#it's even better when the opera ghost pitches in... ;)
Text
poto rewritten short stories 6/6: meg the fooler
in honor of read an e-book week, i'll be sharing sneak peeks of the rewrite's first short story collection (which will be an e-book exclusive out this spring)! last but not least is meg and cecile being epic pranksters! ;D
...
The door creaked open…
“BOO!” Meg yelled, running out from the vanity.
“AHHH!” a dancer screamed as she put a hand on her heart. “You got me, Meg!”
Meg laughed. The foolee was none other than Cécile Jammes, her pranking partner. They had pulled many tricks throughout the years on the other dancers, the singers, the stagehands, the managers… no one was safe from their pranks on April Fools’ Day!
…No one except The Opera Ghost, that is.
“I have a little something for my partner in crime!” Meg said.
“Oh!” Cécile’s brown eyes sparkled as Meg handed her a little chocolate fish and popped it in her mouth. “Mmm, thank you. Are you ready to start?”
“I’ve been ready since last night!”
Cécile smirked and tossed one of her caramel brown ringlets over her shoulder. “I know exactly what we can do first.”
...
A few minutes later, chatter sounded through the ballerina dorm as the corps de ballet filed in. Some did stretches, a few lounged on the sofa, others sat at their vanities and some stood around to talk. Meg and Cécile waited near the back, hiding soft giggles behind their hands.
“Here she comes!” Cécile whispered.
Meg gave an excited squeak as Sorelli DuPont walked in. She rubbed a horseshoe on the wall for good luck.
“What in the world?” Sorelli looked at her horseshoe, which was covered with a rubber bathing cap! “Oh, I should’ve known…”
“April Fools’!” Meg and Cécile exclaimed.
Sorelli rolled her eyes. The jokesters looked over at Fleur, who sniffed a tulip… that sprayed her with water! Elena was brushing her hair at her vanity. She gasped as she realized that cold cream was on it! The lotion belonged to Colette... who smeared ketchup all over her face! Nellis opened her vanity drawer to find nothing inside except a paper fish and April’s paper nameplate had ‘Fools!’ written on it. The remaining seven ballerinas were pranked as well, leaving Meg and Cécile in stitches.
“I knew this would happen.” April said with a sigh.
“You two are almost as bad as The Opera Ghost!” Colette exclaimed.
“And just as delicious!” Meg added as she swiped some ketchup from her face.
“No one could ever be as great as that ghost. It’s-” Sorelli paused at Meg’s look. “He’s the greatest trickster in the opera house.”
“We may be great, but he’s the true master.” Cécile agreed.
Meg looked down at the floor as an idea sprung into her mind. She looked up, her eyes widening with a gasp as she exclaimed, “I got it! We can join forces with Mr. E!"
“Seriously? You want us to partner with The Opera Ghost?" Cécile asked with an uneasy frown.
"Yeah! The Ghost is a bit scary, but Mr. E is perfectly fine. He has access to every corner of the opera house, so..."
Sorelli groaned. "Great. You'll be unstoppable.”
"Oui... unstoppable!" Cécile exclaimed with a grin. "Let's do it!"
Meg cheered. "This will be the best April Fools’ Day yet! I'll go get him!"
She ran down the dressing room hallway, stopping at the very end. She put her ear to the door and listened.
"Meg woke me up by putting my hand in cold water," Christine was saying. "It startled me so much! One of her many tricks for today!"
"What's today?" Erik asked.
Meg wanted to shout, 'April Fools’ Day!' but she let Christine say it instead.
"Ah, yes. One of the best times of the year for The Opera Ghost," Erik chuckled. "Ayesha likes it, too. She stretched out on my legs and I sat up to pet her... and then she started walking towards me. She was going to lay right on my pillow! I caught on and laid back down before she could, but she found a nice spot next to me."
Christine giggled. "Oh, how funny! She nearly tricked you!"
"Sounds like she'd be the perfect kitty prankster!" Meg exclaimed as she ran into Christine's dressing room.
Erik looked up. He was doing a mirror chat with Christine, who looked over her shoulder at Meg.
“Then we’d have three tricksters scurrying around!” she realized with a chuckle.
“More like four.” Erik added with a wink.
“That’s exactly why I’m here,” Meg said. “Meet Cécile and me on stage after practice, Mr. E!”
Erik frowned. “Can’t I just meet you?”
“Nope. I don’t prank alone,” Meg smiled as she added, “Cécile won’t be scared of you, I promise.”
She went up to the mirror and held out her pinkie, getting a confused look from Erik.
“That’s a pinkie promise.” Christine explained.
“It is!” Meg agreed. “It’s one you can’t break.”
Erik looked at Meg’s pinkie before slowly lifting his own.
“There you go! It’s a date! But not the ones you and Christine go on!” Meg said, giggling at Erik and Christine’s rosy blushes.
...
Meg sighed as she stood on her tip toes and tried to peek into Box Five. It was eleven-forty on the dot. Ballet practice had ended not too long ago and now she and Cécile were waiting on stage.
“He should be here by now!” Meg said impatiently.
“Maybe he doesn’t want to partner with us,” Cécile hoped as she fiddled with her coral ring. “Let’s think of some more pra-”
Just then, the chandelier lights went off! Cécile’s scream echoed through the theater. Meg jumped a little, but she wasn’t afraid.
“The electricity’s gone out!” Cécile exclaimed in a panic. “Let’s fetch the managers!”
“Or you could fetch The Opera Ghost.” a voice said.
The lights returned and a shadow stepped out from Box Three.
“Mr. E!” Meg exclaimed happily. “I thought you’d be in Box Five!”
“Got you, Little Miss,” Erik said with a smile. “Consider that an April Fools’ gift from me.”
“The greatest gift would be partnering with us!”
“As long as you’re not creepy.” Cécile added.
“Oh, that’s only The O- Opera Ghost. Y- You won’t need to worry about creepiness with me,” Erik reassured her. “Y- You’ll just need to w- wo- worry about all the sneaky tricks we’ll pull.”
Cécile’s fearful face was replaced with a sly one.
“So you’re in?” Meg asked.
“Yes, Little Miss,” Erik smirked. “I’m definitely in.”
#dun dun dunnn#because it's the last day this preview is a little longer than the others#this is the last story yet the first one i wrote! ;)#meg and cecile love their pranks! ;D#it's even better when the opera ghost pitches in... ;)#poto rewritten
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
A Love Undying
Summary: For many months Erik has been trying to find the courage to tell Christine exactly how he feels for her, choosing the night of her premier as the new starring soprano. But when everything goes wrong, death itself cannot keep them apart.
Word Count: 5,145 | Graphics: @firefly-graphics
Warnings: major character death, unrequited love, anger issues
Part 2 Part 3
Nothing could compare to the agony Erik was suffering from currently. Although his many years of wandering the earth with a face like his, lacking in a nose with yellow tinged skin like a sheet of crepe paper stretched over protruding cheekbones and sparse bits of hair on the crown of his head, nothing was as awful as the pain he felt now. Not when his mother renounced him as her son and therefore sold him to the cruel circus master Javert, nor when was made to perform massless for the masses as the singing corpse, due to his less than ideal appearance. No, even as his amber eyes watered from years of being submitted to whippings and being withheld food did he ever suffer as he did today.
