the fact that the house's master was not in.

Whilst they walked through the manor it started to become apparent to Christine that her opinion of Mr Destler was beginning to change, for if not how was it that she was so easily able to question herself what would it feel to be Rosewood’s mistress? Her breath was continuously taken away as Christine saw artifact after artifact that she was unable to find in a manor that was supposedly owned by what she had believed to be an arrogant and unrespecting; there were countless statues of Greek figures, most of which she knew of, crown molding to resemble foliage painted gold grew into every room, crystal chandeliers hung from almost every ceiling. What was most notable, and what Christine found to be a kiss to a wound, was the music room of Mr Destler, for it was by far the most beloved; instruments of varying sizes from the pianoforte— it too painted in gold leaves— a harp standing off center, a violin resting on a chair, a cello that occupied a corner, and a lute situated on a tufted bench. It was one of the most beautiful sights Christine had ever witnessed, comparative to that of a sunset.

As if the manor itself hadn’t already told Christine who Mr Destler truly was, the words of his staff surely did. The head maid, Mrs. Reynolds, showed the group portraits of Mr Destler and Mr DeChagney, speaking very highly of the latter and claimed to have never heard him say a cross word to anyone within the home. She also divulged that, as a child, he was known to be a very generous and kind-hearted boy which brought a smile to Christine’s lips without her noticing. They were also a portrait of Ms Destler— of whom was almost made the pawn in Mr DeChagney’s foul game— and with the knowledge she possessed, Christine could not help but feel an appreciation for the young gentlewoman, for it was she and her kindness that gave her brother a less forlorn adolescence.

Soon the group made their way outside, whereupon Christine was sure to have angered a very powerful god for who else but the home’s master was just climbing the steps to where they stood. Rather than requesting the trio to leave his home and never return he instead asked if they would like a tour led by himself— another tick added to the box of uncharacteristic behavior by Mr Destler. Although it was starting to become more and more clear to Christine that the gentleman’s true character was unknown to her, what she was currently seeing from him warmed her.

Mr Destler shows them the gardens— all of the expertly groomed trees and shrubs, with perennials blooming of the home’s name sake and many benches along the grounds made of stone to appreciate them— and all the while is as polite and gentlemanly as anyone would expect, maybe more so. As for Christine, his kindness to her relatives and herself evokes the harsh sting of shame everytime she remembers their last encounter along with every other encounter they’ve had over the course of the past few months leaving her to trail behind the others. Back at the manor’s front steps where they began the group was ready to disperse but Mr Destler— who seemed to know exactly how to make her heart race— stayed back with Christine as her aunt and uncle prepared the carriage.

Before he could even get a word out Christine striked the moment and began to apologize profusely for her being there, recalling to Mr Destler how she was told he would be out otherwise she never would have gone. He spoke to her in such a tender voice that her shoulders sloped from the calm that overshadowed her immense embarrassment. Mr Destler told her how he had merely come back to Rosewood in order to prepare his home for a group of guests, making sure to add that Mr Khan and his sister were sure to be accounted for. Then he paused, as if thinking of something, then asked Christine if she would like to meet his sister— which she replies in the affirmative whilst feeling a great gratitude for his chivalry.

Ayesha was a very sweet young lady with a shy and quiet demeanor that nonetheless took away from her pretty features. It was obvious to Christine where the resemblance lied between the two siblings, but her surprise at watching Mr Destler’s solicitude for his sister while they chatted— more or less as the young girl barely spoke but a few words— sparked an affinity within herself that she realized had only grown tenfold since first reading his letter.

After saying their goodbyes, Mr Destler took it upon himself to see Christine to the carriage door, going so far as to offer his hand while she climbed the coach. What’s more is that Christine looked back to his retreating form and caught the sight of his hand— the one that she held— flexed then contracted, a vision that would plague her the whole carriage ride home and into the night. Unbeknownst to their niece, Mr and Mrs Carrier shared knowing looks that told the other to expect more than one wedding from the Giry household in the future.

___________________________________________________________

The morning was bright and warm as the late days of Spring and early days of Summer had begun to overlap and create a beautiful mix of the two seasons. It was on this Friday morning— just as the three Giry women were sitting down for their breakfast— when the front door had a determined knock. One of the lady’s maids had gone to see whom had it had been only to come back to the table and announce,

“My lady, Mr Khan, is requesting your presence,” Martha’s voice declared, causing all three women to look at one another with plain shock in their faces. It was Meg who stood up and, dazedly, walked down the hallway to meet her caller; soon followed by Christine and Ms Giry.

He stood there on the door’s step with his hat in his hands and an apology at the tip of his tongue, lamenting to Meg how he had wrongfully told her and her family of his departure in a letter that he himself did not write along with the lack of return date. Mr Khan also admitted to being persuaded to rethink his affection for her due to status, but while in Paris he could not stop thinking of her and how he wished her to be with him there. Then—surprising all the women— Mr Khan reached into his coat’s pocket and proceeded to ask Ms Giry for her daughter’s hand in marriage, to which she straighten replied positively. They hugged and held each other as members of the staff happily cheered, Christine too was happy but felt there was more that would lift her spirits, a visit beginning to come to her mind; her plan to bee seen as a welcomed one when Mr Khan said to Christine a good friend of his had encouraged his return causing her to smile.

_____________________________________________________________

Only a day and a half later Christine found herself in a carriage ride alone heading towards what she hoped to be the right decision. All the while she thought that— however implausible the notion was— should Mr Destler ask for her hand again she found herself wanting to say yes. She must force acceptance upon herself for after having refused him once he would not do so again; but the idea that they are to always avoid the other’s gaze did not feel right with Christine and thus the purpose of this trip.

Once again at his home, Christine began to feel anxiety build in her stomach even after Mr Khan’s statements that of all the visitors she would be the only one he would not turn away. Slowly she began to climb the steps to Rosewood’s door, lifting the handle and knocked timidly. Her arrival was met by Mrs Reynalds who— after greeting her with a hearty welcome— told Christine that her master was currently out in the gardens but that he would be most pleased by her being there.

After a few instructions on how to get there Christine trudged arduously to the house’s back to find her destination. Following the stone path she found the hedge and green door that acted as the secret entrance, unlocking the latch and cautiously walking through.

The door’s hinges squeaked alerting the suited gentleman of another. “Mrs Reynalds,” he said, turning his head towards her “I have already told you I—.” His voice stopped short at the sight of Christine, her presence causing him to stand from his seat.

Unsure of what to do now, Christine clutched her skirts while saying, “I hope I am not intruding on sacred ground.”

“Such sanctity has been absent… Please, enter.” He gestured with a sweep of his hand.

It was only until now— after her nerves have diminished significantly— that she could see the true beauty of this hidden wonderland. There was a small pond with lily pads surrounded by bushes of hydrangeas and marigolds, the entire area hidden by a tall hedge and overhead tree branches to escape the sun; to Christine it felt like heaven in a garden. She offered the seat Mr Destler gestured to, almost regretting her choice once it appeared he too would be sitting leaving the two of them on the bench looking towards the water. The soft trickling from the waterfall brought a serenity to the air.

“This was one of my favorite places growing up. Sometimes I would compose a poem or aria. In the Springtime ducks have been known to bring their young to the pond.” He spoke with a gentile that nearly brought Christine to tears knowing the added history of his lonely childhood.