It was just after Christine’s performance, her first October as the Opera Populaire’s leading lady. Her time had finally come, the stars themselves aligning just for her to pursue the dreams her father helped nourish with his sweet violin playing whilst she sang. What with Carlotta’s leaving, new managers who were eager for a large crowd, and new patrons giving the theater their money for new talent, costumes, and sets. For Christine the universe was finally rewarding her hard work. But, for Erik, the hard work was what gave her the right chance. Scaring Carlotta with her life so that she fled the opera once and for all, leaving for Spain to ruin some other theater with her off-pitch soprano, easy as pie. Convincing the new managers to not only pay him his due allowance but also hold them under his reign just enough to play them like the puppets they are, a bit of a challenge seeing as the tubbier one had a hard time believing in ghosts. Finding the right patrons who both cared for the arts and music but didn't care enough to investigate should they hear about the Opera Ghost and ask for a refund, hard but not impossible. But Erik did say he would move heaven and earth just to make Christine happy, and as far as he was concerned, stars were included.
So, what went wrong?
Alas it started by asking the fatal mistake of inviting the DeChagny family to a dress rehearsal of Faust, the company’s fall show. With a new Prima Donna found in the quiet ballet rat of Christine Daaé, seats for the show was sure to be filled, but the managers wanted (and where promptly told to via a poorly written letter) to raise the budget for sets and costumes to really dazzle the audience; insuring they tell their friends and keep them coming back for more. So when a certain phantom hand delivered an invite on behalf of the opera itself to come watch the actors and dancers before the big night, promising the Count that what he witnesses will be ten-times better on opening night.
All of this sounds like the genius makings of a very profitable season for the opera house, but one small change made the whole plan fly out the window. That stupid Count! He couldn’t have just sent a personal aide or a wealthy friend in his place, but no! Phillipe DeChagny had to send his younger brother; the Viscount DeChagny, the fop.
That afternoon was the first time Erik had ever felt such a rage that he nearly jumped from his designated box seat and ripped his dear Christine away from him. It was like watching an opera; the beautiful and loved leading actress being swooned by a goblin in disguise as a handsome young man, one with a large bank account to boot. He could still see the horrifying moment play out, and he suspects he will for all of eternity trapped in torment. Early on in the opera, as Faust was making a deal with the devil himself, when Erik noticed that the Count looked rather good despite being the oldest of three sisters and a brother. The brother! At the time Erik could not have guessed why the Count sent his younger sibling to an exclusive event he himself was supposed to attend, but it turns out the Count took less of an interest in the opera and music than he did to the head ballet dancer. Truthfully, when the Count saw he was asked to attend the dress rehearsal for Faust, he dreaded the thought of watching the show, considering the matter and all like it a bore. So, Phillipe asked his brother if he wanted to attend in his stead.
As the opera continued the younger and more bright-eyed DeChagny was quite enjoying the rehearsal, and should be considering how out of the two male heirs he loved the arts far more than his brother. The catalyst of horror occurred when Marguerite, played by his angelic Christine, walked on stage for her first aria of the opera; the iconic jewel song. The look of sheer joy and excitement that crossed the young Viscount’s face was thought to only be one of pure admiration, as was the one that settled across Erik’s face whenever he heard her performance of the song. But, when the short intermission came after the first act, Erik looked back across the empty theater seats and found the Viscount to be missing. Even worse, as Erik scanned the large room with his pooling amber eyes, he spotted the young chap talking with his beloved in the wings.
Furious, Erik kept from his seat and, using his secret passageways, made haste to move towards the couple chatting away happily. Finally when he got to his perch just above the backstage, Erik almost fell due to the intense nausea that came over him. Not only did Christine eagerly talk to the boy, she hugged him!
The whole of Erik’s world was crumbling beneath him, nothing to do but watch and grip the metal bar on the stage lighting’s walkway with white knuckles, imagining the fop with his boyish good looks and blonde mustache between his skeleton fingers.
As it later will be revealed to Erik once he and Christine have their daily music lesson, the Viscount, Raoul, are old friends who used to play together when she and her papa lived in Perros-Guirec, many years ago. The angel in his presence continued to talk about how the two of them got along so well despite their social standings, all of the memories they shared from the beach to the little fishing village they used to frequent. She even went into great detail of how the two of them met. And much like how the chances of her red scarf taking flight and gliding into the ocean led to the encounter of Raoul and Christine, Erik felt that the chances of one brother going to a dress rehearsal instead of the other have changed his life for the worse.
Erik would be the first one to admit that he pushed his pupil rather hard, pushing her voice to its limits in pitch and volume along with using a harsher voice, but he needed some sort of reminder that she was still under his guidance. For Christine, whatever the Angel of Music said was law, so it wouldn’t be such a stretch for him to tell her to remember her reputation as a young woman when conversing with the opposite sex.
In any other universe than this one, Erik would have to dig deep inside of himself and deal with the emotions that his anger was masquerading for. But for now, he could pretend and love Christine from afar with her none the wiser.
The true climax of this sorrowful tale did not come until the following weeks. It was opening week for Faust and the Populaire was buzzing with excitement. New managers, a new female lead, new patrons, everyone was on edge and ready for the first performance.
After a whole day of preparations like lighting and last minute set and costuming repairs, finally the time came for Christine’s debut. The audience loved her, from the second she made an appearance to the last floating notes of the aria, the people of Paris were entranced by Miss Daaé. Thanks to her background in dancing all of her movements matched her voice, delicate and light as air with an innocence that was hard to dislike; and that was just the first song! His angelic Christine maintained that air of delicacy and talent throughout the opera, even Mephistopheles was said to have shed a tear or two behind the scenes.
Christine herself could not believe the night she had. Many times she had to place a hand over her heart to make sure she was still alive and breathing from how glorious it felt to be on stage and sing with the voice her dear Maestro crafted her with. Erik himself was in awe; gone was the young waif he found one night crying from the death of her dear papa and fabricating the Angel of Music to comfort and dry her tears. Before him sang a woman with confidence radiating from her, creating a beautiful halo of joy shining from within her. What really brought a tear to his eye was knowing that her talented voice only elevated tonight because her heart was laced in every word she sang. As he watched her bow on the stage to then presumably leave for her dressing room, Erik knew he had to tell her.
Tonight.
Heaven was real, and it was the stage, Christine was sure of it. Nothing, absolutely nothing could compare to the emotions and joy she felt tonight under the stage lights with every audience member on the edge of their seats watching, listening to her.
Especially him.
Her dear Maestro, her Erik, no more of a ghost than she and yet continued to scare and tease the managers and her fellow cast mates. The mere thought caused her to laugh at his antics. How such a refined older man like himself could partake in the childish pranks that he did always brought a smile to appear on her lips.
“What is it that makes you smile like that, Christine? Good things I hope.”
Shaken from her thoughts of her teacher, Christine looks up as she nears her dressing room to find Raoul standing outside with a bouquet in hand.
“The best of things, Raoul. Who are those for? A very happy soprano perhaps?” She teased him.
He couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh, the sound almost lost to the void from the commotion of all the workers and cast celebrating a successful opening night. Taking notice of their surroundings, the Viscount moved closer to his friend and spoke at a low volume for only her to hear.
“Mayhaps we should talk somewhere more private to better understand each other.”
At his suggestion Christine smiled and moved to open her dressing room door, only to be stopped with a gloved hand to her elbow. She looks back to Raoul who sports a questioning glance at her and the people around them.