“I came to apologize,” she began with a soft voice that was too weak to not break should she raise her volume, “for many things. For my actions towards you, not only within the past week but since our first meeting. I must also ask forgiveness for all the things I never said but rather thought, how they were misconstrued by others who meant you ill will.”

“Ms Daae—“

“And I undoubtedly regret, having now the information I did not then, how I treated you during your proposal, as any woman who knew your true intentions would have no choice but to accept. I also came to thank you for what you told Mr Khan—“

“I was righting a misjudged wrongdoing—“

“—as his return not only brought my sister a happiness beyond belief but the promise to marry her and share a home of love for each other—“

“Christine,” he adamantly stated, boldly taking hold of her hand nearest to him. There were three things, of which she’s certain, that were the reason for her ended rant: the first was his holding her hand, the subtle heat of hers mingling with the coldness of his drawing her senses; the second was his use of her first name rather than surname, a sound which felt too good on her ears; and third was what she felt after saying the word ‘love’ while sitting directly beside someone of whom she was beginning to fall deeply for.

Mr Destler took her hand in his own and held it closely, “I grant you forgiveness,” he said, speaking lowly and whilst staring into Christine’s eyes. “But I must ask you for yours.”

Puzzled, she asked, “What for?,” in a whispered tone that matched his.

He lifted her hand to his lips, Christine holding her breath and watching every muscle, “I am sorry that I cannot let you go, and will ask for your hand in marriage until the day I either succeed or die knowing I attempted a more than worthy endeavor.” His words were a warm whisper over her knuckles, placing a kiss just on the peak.

Christine swallowed, nervous of what she dared to say. “Mr Destler—“

“Please, call me Erik,”

“Erik,” her tongue tested the letters, a fit which she found most appealing and he too for his lips quivered in what could only be surmised as the first smile he has granted her. “I cannot marry a man whom I cannot see fully,” she admitted, her eyes leaving his to focus on the white mask of his right side.

Now it was he to swallow anxiously, “Please do not ask that of me,” he begged, “no courtship has and to lose you now would surely kill me.” Despite the fear in his voice, he watched with golden eyes as her hand left his to hold his unmasked side.

“If I found love for you now,” she said, moving her other hand to his mask, “then I shall love you then, too.” With one motion, gentle so as not to scratch him, Christine removed the white plaster.

What she found was not to be expected, but so too could be said for the tormenting past few months of their acquaintance. His skin was surely scarred, with a portion of his upper lip more swollen than the rest, puckered and red, his eyebrow more sparse and a small hole where half his nose ought to be. Yet despite this, Christine gently cupped his face which urged him to emit a long-held gasp that screamed of a wanted touch and loving gesture. He opened his eyes— too afraid to see her run scared to never return— and saw Christine smile with the glimmer of love in her eyes.

“Is it true?,” he asked her.

Her smile increased, “It is. Only, my love has not remained but grew tenfold more.”

With a watery smile of his own he replied, “And mine as well.” The two embraced tightly to leave no room for their love to escape, though even miles apart that was not destined to happen. Their lips met in a passionate and powerful kiss, each wanting desperately to show the other the extent of their love. There would be no more disillusions or ill inferred judgments, for this was the beginning to a change most welcome.

[urcatslitterbox]

Spencer Reid + Phantom of The Opera

That’s all I have to say.

[twisted-whatifs]

A Twisted Phantom In the Opera

Christine!Yuu x Phantom!Malleus, Phantom of the Opera AU.

Notes: I have tried to keep this as a gn!Yuu, but might have messed up a few places. If you find any mistakes don’t fear pointing them out! It will only help <3 -Love Aren ♡

Summary: Yuu Daaé, a young actor who has been showing lots of talent ever since they got this mystery teacher, has gone missing. While the rest are busy panicking, as letters are being sent around threatening the new owners, letters which have been signed by a certain phantom... Yuu is busy finally seeing their teacher and angel of music, rather than communicating through mirrors and walls.  They end up getting to know him a lot better than they expected, finding out that while he may not be an angel of music, he is certainly not human either.

Will this phantom of the opera win over their heart like he always dreamt of? Or is their type a bit too human for him?

Intro

Yuu 1st person

It all started when I was but a child, I suppose. My father, who was so dear to me, was lying on his deathbed. When my mother left for the heavens, I had my father's hand to hold. Now that it was my father's turn, I still had his hand to hold. But when his funeral came, whose hand could I hold then?

“When I’m in heaven, Child. I will send the Angel of Music to you..” He said. His voice was weak, his hand shaking as he held me close. He was all I had left, and there was no one when he went. No one at first, at least. Then Madame Giry took me in, and taught me how to dance. I was now one of the many girls at the opera house, who got a place to live in exchange for our labour. And so I danced. I danced and I sang, just like my father and I used to, just like my father and mother used to as well. As I grew, my fathers promise was finally fulfilled. One afternoon when I was singing by my fathers picture, right after the biggest play I had ever been part of at the time, I heard a voice.

“A voice of such beauty should not sing songs of such pain.” I heard a voice say. At first, I was frightened, for I thought I was alone. But as I sought out this stranger, he began to sing. He asked me to sing with him, coaxing me away from fear. He gave me pointers and taught me how to avoid strain on my vocals. As time went on, he disappeared. Yet the next time I returned to light a candle for my father and I began to sing, I heard him again. He asked for me to sing with him, so I did. He taught me much this day, and so did he the next. Before I knew it, he had become my teacher. 

“Father once spoke of an angel. I used to dream he’d appear. Now as I sing I can sense him and I know he’s here.” One day I finally realised that he must be the Angel of Music my father had spoken of. He had to be, for he was so kind. He taught me the art of song like no other, with the passion of one who could only be an angel. His voice was of ethereal beauty. He must be an angel, for he could make even a whisper sound like the melodies of heaven.

But now, as I stand here, I realise he may not be the angel I used to see. Perhaps he is, but there is something to him that tells me other stories. He is my angel, yes. My Angel of Music. But he is also so much more.

Let the Song Take Flight

Yuu 1st person

As I stood on the stage, singing with my heart, I couldn’t help but hope he saw. I wished for nothing more than the Angel of Music to be proud. But what was more than that, I hoped I had not disappointed Madame Giry. She was the one who had claimed I could take the role, as Carlotta had been too busy throwing a tantrum. And now I stand in the Prima Donna dressing room after Meg had swept me away from meeting up with my teacher. She had been worried and said I looked so pale, that I needed to rest. I wanted to resist, but I had to admit that perhaps it was best if I didn’t strain myself. I was sure my teacher and angel would understand.

“Little Lotte, let their mind wander…” I am busy looking at the rose my teacher had gifted me when I hear the words of a childhood memory get spoken. I turn my head to see where it came from, not having expected Raoul to remember me. I haven't seen him since my father's death, so for him to remember such a small thing, is a surprise.  As Raoul continues to speak the words of nostalgia, I can not help but join in. For such words are not made to be forgotten. No, they are made to be remembered, repeated and sung. So I will sing.

“No… What I love best, Little Lotte said, is when I’m asleep in my bed and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head.” I sing with him, melodies of shared memories flowing between our bodies. A warm embrace engulfs me as we hug, arms wrapping around each other, even if for only but a moment. He is still my friend, despite the years that have gone by. Not much has changed between us, that is obvious. Perhaps too obvious, for it seems that Raoul still acts like a child, to some extent. For he does not accept my no, as he invites me out to supper. Nor does he let me deny his request, as he tells me I have two minutes to get dressed.  I can only hope the Angel of Music will forgive me, for I have no choice it seems. I begin to change, hurrying as much as I can. I know how impatient that man can get. And perhaps if I hurry, I’ll be back fast as well.

So I change as fast as I can, yet as I work to undo my corset, every candle in my room is unlit. A darkness that surrounds me like no other. Terrifying it is, that I have to admit. But what is truly terrifying, is the angry voice of my teacher and Angel of Music that I hear.

Insolent boy, he calls Raoul, and perhaps he is right, yet it frightens me nonetheless. 

The words I utter that are meant to calm him, seem to have little effect. Yet as I continue to speak, the icy air seems to thaw. His words turn from threats to pitiful self-hatred. 

Jealousy has never suited any man and it seems the same goes for angels. For his voice is beautiful, yet the jealousy and anger it hides dirties it. To hear his voice soften is like watching mud turn to crystal-clear water. It is beautiful, a miracle for humans to witness. As he begs me forth, telling me to look in the mirror, I feel a sort of relief. He must no longer be mad if he seeks to speak with me. 

Yet my relief is thrown to the side, as shock finds its way to my mind. For what I find in the mirror is not my reflection but a strange man, yet as I hear his voice I know it must be him. My Teacher and Angel. 

The Angel of Music that hides no longer.

I faintly hear the sounds of Raoul trying to enter my locked dressing room, yet I do not mind it. Even though I may not remember locking the door, any worries I hold disappear as I let him hold my hand. I hear him sing as he leads me through the tunnels of this opera house, tunnels I did not know existed before this day. I am like in a trance, my eyes unable to move away from his form. Anywhere that is not him does not deserve my gaze, that is all I can think. In fact, I barely even register the horse.  In any other situation, I would have wondered how he managed to get a horse into these tunnels, yet at this very moment, it did not seem strange. In fact, it is not until I start to sing, that I finally seem to realise what is happening. Yet instead of being frightened or confused, I am… content? I don’t mind this, I realise. In fact, it somehow feels right. To finally see my Angel of Music, after years of him talking to me, and teaching me. It was surprisingly nice.

So when we finally arrive at his home, or at least what I assume to be his home, I do not mind it. I do not mind the strangeness to it, or the fact we had to sail to get here. I do not question the fact that he lives in the sewers beneath the opera house either. Instead, I just accept it. This is him finally showing me who he is, so I shall make sure he knows that I will not run away.

“I have waited for so long, dreaming of the day you will finally see who I truly am.” He hums, embracing me from behind, as his fingers entwine with mine. I let myself lean back against his chest, his form towering over mine. I tilt my head to look up at him, my eyes catching his. He is ethereal, otherworldly. He holds a beauty that is unmatched. Everything about him tells me just who he is. Just the way he stands practically sings power.

Everything about him makes me want to know more. And so, I can not help but ask. For it is in my nature to be curious, even more so when it comes to him. Years I have spent getting to know him, yet it feels like I am just meeting him all over again.

“Long I have waited to see you, rather than just hear you. Yet now, I am left with more questions than answers.” My voice is barely above a whisper and despite this he still catches every word that I say. 

It seems that his attention is purely on me. For he hears every word I say, all the while his hands caress every inch of my skin. My one hand escapes his, coming up to caress his face. The mask that he bears peaks my curiosity, for why would an angel need to wear such a thing? Even more so, I wonder why he would wear a hood in such a private place. Yet I have so many other questions to ask as well, for he is a mystery to me. I have always thought that I knew him, yet at this moment I realise he is still so unknown to me. He is like the vast unexplored seas that make me want to jump on a ship and leave. To see just what I may find, what treasures I may stumble across, what stories will unwind.

His eyes capture mine again, as I get lost in the green of his irises. For a second I feel that I am wandering some forest of the fae realm, before I return to the real world again. Yet again I am convinced he is an angel, for only an angel would have eyes like his.

“Let me show you something, my muse. Perhaps your questions will be answered.” My thoughts are interrupted and perhaps it is on purpose, for it seems that he knows my mind was wandering. His hands trace across my collarbone before he lowers them to the small of my back, leading me forward to show me this mystery thing.

It is like my feet barely touch the ground, as I follow him. His one hand grasping mine as he leads me forward, his other hand gently resting on my back.

As he leads me toward a curtain, I patiently wait for him to reveal what is behind. Despite the excitement that vibrates throughout my bones, once I see what is behind the curtain, I feel faint.

Hidden behind this curtain, is a mannequin that looks exactly like me. And what’s more, this mannequin is wearing some sort of wedding attire. The thought is sweet, that I have to admit, but it is too much. 

The world around me goes dark, and my legs can no longer keep me up.

Signed the Opera Ghost

Malleus 1st person

My hands barely grasp my muse in time, before they hit the ground. I had not expected them to faint at what I had shown them, otherwise I wouldn’t have made it. Oh, how I hope they are okay. I lift them up in my arms, carrying them up into my room. As I look at them, I can not help but admire the piece of artwork that is their face. How a human can be so otherworldly, I can not say.

I gently place them in my bed, before pulling down the canopy around them. It is best if I let them sleep in peace. I can just practice some music while I wait for them to return to consciousness.  I decide to let my monkey musical box play for them while I wait, in hopes that the tune it plays will keep them calm.

So I leave them to lay in my bed, watching their sleeping form for but a moment, before I leave again. The organ that calls to be played, lures me out of the room. 

But before I let myself get carried away with such things, even if it may be what I love, I know it is best I send out a few letters explaining that Daaé is alright. I can not have people worrying, after all. No, that would risk having my dear muse get stressed, and I can not let that happen. So I will construct some letters, explaining what has gone down. I will write letters telling the new owners how things are supposed to be run around here and perhaps, if they are not fools, they will listen.

After an hour of writing, I finally let myself sit down by the organ to play, letting my heart come out and on display. As my fingers find their way to the giant instrument, I let myself compose a new opus. It is still but a work in progress, yet I know that with some fine-tuning, it will be beautiful.

And so I play, for minutes or hours I do not know. My mind is lost in the music, too distracted to notice the form that creeps up behind me. Only do I notice once I feel a soft hand on my shoulder. I turn my head to them, the beautiful Yuu that has captured my heart. Smooth skin that brushes against mine, caresses and gentle touches. Their hands that grace me like I am some delicate flower, yet also someone to be held.

Fingers that mould against my cheek, a palm that warms my cold body. Their hands play the role of my mask, holding me so protectively. In their hands I feel safe, something in which I am not used to. Perhaps I never will be. For as I let myself lean into the touch and enjoy the warmth, I feel something is wrong. I move faster than I have ever let a human see before, my hands reaching for my hood. Atop my head, which is usually hidden by a hood made of silk. But now as I reach to check if it is still in place, I find it to be missing. Instead, my hands find the smooth surface of my horns, cold to the touch, usually hidden.

An instant dread fills my heart, for a moment all I can see is red. For I had trusted them, I had trusted the child of man and it was a mistake. A mistake that I will have to pay for, it seems. All I can do now is wait for them to scream and run away, or beg for mercy. I was foolish for thinking them different, of course, they are not. All humans are the same, curious little creatures. They seek to know what is not their right to know, with no mind of consequences.