“Is that most appropriate? I’d hate for anyone to view you as something you’re not, Christine.”
The soprano couldn’t help but smile at his sincere tone and merely replied, “It’s only you Raoul, and besides everyone knows the real dirty stuff happens in the orchestra pit,” giving him a sly smile, wiggling her eyebrows as insinuation. Her answer only made his face get redder from embarrassment, but he followed her into the room regardless.
Having sensed that her Maestro would be seeking her out soon after such a performance, she hoped that this meeting with Raoul would only last a few minutes. So when he made to take his outer coat off, Christine insisted that Madame Giry and the costumer would be seeing her soon to remove the opera’s garments, so he instead kept the heavy wool on.
“If you don’t wish to continue your career as a performer, I think the police force could use someone like you, what with your detective work of deducing that these are in fact your flowers.” Her old friend told her with an outstretched arm, offering her the mixed bouquet. Christine giggled happily and took the flowers to place in water.
“It wasn’t very hard, I was going to take them from your hands even if I had to rip them away from you.” She laughed while filling the vase with fresh water from her basin.
“Believe me Christine, you need never take anything from me with force. For you, simply ask and it is yours.” He disclosed to her truthfully.
Turning her attention away from the flowers soaking up the water, Christine sought out the playful look in Raoul’s eyes or the tilting edge in his life at those words. But none could be found.
“Christine,” he said taking long steps towards her, “woul—would you do me the honor o—of joining me tomorrow for an afternoon tea?”
She could tell from both his voice and traits, furrowed eyebrows and shakes hands, not to mention how he shifted his weight to and from when he would normally stand tall and confident that the Viscount DeChagny was anxiously awaiting her answer.
So, giving him her brightest smile to ease any nerves he has, Christine speaks with a soothing voice to further calm her friend that she indeed would like to join him for tea.
“Of course Raoul! I would love to, it would be the perfect time to catch up with my oldest friend.”
To Christine he could not have been more happy about her answer, but anyone else could plainly see that the Viscount was less than pleased with how she described him.
A friend
Although he was able to stand up tall again his brows remained furrowed at the choice of Christine’s wording. Regardless, he bid her adieu with the promise of sending a carriage to pick her up tomorrow at 11:45.
“I’ll make sure the driver knows what you look like to wait for you. Uh— until then, Christine. Remarkable performance again. Bonsoir.” With that Raoul left the leading lady’s dressing room with his head clouded by confusion, thinking his romantic advances had not caught on.
On the carriage ride back to the manor, he promised himself that midday tomorrow he will put every effort to make his affections known to his childhood sweetheart.
Without a care in the world and still on cloud nine after her performance, Christine undressed herself from the garment and re-racked it for the seamstress to retrieve later. After pulling on a dressing gown over her underthings, she sat down at her vanity to brush out her hair after being manipulated into a theatrical updo for the final act. As she hummed a simple tune whilst brushing out strand after strand, Christine Daaé had no clue that one of the wealthiest bachelors in Paris sought out her attention.
But where she was blind, Erik was not.
Having arrived early to give his star pupil an arrangement of flowers that barely compared to her own beauty, Erik immediately realized that she had not entered her dressing room alone. She had brought that boy with her, and worse, had happily accepted his bouquet with great enthusiasm. What was worse, the blunderbuss had asked to accompany him for tea tomorrow. And she accepted! Erik was glad his anger kept him immobile or else there would have been a great massacre in poor Christine’s dressing room from the sheer amount of rage boiling over in his rail thin body. Every bone was about to burst from the fire coiling its way through his veins, so angry was he that the hidden passage behind the mirror where he now stood grew too hot and bothersome to stand in. Blinded by his fury Erik did not notice that the object of his ire had slumped out of the room with disappointment , defeated by being shut out of Christine’s affections.
Now that she was alone, Erik intended to show Christine that she was more than just a student to him, how he was prepared to take her as his wife and give her a life full of joy and music, ready to bend at her every whim.
The opening of the mirror caught Christine's attention from the corner of her eye. Turning, she smiled as she watched her maestro step into the room wearing his usual black suit, minus the cape seeing as how he had been in the theater to watch her tonight. Even if his towering form should have been frightening, Christine found it comforting to always have someone easily envelope her. She recalls how fast she could hear his heart beat when she caught him by surprise and hugged him for the first time; her head barely grazing his chin but he rested hit on her crown for a few precious moments Christine swore she could live in his arms forever.
Although, she’ll have to do something about his weight. Standing at such a tall height the poor man would have to eat five times as much to even reach a healthy weight at the pace he is going now. And with his bad habit of frequently skipping meals to focus on his music, Christine is sure she could pull him away from his organ for a few minutes to eat a simple dish of her making.
Leaving her vanity to meet her maestro halfway, Christine noticed that in his hand, that remains by his side, held a bouquet of blood red roses. Abandoning any and all cheekiness that she would normally use with Raoul, she became more nervous than the young ballet rats.
“Erik, I hope you enjoyed the performance tonight. I know it's only the first of the season but I felt I did rather well.” She could not look him in the eye,so instead she focused on his recently polished shoes.
Simply like that, the meek words from the angel before him and all of the anger and fury that resided in Erik’s bones perished. How could it not? When his dear Christine looked how she did with her curls cascading down her swan-like neck, the colour of her dressing gown perfectly matching that of her eyes, not to mention how she worried her dolls hands about what he might say. And, dare he hope, the faintest warmth emitting from her cheeks? Yes, anyone with a soul as corrupted as his could rid of their anger the second they took in the scene before them.
Stirring him from his thoughts was the questioning tilt in her delicate voice. “Who are those for, might I ask?”
Realizing that she was pointing to the flowers by his side, the gears in Erik’s body and mind finally started to move again after being stopped momentarily by a foul angry rust. “My apologies my dear,” he said before stretching his hand out for the bouquet to reach inches from her, “these beauties are for only the most beautiful rose in the opera house, nay, the world.”
Taking the roses from his gloved hand, Christine brought them to her nose and inhaled the most potent and floral scent she has ever had the pleasure of smelling.
“They’re absolutely magical, Erik, thank you.” She told him with great sincerity.
Feeling a wave of confidence radiate from her words, he responded, “Only the best for the most talented young woman in France. You were radiant tonight, Christine, truly.”
Shifting her gaze from the flowers in her hand to her maestro’s eyes, Christine got lost for a few seconds in the pools of swirling amber that made her feel safe and warm.
“I suspect our lessons don’t have to be as grueling as they were before tonight. Maybe we could start again tomorrow? I hope that is not too soon.”
“I would love to, Erik. Although, it might have to wait until after I return. I’m to join Raoul tomorrow for tea at midday.”
Her simple words should have made a normal man respond in the positive, saying something along the lines of how they can schedule an early evening lesson where the hours get lost to them both, forcing Christine to stay for dinner that he could make for her before retiring to the living room and sharing more music before the warming fire.
But Erik was not a normal man.
He himself was a monster, but within him housed a greater evil that took the lives of many men, and women, before him and will continue to do so until the sun burns out.
Jealousy, that green scaled thing that sinks its teeth into the soul telling mankind everything that could be taken away from you in an instant.
Having been quiet a minute too long, Christine started to become concerned for her beloved teacher. Hoping to stir him from his unraveling thoughts, she placed a small hand on his forearm, bringing him back to the present moment.