“Is this what you wanted to see?” The rage in my mind unlike any other, for I had trusted them. Had this been anyone else, I would have been saddened yes, but it would not have hurt. With them this feels like a betrayal, for they are dear to me. So hopefully they will forgive me for cursing, for yelling and frightening them. For even if they angered me, no person should be belittled like that.  Perhaps they are wrong in what they have done, but so am I. That is something I realise as I see the look on their face. The fear written across their face, written in every one of their tears. 

“Can you even dare to look, or bear to think of me? This loathsome gargoyle…” Explosive anger that is turning into sombre whispers and saddening thoughts. For I hurt them, I hurt the child of man, my muse. I hurt my Yuu, my Yuu Daaé. 

I am so lost in my self-wallowing thoughts that I barely notice the hesitant hands that help me put up my hood, as I struggle to do so myself. Yet again I am stricken with the feeling of guilt, as I see the way they try to help. They truly meant no harm, that much I can see. That much I should have seen from the start, for I know they are kind. Oh, so very kind.

“Who seems to be a beast but secretly dreams of beauty…” My voice wanders off, as I try to find a way to apologise, to find the right way to express everything in my mind.  Yet, instead of finding an apology, other words seem to leave my mouth. My lips spelling out the letters and my tongue pushing them past my teeth. I tell them we should get them back, as I know they can’t possibly wish to be around me any longer. Who would want to be around such a monster? Who would want to stay near the infernal beast that I am?

I help them to their feet as I prepare for us to leave. They should go back home, and far away from me. I want them to be safe, truly I do. More so than that, I know staying around me is not anywhere near safe. They must know that too. If they did not know that before, they certainly do now.

“Those fools who run my theatre will be missing you.” I try to encourage them, as they make no move to leave. It would be too selfish of me to make them stay, I know that. So why are they making no move to leave? 

The way they watch me, at first I thought it to be a look of fear. But now, now I see it is something else. Their gaze that screams pity. Sorrow is etched into their very essence as they stare.

Their hand that grasps mine is soft, a shock that runs through my body stopping me from pulling away. A shiver that runs down my spine, as they say words I have never heard before. 

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault.”

One Love One Lifetime

Yuu 1st person

The words I speak are the truth, despite the suddenness of them. And if my words do not convince him, then I hope my actions do. For I hold him close, his hands in mine. I let him see me for who I am, and not who he thought I was before. Yes, I did something bad. I should not have pulled down his hood when he was so obviously hiding something, yet I could not help it.

But his reaction told me everything I needed to know, I had gone and ignored a boundary that should have been respected. For that, I will feel internally bad. He holds my heart so dear to him and yet when he gave his heart to me, I just dropped it like nothing. But even though I know I was in the wrong, it does not seem that he thinks so. In fact, the guilt I see in his eyes is practically eating me alive. So I speak the words of forgiveness, for I truly do forgive him. I forgive him for getting mad, not because I believe he’s at fault though. Because I believe it is what he needs to hear.

“But please, forgive me. If anyone is at fault, it is I.” My whispered apology is met with soft silence, looking up and into his eyes, regret filling every fibre of my body. I let one hand trail up to hesitantly cup his cheek, feeling his cold skin meld against mine. It seems that he still holds my heart, keeping it safe from danger. Even the danger that is me.

“You trusted me and I… I broke that trust. For your forgiveness I am unworthy, yet I will still pray you try to forgive me.” I have never been one to beg, yet for a moment I consider it. But despite my thoughts, it seems he holds mercy dear. For his face seems to soften, almost lighting up. A small tug at the corner of his mouth, before it returns to its usual solemn state. Despite this, I know he is not mad. Perhaps he is not even sad. I let my spirits get lifted at this thought, as I properly look at him again, taking in the beauty he holds.

Why would such a man ever trust me? Let me near him, sleep in his bed? How could I ever be enough to someone as perfect as him?

“Forgiveness is not something you should ask for, child of man. It is something that has already been given a long time ago.” The voice that is his echoes throughout the room, yet what should sound ominous only sounds like peace to me. For I was finally given peace, knowing he did not hate me. I can't help myself from throwing my arms around him, embracing his taller form. I could feel him almost freeze in my hold. But as I begin to pull away, realising my inappropriate act, he pulls me against him. His arms surround my body tightly like he fears that should he let go, I will disappear.

“I have one final question for you.” The drip of water almost drowning out his voice, making it hard for me to hear, with how low his voice is. Yet I manage to hear his every word. Just one question, I wonder. For I would answer a million, should he ever have that many to ask. Yet I do not deny his request, instead waiting for him to tell me what he wishes to say. I do not know what he wishes from me, but I would say yes to anything. For when he is there, nothing is impossible.

“Will you reach the final threshold and stay with me? That’s all I ask of you, my muse.” His voice but a whisper, yet it still reaches my ears. I can tell he doubts if it is a good idea to ask, yet he does it anyway. For a second I find it brave. My eyes go wide as I pull back to see his face, once I finally register what he said. I needed to see if he meant this, if he truly meant every word he said, or if he was playing some cruel joke. Yet what I see is not the face of amusement or mischief, instead it is one of unsure seriousness. It’s a nervous face, yet not a single twist of his expression shows any cruelty.

A soft smile spreads across my lips as I look up at him, realising he means it. He must truly wish for it. And I can not help but consider every option I have. He means so much to me. He has been there for me for so long, teaching me the art of music like no other. He gave back life to me, he gave back a joy I thought I had lost that day I watched my father get lowered into the ground. So perhaps I am a bit selfish to want to stay, perhaps I am a bit selfish to wish to leave everyone behind for him, but it didn’t sound bad. In fact, it sounded like what I needed more than anything else.

“My Angel, I love you. Say the word and I will follow you.” Whispers of love flow through the night, like music. Small little melodies that take flight. So when he utters the words, words of love and admiration, I let myself be swept away by his charm. My hand gently tilts his head down to meet me, as I stand on my toes to meet his lips.

Such a small touch yet such a meaningful act. Two bodies touching so gently, so lost in the love for the other. A kiss so full of devotion, hands coming to grasp at the other, fearing they’ll otherwise get lost. What could be described as a dance for others, is like a song for us. The music is silent yet there, every note and melody so evident in every movement and touch. Soft lips pressed against soft lips, breath coming short. 

But now, as I stand here, I realise he may not be the angel I used to see. Perhaps he is, but there is something to him that tells me other stories.

He is my angel, yes. My Angel of Music. But he is also so much more. For as our lips part and his hood falls down, he does not try to hide his horns. And as my eyes catch his and I see how pupils turn into slits, I know that he is no angel. But that changes nothing, for he is still my Angel of Music.

[marz-barzz]

The joy of carnality

Sfw, potentially suggestive (no bits or tits), I was inspired by cannibalism as a metaphor for intimacy

°. •┈꒰ა🌹໒꒱┈• .°

I love the smell of your perfume. It was sweet and filled my nose like a deadly smoke, warning me of the danger ahead.

And yet I proceed, holding you as you kiss my neck. Your bites were harsh, but I loved them all the same, your lips soothing the damaged and tender skin. Relishing in the way you devoured me, my eyes shut as I inhale your captivating scent by the lungful.

Your lips stain red with blood as you rip through the tender meat of a lamb. Your pearly white teeth, neat as a military graveyard, blood tainting their pristine white, like a wolf biting into a fresh kill. I imagine it's my blood instead, indulging on my flesh with grace as you chew through each piece of meat, sipping my tears of bliss as if wine in your silver goblet.