“Erik, are you alright?”
No. No, for not even the sweet way she said his name and asked about his well being was enough to draw him back from the brink of pure rage that he currently stood on.
“The boy?” He asked in a deathly low voice, sending shivers down Christine’s back that she willed to stop.
“Raoul? Yes, we hope to rekindle our friendship after so long apart—“
“You would rather spend time with that fop than sing with me?!” He practically bellowed for it not for the partying cast members hanging around the dressing rooms causing a racket.
Amidst his anger the ferocity of his words hit Christine like a bolt of lightning, causing her to cower back from him in fear.
“What? No, Erik, you’re misunderstandi—“
“You tell me that I do not understand what that boy wants to do with you?! That he doesn’t want to take you in his arms, surrounded by his lavish manor, and claim you as his own! He will destroy you, Christine! Take you away from your music, our music!” He continued to scream like a mad man, only making things worse as he flailed his arms around to further accentuate his anger. Those emotions that he tried to keep bottled up earlier are now rearing their ugly head and making both of their lives a living hell.
“N—no he wouldn’t, he doesn’t even feel that way about me Erik.” She tried to reason with him even through her unshed tears, but there was no calming him down now that he had flung himself off the point of no return.
“Oh no? Tell me dumb girl, do you know what I see in his eyes? There’s a lust that resides there, Christine, a wanting that most any man would feel for a beauty such as yourself. He wants to lock you away, make you a wife, a mother, force child after child from you only to find his pleasure elsewhere in a young maid! Not I Christine, no not Erik! Where he would toss you the second you start to spoil, Erik would keep you happy with his music and love! Yes, love Christine, Erik loves you, the fowl creature that he is, he would love you for all of eternity! Ugly and alone, undeserving of any kindness at all, but you gave me a taste of that, Christine, and I have fallen for your charms and niceties. How poetic, the damned ugly monster in love with the angel that graced him!”
Somewhere along his rant and walking around the small quarters, Erik chanced a look at Christine, and what he saw tore him to pieces. A small, shivering figure,with a wetness covering her face, looking scared for her life that he might direct his anger towards her with his strength.
What scared him more was that he could not reassure her that she was safe from his harm.
Needing to leave before things got worse, as if they could, Erik quickly got back into the mirror and began to shut the door, refusing to look back at her fear shaken eyes so he was not tempted to try comforting her, lest he further scare the poor girl.
Before shutting the two-way mirror for what he hoped would be the last time, he looked down at the pile of roses that he bought for her and told her, “You need not hurry back tomorrow, I should think our teachings are done. But know this, Christine; I will love you for all of eternity,” his hoarse voice carried over through the chillingly silent room.
All the way down his catacombs and passageways Erik fought with himself that she did not need him to come back and make things right, that both of them needed space to clear his head and not harm her more than he already has.
Thankfully he reached the lake, longer than usual, but rowed across the waters and to his house. After opening the door he was welcomed with the usual silence that permeated the air, dank from how deep his house was and its proximity to the lake.
Stripping himself of his coat, Erik meangerd over to his organ and plopped down onto the velvet bench. Everything had gone so terribly, horribly wrong. All of the plans he had made to show Christine how much he cares and appreciates her, out the window. Well, at least he had told her he loved her. Yes, but only after comparing himself to that idiot boy who thinks his romantic affections went unnoticed, saying how he would take all music away from the poor girl's life. And while he didn’t believe that the fool would be stupid enough to cheat on Christine with some poorly house maid, he did believe that her life would have been obsolete of any public singing besides the odd house party. What really frightened the ghost was the very real possibility that the Viscount would take exponential care of his childhood sweetheart, catering for her every need, giving up things he loved just to make her happy in her gilded cage. If she married him and was the happiest she could ever be, what hope was there for Erik to steal her back to the opera house where she belongs.
That scaled green monster was once again nudging Erik to push his emotions to their limits, coming with vile scenes of the young couple and their happy marriage. For not the first time this evening, Erik saw red. Only this time, in his own devilish domain, he could create or destroy whatever he saw fit when the matter arose. Unfortunately for the world, there will be no telling of the scores and music that the Opera Ghost would have been composer of, for every image that his mind imagined of his angel giving her soul away to that damned boy he ruined his life’s most worked on projects.
As Christine walked down the aisle in her pristine, white gown to meet her beloved at the altar; Erik spilled ink and tore up his compositions, effectively rendering them useless. When they shared a happy first kiss after the minister pronounced them husband and wife; Erik smashed his organ with the velvet-tufted bench, bits and pieces flying everywhere. The party they threw to welcome the happy couple’s first child; Erik ripped and burned the various paintings and sculptures he made for his opera and Christine herself. But, as he watched a painting of his dearest, that he found too shoddy to gift her with, something changed in Erik.
He was yet again reminded of how he had scared and threatened her so, terrifying her to the point of tears running down her face, tears which he doubted she knew were freely falling.
It was with that horrifying image that Erik once again went from a raging, destroying mad man ruining everything he touched, into a sobbing mess. He cried out for Christine, begging for her forgiveness, hoping beyond all doubt that she would hear him and bring her light with her. He stumbled from his massacre of destruction, evidently throwing his mask behind, as he made his way to his room.
The room, which shouldn’t even be allowed to have such a name, consisted of only dark stone, a few candelabras, an old worn out Persian rug, and atop it, his coffin. The very same coffin that Christine demanded he get rid of once he disclosed to her that he sleeps there, feeling he deserves the feeling of the cold wood and no comfort, nothing else suited the world’s living corpse. Now, after all that he has done, all the harm he has caused and irrevocable damage done to his relationship, the purest to ever exist, he truly does deserve to succumb to the ghastly bed.
Taking the heavy lid, Erik slid it over just enough to crawl inside, and shut out all light from his eyes; undeserving of the heat and warmth they provide. Where he would usually count the lines in the wood grain, tonight he merely wallowed in pity for what could have been between his decrepit form, and the angel that he dared to love.
Unfortunately for Erik, tonight of all nights would have been the one for him to stay up all night, sitting at his organ and playing his music to ease the pain of a broken heart. But because he chose the comfort of a coffin, fit for the only purpose of serving as someone’s final resting place, his macabre lifestyle has finally caught up to him.
As many scientists would speak of years later, this night had reached record low for the city of Paris. Evidently if the Opera Ghost had stayed up late into the night he would have noticed the deathly chill had caused a light sheet of ice to form over his beloved lake. The temperature even caused candles that resided five cellars beneath the Opera Populaire, to harden so much that lighting them seemed futile. His warm fire that blazed while he was raging, simmered out whilst the poor ghoul slept, until that too ceased.
His grizzly end was described by some to be justified, a corpse deserves to live and die in a coffin found deep underground. Others, far more sympathetic, would continue to believe and tell their children of the Opera Ghost and his story of how he considered himself a monster due to his looks, how he fell in love with the only angel to grace the stage, and met his untimely end when she rejected him.
Regardless if you believe he died of a broken heart or hypothermia one thing remains true and will stand the test of time; the man died alone.
#phantom of the opera#christine daae#raoul de chagny#erik destler#musical fanfic#halloween#erik x christine#inktober#fanfic#fictober23#andrew lloyd webber#death mention tw
5 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hey I hope you're doing well!
Have you watched Furukawa Yuta's Mozart live stream? And if you have watched it could you you make a little review if you have time?