I adore your smile. The fangs in your mouth are just a tease and a delightful rush for my poor soul and bring me down to my knees. Silently, I plead with my eyes to give into the sin of devouring my depraved skin.

The sound of your moans when you feast on me sends me to hell and burns my skin with the fires of passion. For the temptation of your hunger drives me mad in the best ways I've ever known. How you hum and giggle in delight as you taste me. Elegantly thin fingers hold me as you sigh with satisfaction, your gluttony satiated for now as I lay unfurled and a mess from your love.

°. •┈꒰ა🌹໒꒱┈• .°

[thefiery-phoenix]

YANDERE WANDA MAXIMOFF X READER (PHANTOM OF THE OPERA AU)

That's actually an interesting scenario. I've seen the Phantom of the Opera at Broadway when I was a kid, I was kinda young so I didn't really understand much of it. All I liked was the Phantom's mask lol. And I've gone with the original and the ACTUAL Phantom of the Opera here that took place in Paris at the The Palais Garnier or Opéra Garnier and I actually like the Phantom of the Opera :)

You were supposed to give a show today at the Paris Opera House, Palais Garnier. You were the main character of the play, Christine Daae. You were nervous since you didn't think that you could actually pull it off and in other words, one could say that you had stage fright. You started taking deep breaths to calm yourself down and you tried to rehearse your parts along with your songs

What you didn't know was that there was a person from underground or the sewers watching your every move. The Phantom was captivated and mesmerized by your beauty and your charming melodious voice whenever you practiced. She manipulated and spooked the crew of giving you the leading character in the play, giving you all the key roles. She gazed up at you, wistfully thinking how wonderful and lovely it would be to have you in her arms. She was scared and ashamed to show herself to you since she was rather disfigured and afraid that you might recoil in disgust when you look at her. Hence she was forced to silently observe you from the shadows, heart aching and yearning for your touch and your soft pink rosy lips on hers

However, there were 2 people she didn't like from the crew. One was the lady who played the role of Meg Giry the Prima Donna (Chief singer) and the other was the guy playing the role of the Viscount Raoul de Chagny since he fell in love with you. She made a plan to keep a close eye on them to ensure that they didn't mess your part in the play

You practiced for days and today it was the Opening Night. For days you had practiced, you couldn't afford to mess this up. Wanda was looking at you with interest, and with admiration in her eyes that even though you were nervous, you were still ready to face the people and do your part. She admired your bravery and courage and she oh, how she wished to do something to calm you down

Just then Meg Giry, the lead singer of the play asked you how you were doing. You didn't really suspect her of having any ill intentions towards you and you were too naive and trusting for your own good. The Phantom irritated at the cause of the disturbance from your practice peeked more close to see who you were talking to you and she scowled, an irritated frown on her face. Meg handed you a caffeinated drink to which you gladly accepted with a smile on your face and you drank it in front of her. She smirked deviously, talked with you for a few minutes and congratulated you for your acting and voice. But the Phantom knew better, she started getting livid. Who was this woman and how DARE they try doing something to you just before the play! You might not have noticed Meg's evil smirk and her ill feelings towards you but Wanda knew better. Her heart immediately started feeling heavy, wanting to protect you from all this and embrace you in her loving arms, where you don't have to fear anything. You were obviously too good and pure for this world and Wanda was now angry that someone was taking advantage of your niceness. Wanda still didn't want to reveal herself to you since she was a little insecure about herself but she made a mental note to make sure nothing happens to you today on Opening Night

Soon, it was time for you to sing your part and you took a deep breath, and you braced yourself and headed out to the center of the stage. The Phantom was silently cheering you on, captivated by how wonderful you look and how... angelic and divine you appeared while singing, like a true goddess from he heavens above. She felt all her negative emotions from a long time vanish when your melodious voice filled the Opera

(Lyrics don't belong to me, they're composed by Andrew Lloyd Webber from the movie 'Phantom of the Opera')

'Think of me, think of me fondly When we've said goodbye Remember me, once in a while Please promise me you'll try When you find that once again you long To take your heart back and be free If you ever find a moment Spare a thought for me....

We never said our love was evergreen Or as unchanging as the sea But if you can still remember Stop and think of me Think of all the things We've shared and seen Don't think about the way Things might have been'

You suddenly hit the wrong note and your face flushed red with embarrassment as people started staring you, some of them whispering. Then you started coughing and sputtering as Meg Giry started smirking at your behavior. You then understood that she had given you a drink that had caffeine in it and caffeine makes the voice weak for a while. You looked at her with anger and hurt in your eyes and she started singing

(Song's name is 'Please Miss Giry' composed by Andrew Lloyd Webber from the movie, 'Love Never Dies')

'Please, Miss Giry! I want to go back! I want my mother...

The sea is calm The sea is gray It washes everything away

Please, you're hurting me!

Don't worry, it's almost over

Sink into the deep Blue, and cool, and kind Then drift off to sleep Let the past unwind Leave the hurt behind

Gustave! Mother! No, I'm not done yet!'

By now Wanda was literally fuming that her beloved was cast aside for this random upstart. How DARE that.... that woman do that you and sabotage your singing? You could feel a few tears prickling your eyes and it fell down on the floor lightly. You thought that today would be the best day of your life, feeling proud as you stand held high and sing. You thought nothing could dampen your spirits but you were wrong. No one noticed your silent tears except for Wanda and she felt an ocean of emotions like anger, sympathy, love, sadness course through her body. All for you. She wasn't having any more of this nonsense and as the woman kept on singing, she grew even more infuriated and decided to do something about her

She sneakily came out of her hiding place and she snuck towards the gallery, used her powers to make the chandelier dangling above the proscenium fall down. It was on the verge of collapse but Wanda thought one step ahead. While the chandelier was still dangling loosely she made her grand appearance, startling everyone in the theatre and she pulled you in her embrace. Before you could even process what happened the chandelier finally came crashing down and she whisked you off with her

You looked up at her, wondering what she was going to do with you now and you sniffled, and whimpered in fright. "Please let me go...I'm sorry if I did something wrong''. She succumbed to her overwhelming desire of having you in her arms at long last and she dried your tears and spoke "My love... I have waited for far too long to have you in my arms. Hearing your divine wonderful voice, it made me feel... alive and like a person again. The way you were treated today in front of all those who don't deserve to be graced by your presence made my blood boil. You are far too pure and angelic to be tainted by the darkness of the world. I apologize that you were captured by a monster like me but... I will do my best to protect you''

She dried your tears lovingly and continued, "The world doesn't deserve an angel like you, my love~". The last thing you remembered was losing consciousness in a mysterious stranger's arms, wondering if all this was just a dream. Oh, if only it was a dream....

[flea-palace]

we need to discuss how erik in the yeston/kopit phantom is probably the most socially isolated version of erik in that he has presumably only ever had a conversation with one other human being his whole life (gerard) until he meets christine. she is the first person he has ever held a conversation with aside from the man who is basically an extension of himself (and whom he has known since birth) and we are expected to believe he would pull off a convo with his new crush smoothly? where are the fics that rewrite their first meeting and erik is an absolute loserboy cringey mess??? hm????