Thank you for answering
【Related post: "Mozart!" 2021 Live Stream】
Dear Anon,
Yes I did watch the Furuzart Live Stream! As said before, I am actually no big fan of "Mozart!" as a show, but I was ecstatic about Furukawa's reprise as Mozart because it'd be such a milestone for him. Last time in 2018 Furukawa underperformed according to himself and critics, so 2021 was his "redemption arc" for him, so to say. And boy he did!
In 2018 a main criticism about Furuzart was that his voice had no power, no volume, in 2018. Furukawa also admitted that as the musical prodigy W.A. Mozart himself, he could not afford to miss any note. One of Furukawa's weaknesses is his singing, so he underwent a new Spartan training back in 2018 just for this role. He even learnt playing the piano within a few weeks, just to do Mozart justice.
But in the end... well yes, he did hit all the notes... but he basically whispered most of his songs, and often he was so hyper focused on just singing the notes right, his emotional range varied between: "mildly nervously happy" to "extremely nervous". This time however, Furukawa shared in the press conference that for the first time he feels enjoyment in showing off his skills, rather than just anxiety.
This time round, Furukawa has improved his vocal range significantly, and singing high pitches comes with convincible ease now. The high transitions are smooth, and the belting/shouts are powerful!
Mozart is a very child-like character. He is spontaneous, and has this tremendous talent and energy his human body fails to contain. In 2021, Furukawa really excellently managed to show how Mozart is just always bursting with unkempt passion, but has no outlet.
Mozart is employed by very high ranking people, so he always has to watch his manners. He however, is also strongly of the opinion that none of the nobles deserve his respect. It is amazing to see how Furuzart is always being in a state of: "I know I have to be polite, I will try a BIT, but you don't deserve any more than this much effort 👌" Honestly, this look of him wearing his locks with that... powdered situation on his head is the PERFECT representation of what Furuzart is. Even when sticking to the rules everything is just wrong.
When Mozart was fired for example, he had a small moment of: "dude, you're firing MOI? (ÒAÓ)" But then very quickly he realised that he was finally free, and his proclamation of freedom was the most genuine glee I've ever seen on stage.
Mozart's life is of course not a walk though the park, however... and very soon tragedy after tragedy strikes him. The moment the shit starts hitting the show though, Furukawa's Mozart is best described using just one word: "devastating".
During the special curtain call of the Final Performance, Director Koike Shuichiro was really emotional, and said that while in the spectators seats he was struck by how hyper detailed Furukawa’s acting was. Koike said: “It might be arrogant, but I think for once it is alright to say how proud I am of our work. I have always known Furukawa Yuta for his attention for detail, but today I learned just how precise, how detailed his acting can go. Now I’m a bit angry with him though. Why didn’t you show me this during the rehearsals?”
Furukawa has always had this incredible skill of devastating his audience with something so...complex, so subtle, and yet overwhelmingly heart-breaking to the audience. I think in Mozart we really see the full extent of Furukawa's skills. Especially because Mozart is so child-like, you just can’t help but feel like you want to protect him.
The “world of adults” was so bitter and unforgiving, and Furuzart really showed how he was trying so hard to compute everything... but was given no space to explore anything. (Honestly... isn’t that all of us right now?)
Though I still find “Mozart!” as a production flawed in many aspects, the piques are phenomenal piques. I think with the newly edited version of “Mozart!” 2021, the show is more coherent than before, however. I think “Mozart!” really is a coming-of-age-failed story. In Furukawa’s words:
The Grand Musicals written by Kunze and Levay are cultural markers in the Japanese theatre world, and they are known for the empowering female leads. Mozart however, I think is the only male lead among the Kunze & Levay productions? I feel tremendously honoured to be allowed this one role. Mozart is known only for his greatness, but this musical shows that no greatness is ever simple. Behind greatness is always just a human being. For me, I think the question this production asks is: “What is talent?” Is talent something that resides in the body, or the soul? - Furukawa.
Other cast
Mozart is really 80% of the show; once he shows up, he hardly ever gets off stage again. This means that the side characters REALLY need to shine in order not to be forgotten.
Constanze - Mozart’s Wife
In 2018, the Constanzes were pretty badly received by the public. From left to right are Kinoshita Haruka, Hirano Aya and Ikuta Erika. Out of the three, only Hirano’s Constanze was what the show and TOHO’s reputation promised. Kinoshita and Ikuta were both described as: “they sing well, but they’re little girls trying on mommy’s high heels”, one of the harshest criticisms in public domains in Japan I have seen.
In 2021, Constanze was played by just Kinoshita, and I was very worried that the only reason she’d be there in the Imperial Theatre again was because she’s pretty.
Then I watched the show, and to my pleasant surprise there was significant improvement!! Kinoshita spoke and sang in a much lower and stable voice, she wasn’t forcing it, and she did have a little bit of zest this role demands. She is still not the power-house of a Constanze as Hirano and Sonim were in 2014, but Kinoshita was honestly not bad. I would still not have cast her myself, but that level of growth was incredibly enjoyable for me to watch.
During the Final Performance curtain call, Director Koike even stepped forward to say he was shocked to see how much better she had gotten.
Leopold Mozart - Mozart’s Father
Ichimura Masachika has played Mozart’s father for many years, and every time he manages to amaze me.
I think “Mozart!” does a great job at showing what fatherhood can entail: “everything awful to awesome.” Mozart’s father is unambiguously a loving father who is deeply invested in his children’s wellbeing and talents... but he is human nevertheless. He loves his son but also hurts him. Sometimes as a father he makes decisions he thinks is best for Wolfgang, but “the best” might not always be fun, “the best” might not be Wolfgang’s best, or “the best” might be “Wolfgang’s best” but not “Wolfgang in this world’s best.” Leopold is not a super big character, but I think in the glimpses we do get of him, he has portrayed the difficulty of parenthood, and the trickiness of “love and protection” better than many other portrayals of parents.
Nannerl Mozart - Mozart’s Sister
Nannerl was played by an absolute nightingale Kazune Miou, and she was just suchhhhhhh a blessing. What also does help I admit, is that she is not Hanafusa Mari. Kazune was amazing in her own right, but ESPECIALLY juxtaposed against Hanafusa, she was a blessing.
Kazune really manages the range between young girl to ripe adult woman very well, and this immense true love she has for her brother is just heart-warming to see. With Hanafusa it was just obvious that a 50 year old was trying to play an 18 year old who is actually 8 years on the inside. As rambled in detail in this post, my hatred for Hanafusa’s acting style is that she only has two modes: Whiny toddler girl, or whiny victim woman.
Kazune however, really managed to capture the many complexities of Nannerl’s character. How she is just unconditionally loving towards her brother, but also can’t help but be sad that the greater attention for “the miracle child” came at her expense.
Prince-Archbischop Colloredo - Mozart’s Boss.
Colloredo was played by Yamaguchi Yuichiro. Erm...... Yamaguchi is a great person, he is SOOO kind..........but everything about his singing and acting style just rubs me the wrong way... I always think his acting an unfortunate mix between a slapstick-comedy banana and a pompous opera ghost... ermmmm......... sorry, not for me.
Click here for the official PV.
And click here for the subtitled curtain call of the first day performance.
#Mozart#Mozart 2021#musical#Furuzart#Furukawa yuta#Review#TOHO#TOHO please give us a DVD please..................#Pretty please.......
39 notes
·
View notes
Note
hey love your dani/Jamie fics would love to see a story where dani tries to leave jamie earlier in the relationship because she thinks it would be less painful but obviously Jamie ain’t having that.
hey, this hurt my feelings so i wrote it for you. it’s kinda...sad. but, yeah. here ya’ go, pal.
..
It would be a lie if Jamie said she hadn’t thought this would be a possibility—that she hasn’t feared this from the get-go. That first morning after, Dani had been different. Not entirely, no, but it was as if something inside of her was broken and she wasn’t sure where the pieces of it had gone. Like she’d woken up sightless and alone in a world that was not her own, that she didn’t know how to survive in.
Standing at the edge of a precipice and ready to tip over.
At the beginning, Dani tried to back out so many times. Tried to keep Jamie at arm’s-length, as if reminding her of the potential stakes would do anything to keep her from falling in love. From them falling in love. But it hadn’t worked and, eventually, Dani caved in. They fell in love and built a life together, a home together, and things were good. Fine even.
Dani hardly spoke about Bly or that night at all.
Yet Jamie is far from blindsided when she wakes up in their bed five years into their relationship to find Dani gone. The day before had been perfect, really. At least until Dani came back to the shop in the evening with dinner, face pale and eyes wide like she’d just seen a ghost.
Now Jamie is wondering if maybe she had.
It’s still early and the sky isn’t all the way awake and Jamie reaches out her arm instinctively as she flutters her eyelids open, reaching for that familiar body she’s long-since memorized. Her hand meets empty air, flattens against cool sheets and then she wakes up all the way in a panic.
Dani is gone. In her place is a piece of paper, folded and set carefully in the center of her unused pillow. Jamie sits up, tucking the sheets around her bare body, and opens it. Skims the words.
Reads: Forgive me.
And: If I stay, it will only be harder for you.
And: I love you.
Jamie isn’t certain how long she sits there, clutching the letter in her hands, but she is aware of the lead in her legs, her bones heavy as stone, mind filling with cotton. No thoughts. Just a numbing cold.
Eventually, she manages to tear herself away and throw on the first clothes she can find, running out of the apartment with her keys in one hand and her shoes untied. She’s lucky, really, to find that their car is still parked outside, meaning that Dani either called a cab to where she’s going or she’s on foot, which means that Jamie might not be too late to catch her.
The air freshener Dani picked out in the store last week swings from the rearview mirror, strawberry shaped and scented and Jamie remembers standing in the checkout line with their groceries—Dani lifting the silly thing up and mimicking the cartoon face on the front. Eyes crossed. Tongue stuck out. And Jamie had distantly wondered if loving Dani too much could be the death of her.
Sometimes it certainly feels like it.
Like when they’re eating dinner together and Dani accidentally gets a bit of food or sauce on her face—the way she laughs and pushes at Jamie’s shoulders when Jamie leans across the table to lick it off.
Like when they’re tired from a long day and they can do nothing but fall onto the couch together the moment they get home—the way Dani pulls Jamie’s feet into her lap and massages them gently even though she’s just as exhausted as Jamie is.
Like the weekend they spent in New York City two years ago—how Dani stubbornly held Jamie’s hand everywhere they walked; how she teared up during the overture when they went to see The Phantom of the Opera; how she bought a pair of “I Love New York” boxers and wore them to bed, where she pinned Jamie down to the mattress and smothered her with kisses until their laughter turned into sighs and moans and something else entirely.
And now, she’s speeding her way down the street in the direction of the airport, eyes roaming the sidewalks as she goes, looking for the familiar sight of her girlfriend. Her partner. The star-brimming love of her life.
There’s a pain in her side that digs its way in even further when she reaches the airport and hurries to park. It throbs sharply as she gets out of her car and rushes inside, looking around frantically for anything familiar.
The fear of being too late—of having missed Dani before she got on her flight; of not getting there in time for whatever it is Dani’s going to do—makes it feel like something has been carved out of her chest. She wants to be angry—wants to be livid that Dani would do this to her, to them. She wants a lot of things, but she can’t name any of them save for one:
Stop this from happening.
She checks the boards above ticketing, trying to find anything relevant. Finally, she spots a flight to London that’s set to board in forty-five minutes. Trying to walk as quickly as she can without running, she starts off toward the gate listed, zipping past families and business people all on their way in or out. All fine and normal and going about their lives with no idea as to what is at stake for the woman brushing past them without apology.
There’s a high-pitched ringing in Jamie’s ears. She feels like every single atom, every molecule, every inch of her is vibrating at a higher frequency than it should be. Her jaw is trembling and she has to clench it to keep her teeth from clacking together.
She’s trying to breathe normally, trying to pray to every deity she can think of that she isn’t too late, when she sees her: Dani. Sitting in one of the chairs in the mostly-empty space beside the gate.
She looks as exhausted as Jamie feels, wearing the same clothes she was last night. Her eyes are so bloodshot that Jamie can see it from fifteen feet away. That pain in her side aches and her chest is thumping hard against her ribs.
As lost in thought as Dani appears to be, curled up in that seat and looking like she’s just spent the last three hours crying, she doesn’t look up until Jamie is standing right in front of her.
“What the hell are you doing?” Jamie asks, unable to keep the anger out of the edges of the question.
Dani startles at her voice and looks up, blinking a few times when she sees who’s standing in front of her, as if she’s worried she may be dreaming. “Jamie?” she says. “What are you—?”
“No,” Jamie cuts in. “What are you doing? Did you think you’d get away with leaving me in the middle of the night? Did you think I’d just let you go?”
There are a few people scattered around in other chairs nearby, and Jamie knows that they are probably watching this whole thing, but she can’t bring herself to calm down. She’s not sure how she’d even begin to try.
“Jamie, I—” Dani begins, and she looks like she might start crying again.
Jamie cuts her off. “No, you don’t get to do this, Dani,” she says, pointing a trembling finger. “You don’t get to just...do something like this without talking to me about it. You don’t get to decide this for the both of us.”
Slowly, Dani gets to her feet, and there’s still space between them, but neither of them tries to bridge it. Not yet.
“Jamie, I can’t just...I can’t just wait around for something to happen,” she says. “You don’t get it. Do you know how terrified I am every...every day that I’m going to just...hurt you or-or...I couldn’t stand it, Jay. I couldn’t stand losing you like that. I have to—”
“No, you don’t get it,” Jamie says. She wants to sound fierce and as angry as she knows she is, but, instead, her words come out broken and tearful. “You can’t just...leave me. Not like this. We have so much—”
“What if we don’t?” Dani asks. “Wouldn’t it be better for us to...for it to be like this than some other way?”
Jamie shakes her head, fixing Dani with a sardonic look. “Right. Because this is so much better. Me waking up to you just...gone. You not even saying goodbye just leaving me like this, tossing me away like what we have...what we are doesn’t even matter. I love you, you colossal prat. You can’t just—”
“It’s because I love you that I’m doing this, Jamie,” Dani cuts in, and, while her tone is still guarded, her voice is softer. “I couldn’t…” She sighs and turns a little, shoulders shaking from the effort to hold back her tears. She runs her fingers through her hair and closes her eyes for a moment.