[lapsusophobia]

I Want You More Than Anything In The World

Status: scrapped/unfinished

TW: mild sexual content , nudity , Tease, non-graphic smut (?), this literally stops beforehand I have to idea how to tag it

Pair(s): Erikstine except Christine is vampire and this is very out of context

Note: happy new year everyone!!! until I actually find both the motivation AND inspiration to write (for I believe I have left those in the year that has just passed) I decided to take out another half-baked cookie from my little basket of horrors and goodies. pray for me to actually get back to writing and enjoy this little threat xx

"I want you. I want you more than I want the finest blood in the world. I want to be one with you, to know that, tonight, you will be mine. That you’ll give yourself to me and I’ll do the same. No masks, no armor and no barriers. Corpse to corpse, dead flesh to dead flesh. Let us be no longer ashamed of our natures, if only for a night. Let us be monsters in love. Let me feel your touch on my cold, unalive, skin, let me take you to a dance like no other. Let me create a different sound that you have never heard of. Let me help you make a different kind of music.” Christine pleaded and with her right hand removed the hard black mask from his face that had left red marks on his sunken cheeks and ugly nose from the countless hours he had worn it that day. But nothing mattered then, except to strip themselves off the skins they lived in and face each other as they were: two creatures who wanted nothing but love. Who craved nothing but to be wanted.

Erik gently unlaced her corset and tossed it aside, then she raised her arms to help him get rid of her white chemise, leaving her chest exposed. Her skin was a beautiful shade of cinnamon yet faded and not as bright and luminous as it had been when she was still alive. Here and there her shoulders were sprinkled with small dark dots which matched the ones on her nose and cheeks. Her breasts were nowhere symmetrical and slightly unbalanced, her nipples a grayish shade of raspberry wine, and stretch marks were marking their flesh. He blushed, the palest shade of poppy red coloring his cadaveric face. Christine smiled sweetly in the corner of her mouth and slid off her drawers and stockings in a second, leaving her completely nude, exposed before his eyes. Her body was round, apple shaped with round hips, covered in stretch marks as well and a few chatten hairs here and there. With all the imperfections and flaws common to human bodies, she was a goddess. His goddess. He would never see her otherwise, and he would always remember this moment when his cursed eyes met the glance of the Lord’s most glorious statue. Erik noticed how she kept his gaze from meeting his own, causing him to raise one of his dark eyebrows and look her in the eyes.

“Nervous? Before your Erik?” he asked, slightly concerned, placing a hand on her waist and pulling her a little closer to him. Then lifted his face enough to bury his nose between her breasts and kiss her there.

“No one ever looked at me like I am. . .” Christine didn’t finish her sentence, couldn’t, for the words refused to come. Instead she buried her hands in his raven’s land, caressing his scalp.

“A wonder? A statue sculpted out of the finest alabaster? That’s what you are, my beautiful, beautiful Christine. Every inch of your body is a work of art.”

Christine kissed his forehead furrowed by Port Wine stains, caressing each mark with her plum coloured lips, then his lashless eyelids — first came the cold, ice blue eye, then the mesmerizing left cognac one which she would sip like a fine drink if she could. She even placed a kiss on the hideous, barely existent flesh of his nose and in the very end on his thin, paper-like lips. She took his bottom lip between her teeth and bit it softly with her vampire canines. A droplet of blood fell on her tongue and she swallowed it pleased, smiling to herself as he slid his tongue in her mouth and tangled it with hers. She made herself busy by unbuttoning his vest and shirt, and to her surprise he didn’t show any signs of protests and let the clothes fall without any remorse. She studied his pale, bony chest and ran a hand on his scar covered torso. Alas, she could feel his ribs! And there were so many wounds, so many stitches! She recognised a knife gash that went along his clavicle which didn’t heal right. Cigar burns which would never fade on his belly. When she ran her fingers across his spine she shivered at the touch of multiple whip marks across his back. Oh, her poor Maestro! Her poor Erik! How her heart burned right now with a lust for revenge! How she wished that every single criminal, every demon who had laid a hand on him to still breathe, only for her to cut their hearts out with her bare hands! She didn’t realize her inner fires had started showing and darkening her sight until Erik cupped her cheeks with his hands, bringing her back in the room with him.

“Mon cher, do not let the memory of my monsters consume you. Let those phantoms die tonight. We’ll face them tomorrow, when daylight will bring them back to life.” he whispered in her ear, pressing a soft kiss on her jawline as her violinist hands stroked his raven’s land. He continued leaving butterflies on her skin and was slowly going down her neckline and then under her left breast, where her heart had once beaten and was now resting lifeless yet full of love in her ribcage. Then he took the small flesh of her nipple in his mouth and gently began to suck on it, circling the areolae of her breast with his tongue. Christine responded with a sweet murmur, pushing his head delicately to encourage him in his action. He bit her playfully, leaving halfmoon marks all over the flesh of her breast, going up once again to mark her neck with the tattoos of his mouth. Between soft gasps, she slid in his lap, tangling her beautiful legs around his waist as if claiming something that was rightfully hers and no one else’s to share with. And he was. He was hers and only hers. He was and would be whatever his Angel of Music would want him to be. Lover, Servant, Maestro. He would do whatever it took to please his Goddess.

[justplainlovely]

the wildest, dumbest, crackpot oneshot I ever have or ever will write this whole story is built on the premise that if Erik landed in the Fallout universe, he would be both terrified and awestruck by the existence of ghouls

[hotpinkboots]

I watched the 2004 phantom of the opera movie a few days ago because I checked it out from the library,Erik is so adorable,like how can you deny his cute face

IKR 💜 HE'S VERY CUTE. I genuinely think he's handsome, he's a beautiful man

[milady-pink]

Anywhere You Go

Let me go too,

Follow Erik and Christine (along with their friends) as their souls find each other in every multiverse/ oneshot!

If you have any recommendations for ideas you’d like to see our favorite couple in, please feel free to drop an ask!

Ballet AU

Cats AU (not the musical)

Broadway Vlog AU: Part 1 | Part 2

Reverse Height Difference AU (Tall Christine Smol Erik)

Pride & Prejudice AU

Roommates AU | 5 fights, 1 agreement (Erik & Raoul)

[ceo-of-rockopera]

misc . rockopera

for lack of a better way of getting this out I'm just dumping all this out into words in hopes that something sticks.

(to avoid confusion this is a highschool au. not historically accurate, never tried to be historically accurate. they're so deliciously cringe <3)

band teacher x orchestra teacher >>>>>>>

dewey ends up introducing rock and roll /to/ erik. afterwhich the phantom 1000% did not end up doing a deep dive on the genre so he would be able to actually talk about it with the other

eriks the very strict teacher who'd reprimand students pushing for his personal life, deweys a YAPPER and spends a good portion of his time gushing about erik. or music. or anything on his mind in general. their students are very confused

not a headcanon in the slightest but eriks just like the biggest crier (if that wasn't obvious by him being in tears by about 1/3 of the book /j) dew thought he was the stoic type. and he /is/. but he's also very very emotional

relationship dynamic: a person who doesn't wanna be tied down by marriage x FOR GODS SAKES /PLEASE/.

dewey isn’t a jealous type when it comes to relationships but he IS possessive. he has more than enough trust in erik though if someone does flirt or something while they’re out he doesn’t hesitate to make their relationship known. a very prominent arm around his shoulder, or other means. erik chooses not to mention it, though it does make him feel appreciated.

erik on the other hand gets considerably more jealous if someone were to hit on his partner. naturally his response would be murder but 1. that would be distasteful. and a mess. 2. dewey usually takes notice of how quiet he was (or generally what the person was doing, he isn’t THAT oblivious) and handles it.

dewey isn’t a bad driver exactly. however, he’s essentially become the designated driver for them. erik was not taught, and he will not learn. both because dewey is a terrible driving instructor (erik still swears the one time he did try to teach him the only reason he crashed was because dewey couldn’t control his volume. while he was driving in the wrong lane.) and he enjoys getting chauffeured around! plus, dewey gets to control the aux so it works out for everyone

they both have different definitions on what a date is. erik is the kind of person to plan everything perfectly; wine, a candlelit dinner, the works. and deweys - well if you’ve seen school of rock. “coffee?”

in conclusion um. they :)

[kimwexlers-brownhair]

This might be the best, most realistic, and most in-character take on the Erik x Meg and Erik x Christine dynamics I've ever read. It's certainly not fluff, and there's no romantic endgame, but I adore it. Hooray for eternally level headed Meg, even when she's in love! Hooray for not shying away from Erik being a manipulative bastard!