She looks broken, defeated, and it slices right through Jamie’s chest. She’s surprised when she doesn’t fall to her knees. Because, if Dani is right about this—about all of it and about what is going to happen to her, to them—then…
Then it’s only a matter of time.
She looks at Dani standing there like she could fall apart at any moment, like she already has. Her shoulders slumped and Jamie realizes that she’s crying a minute too late to stop herself. Dani lifts her head and meets her eyes again, drawing her arms around her stomach, and this is her best fucking friend and the love of her life and Jamie is so in love with her.
“Couldn’t what?” Jamie asks, so much softer than anything else said so far.
She takes in the sight of Dani standing there—dark circles under her bloodshot eyes, her clothes ruffled and her lips sore from being bitten at.
“I couldn’t—” Dani starts, but she can’t finish the sentence.
It doesn’t matter. Jamie hears the rest anyway.
Hears: I couldn’t give you what you deserve.
And: I couldn’t do this to you anymore.
There’s something in Jamie’s chest about this—the end of the rope.
“I love you,” she says quietly. “Please don’t go. Not yet.”
It feels wrong doing this here, in the middle of the bustling airport, under the harsh fluorescent lights. There are strangers around them—they are so far from alone—and Jamie really wants to be in their home for this—thinks that, if they were surrounded by their things and their life, then Dani wouldn’t possibly argue.
Dani chokes back a sob. Her shoulders stutter, then stiffen. “Jamie,” she whispers. “I—” She jumps a little when Jamie reaches out and touches her arm. Before she can draw away, though, Dani darts her hand out and grabs her, holding her tight.
Something inside of Jamie is splintering and her legs are numb. She takes a deep breath and holds it for a second. On the exhale, she says, “Dani, please. I know that you’re...that you’re scared. I am, too. I’m so…” She breathes in again, shakily this time, curls her free hand into the fabric of her own shirt. “I don’t know what...I don’t know what’s going to happen, or...how. Or when. But I love you and I’m not ready to live without you. Please, please don’t make me try.”
There are probably millions of ways to say it, but this is the only way Jamie can manage in the moment. Her chest feels tighter and tighter with every aching heartbeat and time slows down just enough for Dani to blink, to part her lips, to look like she’s going to argue again, before she says, “Come here,” and cups the back of Jamie’s neck, tugging her into a firm kiss right there in the middle of the airport.
Jamie presses her body closer to Dani’s, fists her hands in blonde hair to pull her in harder. Distantly, she feels warm fingers fist the material of her shirt at the back and she kisses and kisses and kisses Dani. As long as she can.
That’s the plan, at least.
“Please stay,” Jamie whispers when they pull apart, panting, and Dani only hesitates for a second before nodding, tucking herself into Jamie’s arms like she never plans to leave and Jamie is fine with that. Perfect, even.
“Take me home,” Dani says into Jamie’s neck, arms still tight around her.
And time and past and future be damned, Jamie does just that.
..
#angst#damie#dani x jamie#dani/jamie#thobm#the haunting of bly manor#dani x jamie fanfic#damie fanfic#damie prompt#andawaywego fanfic
39 notes
·
View notes
Text
Carnival Nights
You and Erik go out on your first date together, to a carnival that’s visiting Paris.
(This was supposed to be written for Gerard Butler’s Erik from the 2004 movie, but considering his whole back story with carnivals, I had to switch it to Lon Chaney’s Erik from the 1925 silent movie.)
You and Erik actually going out together, in public, is almost always something that you initiate first. Since of course Erik tries to live up to the whole, “opera ghost” name. And sometimes he can’t help that it has become a part of his normal everyday lifestyle.
It may take some convincing before he actually agrees to go out with you. Mainly because he wants to make sure that you stay safe. And also insist that you two go out when its after dark.
You heard about a traveling carnival that will be visiting the area for a few nights only, and you think that it would be the perfect first, “real date” for the two of you. Erik seemed somewhat nerved about going to a carnival at first, but decided to just roll with it anyways.
And of course, “The Mask Stays On.”
The carnival wasn’t too far from the opera house, so you both travel there by foot, hand in hand. Until your eyes light up with excitement when you see all of the bright persuading lights, crazy rides, and all of the carnies welcoming people in and entertaining them.
Also... The clowns...
Erik wasn’t a fan of clowns, although you found them to be quite amusing. Having dressed up as one many of times when you were a small child.
No one really gave Erik any weird looks, or stares for his mask. Considering the fact that they were in a carnival, and weird things are usually considered normal at places like this. Which made Erik feel somewhat comfortable in this sort of setting. Especially seeing you happy and enjoying yourself.
The two of you played games, went on rides, which one of them was a rollercoaster. And Erik was more concerned about holding onto his mask, rather than the bar in front of the both of you. More concerned about his mask flying off, rather than his own safety.
Erik even won you a giant stuffed animal from one of the game stands. Which earned him a loving kiss on the lips.
You two lingered around the park grounds for a little while longer, until you both decided to call it a night, and head back to Erik’s underground lair.
As you both were heading towards the exit/entrance, all of a sudden, a random guy dressed up as a clown popped up out of nowhere, and danced around you two in a very theatrical and comical manner.
It startled you at first, but you giggled afterwards at the clown’s silly actions. Erik just rolled his eyes annoyingly at the clown. You just clapped happily for the clown, which Erik did also, trying to hide the fact that he felt that the clown was being rude by interrupting them, and disturbing the peace. Despite the fact that they were still in a carnival.
Just then, the clown got on his knees before you, and pulled out what looked like a magician's wand, before flowers were quick to sprout out from the white tip of the wand. The clown offered them to you, to which you happily accepted them, and thanked him for the beautiful bouquet.
The clown then turned to Erik, and titled his head in wonder at Erik’s mask, quirking a painted-on eyebrow as he did so.
“Say sir, why are you wearing a mask, you got something to hide?”
The clown laughed his practiced high-pitched clown laugh. You were afraid for what Erik’s response to the clown was going to be for daring to comment on his mask, but Erik knew better in this situation, and just simply responded with.
“What’s underneath the makeup, do you have something to hide?”
Erik said with a smart smile on his face. The clown just smiled, and bowed before him.
“Ha ha, you got me there. I guess the less we both know, the better!”
The clown laughed, once more, before running off to entertain other people. You turned to Erik and smiled.
“You handled that quite nicely.”
Erik just smiled at you, before saying.
“I just didn’t have a chandelier to drop on his funny head.”
Erik responded cheekily, earning him a playful slap to the arm from you.
“Erik!”
You said, which made him laugh, and you couldn’t help but do the same as the two of you made your way back to the opera house.
Later that night, Erik was dressed and ready for bed, until he saw you lying in the swan bed fast asleep, and cuddling the giant stuffed animal that he had won you. He just smiled, before grabbing the stuffed thing, and carefully pulling it from out of your arm’s grasp. And got into bed, carefully lifting up your sleeping form, and you instantly wrapped your arms around him in your sleep. Erik kissed the top of your head before closing his eyes, and thought about where else he should take you for the next date, before drifting off to sleep.
#the phantom of the opera#phantom of the opera#musicals#movies#books#Erik Destler#Erik Destler x reader#imagine#fanfic
156 notes
·
View notes
Text
➳ his room in the crowded dorm
➳ "That’s right, choke on it."
➳ "I think, my roommate just got back!"