[infiniterealms]

Infinite Realms: A Danny Phantom Remix Event

Have you ever read an amazing fic and wanted to have a go at it yourself, but felt too shy or like you’d be doing something wrong? Have you ever seen the Two Cakes comic and wistfully remembered a oneshot someone wrote that you wish you could continue? Do you want to show an author you love their work to the point of your own creation, but you don’t know how to make fanart?

This is your opportunity to give something new a try!

What is a fanfiction remix?

When you remix a fanfiction, you write a piece based directly off the fic. There are many ways to do this, and the ones accepted in this event are as follows.

POV Flip - Retelling the same events from a different character's point of view.

Role Reversal - Swapping the roles of two key characters. An example would be remixing a fic where Valerie hunts Danny, by turning Valerie into the hunted and Danny into the hunter in your version.

Sequel/Prequel - The events leading up to or following the fic. This should overlap with either the first or last scene of the original.

Genre Change - Changing the fic to a different genre. An example could be changing a modern day canon setting to medieval fantasy or to a space opera.

For Want of a Nail - One small detail at the beginning of fic is changed, causing things to happen differently.

One Crucial Detail - Focus on what you think is the most important detail of the fic for a character’s point of view, and let everything else fall away.

Guidelines

For this event, we will be doing gen fics only. This is to create a space where everyone can enjoy the pieces regardless of shipping preferences. Potential future iterations of this event may include a shipping option.

Other types of remixes are okay if the author of the oneshot specifies that in their fic description.

Three things cannot be changed - who the characters are, the basic setting, and the basic plot.

Please keep your pieces rated T and under, and use all appropriate trigger warnings.

No direct plagiarism - you need to write things in your own words for the fic to be included in the collection. It’s okay to quote some dialogue or a key sentence or two, especially if you’re writing overlapping scenes, but your fic should mostly be your own words.

In the spirit of the event, crossovers should be avoided unless the author specifically states on their fic that they would be okay with them. In future years we may introduce a crossover category, but for now, avoiding crossovers makes your pieces more accessible to everyone in the fandom.

This event is specifically for writers. However, if artists wish to participate, then they can also feel free to do so. 

Timeline

January 5th to 12th - Initial Author Sign Ups

Please note that I’m hoping for 10 to 12 initial authors, so that there will be a decent selection of one shots for remixing during February.

This is first come first served, but even if allocations are exhausted, that’s okay! You can still participate in writing remixes in February for this event, and there’s no reason you can’t write your own oneshot anyway and tag it that remixes are welcome anytime.

January 13th to 26th - Initial Oneshot Writing Time

The 10 to 12 initial authors will write their oneshots. These pieces should be:

1k to 3k words long

A new or recent oneshot written for Danny Phantom

Rated T and under, and use all appropriate trigger warnings

Gen fics only

January 27th to 30th - Final Review

This is time for last minute questions, beta reading, and formatting for initial authors.

January 31st to February 1st - Initial Oneshots Posted

All of the initial oneshots will be posted, and listed in a masterlist on the infiniterealms tumblr blog with summaries and any author preferences.

February 1st to 28th - Writing Time!

Everyone is welcome to participate! This is not a contest this time, it’s just a celebration of shared interests and a different way of engaging with fic.

Posting instructions will be released on February 1st.

There is no limit to how many pieces anyone writes.

There are no word count restrictions.

All pieces should follow the event guidelines in order to be reblogged on the infiniterealms tumblr or included in the ao3 collection.

February 28th - Last Day to Post!

Last official posting day for your remix fics.

Looking forwards to seeing what you all come up with!

Event organised by @lexiepiper Icon by the very talented @jackdaw-sprite

[slashingdisneypasta]

Erik Destler x CleanersDaughter!Reader || Oneshot

Plot:

"Its a dance. And sometimes they turn the lights off in this ballroom. But we'll dance anyway, you and I. Even in the dark. Especially in the dark. May I have the pleasure?" - Stephen King.

Warnings: Meh. I dunno. Its unedited though.

You grew up in the opera house; you father cleaned the place, and you had no mother so you came with him every night. And since you were old enough to blend in to the background, you were allowed to wander to your hearts delight. You knew every single nook and cranny of the place- but your favourite spot in the whole building was still the stage. The big, beautiful stage your father kept shiny as silver, if would could be shiny. After everyone went home and your father went to see to the foyer that was always a terrible mess after shows, you would take off your dirty shoes and slip onto the stage.

Thats where you learnt to dance, all on your own; Replaying the nights music in your head, eyes closed. You liked it that way. No audience, or critic, save for the ghosts you were sure haunted this place.

Well, the ghosts and Him.

He was no phantom to you, he was the just Erik. At first you had been afraid of him; you were young the first time that you saw him in the shadows and you truly thought you glimpsed a real-life ghost! But as you grew older, saw him more and more frequently, you realised there really was nothing so sleepy about him as a ghost would be; wandering the halls without a moments rest day and night.

And he wasn't scary; at least not to you.

He wouldn't approach you for years, seeming quite content in his lonely existence. Avoiding you and your father, and every single other soul who walked these grounds- but you would hear his music, when everyone else had gone home for the night and it was just you, your father, and him. Eventually you even managed to sneak up on him; tell him how beautiful his music was. He threatened you and ran away immediately... but a few nights later he returned, and when you asked for the honour of dancing with his music this time, he allowed it.

Now after years of companionship, seeing him every now and then behind the walls and in his box, you would call Erik your dear, secret friend.

And he was no ghost; just a very complicated man.

Tonight when your stocking-clad feet touch the familiar, polished wood of the stage, your favourite place in the entire world, you take a deep breath and close your eyes. From the middle of the stage, you could see the entire opera hour if you opened them. Sometimes thats too intimidating to start out with.

Every nerve ending in your body buzzes gently at the anticipation. Like it does every night that you slip away from your duties with your father and sneak up here, your body sings for movement. All it wants to do is dance; Who are you to deny it?

You're just relaxing your muscles, a tiny smile niggling at the corners of your mouth, when the feel of leather touches your hands. You give a sharp gasp, eyes shooting open- but immediately relax and give a nervous giggle; shaking your head at Erik before you holding your hands. "You scared me!"

"I meant to." He smirks, fond and mischievous.

"Hmph. What can I do for you??" You ask, fake-impatient. He knows you're joking by the grin on your lips. You know what he wants.

"I was hoping for a dance tonight. I don't know anyone who does it better then you, Y/N."

... damn. He knows how bad compliments like that get to you. Your talents will never be seen by anyone, save for him and your father and possibly your future husband (If that ever happens. You aren't particularly interested in that; despite your fathers suggestions that you'd be happier. You're perfectly happy.), but to have Erik say that you're that skilled?? Better then the ballet girls?? You cant deny the man anything after that. Damn him.

You give a sigh; fake irritated. "Well. How could I deny a gentleman with such good taste?"

His grin widens at you, but only for a moment before he focuses. Erik would never interrupt your moment on stage doing what you love, and not take it seriously; he would see it as terrible insult. He understands.

"... what kind of music?" You whisper, wandering what notes you should play in your head. You always leave this part up to him.

"How about a waltz? Slow, intimate." He's serious now, like he always is talking about music. Giving a nod, already playing the appropriate music in your head; music you've heard him play before, you place one of your hands up on his corresponding shoulder. His figure so familiar to you now its just like returning to this stage night after night.

"I'd like that."

~

When you end the dance back in the middle of the stage, the same song coming to an end in both of your minds and your foreheads together, you're both silent. You gaze downwards, vaguely down at Erik's boots and your grey stockings, vague-minded and still lost in the feeling of being swept up in a waltz. You don't notice the heavy thoughts swarming his mind as if he'd been aching to tell you something, or frown on his face that accompanied it- for he never wears a mask with you. He knows you don't fear him, you aren't disgusted by his disfigurement. You're his closest friend and companion, and the kindest soul he has ever known.

"Y/N... you've heard of the new chorus girl?" He finally speaks, not moving to shift away from you, or look you in the eye. Almost not wanting to leave this place at all.

You're surprised at the turn in topic, eyes flickering up to his. "Yes?"

"... I've been tutoring her."

"Oh thats wonderful Erik!" Immediately a warm smile spreads across your face, raising your head. No longer touching- until he grabs you by the arms and draws you in close to him again; surprising you. "Wh- "

"We've been working privately. I took her to my domain. She's... she's a beautiful person. So talented."

Gently, you lay your hands on both his shoulders this time; attempting to stabilise him. "Thats amazing. I'm so happy to hear this, Erik." Truly you are. You always feared you would be his only human companionship, save for the women at the whorehouse down the way-- but this is a little different then that. This is friendship. Maybe more. You're delighted to know even if you leave, find that unlikely husband that may happen one day and move in with him, that he wont be alone.

"... Happy??" Erik doesn't sound- doesn't look- like that pleases him. He looks baffled. A little upset and frustrated.

"Yes, of course!" You beseech, a kind smile still on your lips. "You're my dear friend! I just want you to be happy. Does she make you happy??"

"I- " He still looks utterly baffled, shifting his gaze downwards, pained by his racing thoughts. The mood has completely changed, here. "Yes. I think so."

You give a gentle laugh. "Then what's the problem??"

His eyes, always so so intense, snap back up to yours and you're stunned by the ferocity there. "... I don't know. I thought perhaps you would have a different answer."

Slowly, you're starting to get a new feeling. Did he think you would be displeased? ... Why would he think that? "... like what?"

"I'm not sure." He's averting his eyes again, but you're not having it. Knitting your eyebrows together, you lean in so he has to look at you, your heart beating erratically in your chest as if you're at the very edge of a precipice.

"How would you answer if I told you I met someone?" You beseech, direct and to the point.

All of a sudden he doesn't have words. Erik, doesn't have words. You find that wholly convenient for him.

But you see the darkness that descends over his whole face, and that gives you your answer. Your lips part in surprise, eyes widening again with realisation.

You didn't know.

You don't know what it was, or when it was that your feelings shifted- or even for how long they've been changed. And you have absolutely no idea how you failed to notice it either.

There's a reason you never truly imagined finding a husband; why you never even cared.

You've already been in love for a very long time.

"You... you want me to be unhappy you met a beautiful woman," You say, gently. Broaching the subject with abject care. As if it is easy to startle away, like a mist. Your lower your gaze, thinking. Your fingers dig into his cloak; fingernails scraping against the black wool. "... you would be displeased if I found someone,.. you complement me, you trust me, you care for me- "

"Yes." He seems to be waiting for you to say it first.

Taking a deep breath, you look up a final time at Erik. You're about to say it, to ask him if he is saying he loves you, when you both hear footsteps coming down the hall and you freeze. Erik looks abjectly annoyed; even angry, at the doorway across the theatre.

Your father is coming right now.

~

"Y/N?? All done now honey, we can go home now."

Erik flees from you into the shadowy back of the theatre in a heartbeat, and you're left alone and suddenly very chilled; as if you truly did meet a ghost this time, when your father walks in across the theatre.

"Come on! I'm tired; I'm sure you are too."

"I'm just gonna get my shoes." You say, giving him a nervous smile.

Your father nods, not noticing the difference in you, the excited nerves, and touches the wall on his way out; like he always does. "See you tomorrow night, old miss."

You give a hopeless sigh, going to get your shoes as you said. On your way out you whisper your own goodbye, for the first time. "... see you tomorrow night, Erik."

Faintly, you hear a beautiful piano melody play somewhere deep in the opera house; his waltz. The exact one you imagined in your head when you and Erik danced together earlier and thought he was imagining, too, but couldn't be sure. You grin to yourself; you cant wait for tomorrow night.

[lapsusophobia]

like Saturn devouring His Son

Status: scrapped/unfinished

TW: metaphors about abuse, childhood trauma, gratification of abuse, incoherent writing cuz the writer is stupid, Erik’s abusive relationship with his mother lives rent free in my head

Pair(s): none

Note: guess who still hasn’t finished the next chapter of her Heart Phic. . . yep, that’s me. so I figured out I should just dig into my Google Docs again to post something until I get to work once again. I wrote this during a history lesson when we were having an open talk about symbolism of paintings and I gave Goya’s Saturn Eating His Son as an example, scribbled this short one into my notebook then transcribed it into my Docs and completely forgot about it. it might not seem so graphic, but if you have a good imagination like me. . . beware.

He didn't have many memories of his early years. He only remembered, vaguely, the voice of a woman. But it was low, whisperlite, almost ethereal. Forgotten as years have passed and her memory started to fade, hidden in a fleeting dream, slowly becoming dust in the palace of his mind.

It was honeyed. Melodious, musical, so beautiful you were given the impression she sang every word she spoke. Oh, and her laughter! What a beautiful, heavenly sound! It called him to her, almost as if she was opening her arms to him, welcoming him in his graces. Yes, yes he remembered! It was his mother’s voice! Only a mother’s voice could have such a power over any being.

A fragment of Lord’s finest work, so magnificent, so warm but so, so rasping! But how? How could a mother’s voice be both a blessing to her child’s ears and a curse? And why? Why was his mother burning him with her own words?

In vain her voice gave the transparent illusion of comforting him, for her claws scratched his soul and ate the life out of him. She would dig her witch nails under his skin and sprout roots in his flesh, chaining him so hard he could hardly breath. Pain, pain flowing, dancing through his veins. He would crawl to the invisible, nonexistent ground, trying to free himself from her cage. The way she spat undecipherable, hateful words that he could not recall. Now the roots were tangling around his neck, suffocating him, stealing the last drop of air that dared to enter his lungs.

She tore through his skin, chewed on every single of his bones. Sucked his eyes out of their sockets. Plucked out each of his teeth as if they were strawberries blooming in the spring. And then ate him alive just as Saturn devoured his son.

[nicherayyy]

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