Pairing: Namjoon x Reader
Gender of the Reader: male
Word Count: 1k
Rating: 18+
Genre: Smut (Comedy/Crack)
Warnings: Dirty Language + Dirty Talk; Swearing; Ass Cheek - Biting (yeah, I know xD); Oral; gentle Face-Fucking; Gagging; Choking; Deepthroating; Interrupting; fucking shameless and sassy Reader; Namjoon's soul dies 1000+ times out of embarrassment; Yoongi is badass; in general is the end a bit cringyyy 😂🙈
A/N: the title explain what I thought about myself after I finished the writing and re-read it... Why I'm just like this?
I'm sorry anon when it's not your taste 😓😭 Love you!!💖💖
Info: Because it fits better for the story, I changed the second Quote into "I think, the other Members just got back". I hope that's okay🙈
[Links]
BTS Smut Drabbles
My official Masterlist
「© tipsydipsydo」
This following story is my intellectual property and belongs only to my blog tipsydipsydo.tumblr.com!
I’ll not accept any kind of reposting, stealing or using/editing my work!
That includes reposting my content on other social media platforms too, even when you link me as the original author.
Thank you.
“Good Morning, Baby! Did you slept well?", asks you Namjoon, who just came back into the room after he took a shower.
"Hey Joonie, yes I slept well but I had this really weird dream-...o-ohhhh."
Your voice stopped abruptly and changes into a soft, longing sigh when you look up from your book and see your boyfriend standing infront of the bed.
Namjoon's back is facing you and stands in front of his closet, he's trying to figure out, want he wants to wear for this day. His Body is covered in nothing more than just a loose towel, that hangs low on his hips and exposes the curve of his ass and the muscles in his shoulders just in the most delicate way possible.
After a few seconds a playful and dirty little smirk manifests on your lips. His sensual appearance only screams at you, to do something naughty with him.
Like a sneaky little tiger, you crawl forward to the end of Namjoon's bed and tug on the hem of the damp towel to reveal your prey.
You purr in satisfaction when you see his slightly muscular, perfect round ass with this flawless soft skin. This erotic sight seduce you to bite him playfully into the right butt cheek before you place right after it a soft kiss on the spot to soothe the pain.
This cheeky action makes him jump in surprise and light pain, let him turn around to you almost automatically. Now you're on the same eye level with his half erected cock, you can't hold back a small giggle when you see how worked up your boyfriend already is.
"Hm, Joonie? Seems like your dick loves my shameless looks and my little bite into your butt... fuck I love it how fast I can turn you on! Well, I think, I'm a loving and caring boyfriend, so I'll help you with your problem~", you wisper and wrap one hand around his cock. Kissing his precum leaking tip before you take his thick length inch for inch deep into your mouth.
A deep groan rises up in Namjoon's chest and is followed by fast, breathy gasps. God, Namjoon loves you're so eager to give him a blowjob. Especially when he knows that you like it a little more rough as well, that deepthroating and choking on this fat cock is one of your favourite activitiy. How you sometimes literally stuff his cock into your mouth until you have to choke on your thick crown. Fuck, you're so damn perfect for him!
"Hmm, fuck yes! That's right, Baby, choke on it. Choke on my fat cock until I mark that sweet mouth of yours with my thick creamy cum. You'll swallow every single drop of my cum, right?", grunts Namjoon, runs his fingers gently through your soft hair and slowly face fucking you.
You don't know why, but it turns you on beyond belief when you're able to bury your nose into his neatly trimmed pubic hair and to inhale his musky scent down here. Fuck you love it to hear his moans and grunts that shows you that he's really struggling not to cum too fast from your master-like work. Your incredible technique makes his head spin even more, he feels it coming-
...until he hears the familiar buzzing sound of the opening dorm door.
"Damnit! I think, the other Members just got back way too early from the Shooting! F-Fuck, Y/N stop! N-No, not more, I-I can't cum now!!", pleads Namjoon with a trembling voice and make a half-hearted attempt to push you away.
But you don't even think about it to stop right now. You didn't make such an amazing job here for nothing and you'll not stop your work until you taste Namjoon's cum in your tongue!
"It's still so dark in here, are Namjoon and Y/N still not up? It's 11 a.m. right now! I'll look after them!", you hear Hoseok's muffled voice in the hallway.
Then should Hobi come in, you couldn't care less. Your one and only goal right now is to get your favourite and well deserved milkshake, only then you'd let Namjoon go.
Just nobody expected to hear such an ear-piercing, high pitched scream from a damn rapper when Hobi opens the door and slams it shut again right after it. Out of reflex, let you slip Namjoon's cock out of your lips to shut your poor ears from the eardrum splitting scream and to turn angry to the door.
Behind the door you hear Jungkook asking Hoseok if he saw a ghost to start screaming like a tail amputated cat.
"I wish, I would be a fucking ghost! Because then I'd be invisible and I would have all goddamn freaking time of the world to deepthroat my boyfriend's cock properly! Oh my fucking God!", you scream in a pretty hoarse voice back before Hoseok has even the chance to say something.
Namjoon didn't planned that his soul would die today and that the cause of death would be embarrassment.
Now it's Jin's turn to let a traumatized "Oh my Gooood! Too much Information, TMI, TMI!" out.
Somewhere in there is Taehyung and Hoseok cringing for never wanting to know these kinds of facts while Jungkook and Jimin are laughing their asses off.
And then there is Yoongi, who came really pissed after Hoseok's opera-like performance out of his room, snorts by your sassy response audibliy and answers you chuckling: "I heard you two through the whole apartement and fuck, Namjoon, I've to say that I'm pretty jealous right now! Guys, come on, let's go to the studio. Let Joon getting at least a great blowjob and let Y/N having his needed load of cum. See you later, Joon."
The boys whined or laughed even louder, depends on how they're dealing with this fucked up cringe situation, when they leaved the dorm again.
With a satiesfied smile you return to Namjoon's cock, looking cheekily up to him.
"See, Yoongi understands me! And now, let me get my cum!"
Sometimes Namjoon asks himself what kind of a freaky boyfriend he has. You're just lucky that he loves you above everything else and just let you do your thing now, to pleasure him and satisfy yourself to the very end.
#tipsy's smut drabbles#requested#btswritersnet#bangtanhq#bts smut#bts smut drabbles#bts x reader#bts m|m reader#bts x male reader#smutty cringe I'm sorry#namjoon smut#namjoon x male reader#sassy reader af#bts scenarios#bts fanfiction smut#dirty habits#bts imagine
264 notes
·
View notes
Text
Ok so, reading 寒舍 again and wow do I recommend it even if you’re a weak beginner-intermediate reader like me. It IS hard to read but it’s also so good. It’s a supernatural pingxie au, where Wu xie became a photographer after college, went traveling, went broke on the trip, crashes in a small town at the humble abode Menyouping rents out. Wu xie is the only tenant, paying day by day rent, Zhang Qiling basically gives him free room and meals because Wu Xie sucks at getting a temp job. Wu xie keeps saying he’ll pay, but Zhang Qiling is like “not an issue.” Finally wu xie gets a job at a clothing shop, but a ghost ends up attached to him thinking he’s her missing daughter that was murdered. She tries to smother wu xie to death. Zhang Qiling intervenes, they don’t quite address what happened. The clothing shop meanwhile gets less busy after tourist season and lets wu xie go because he missed work without notice (aka a ghost tried to kill him, got in his head and trapped him in her past life memories and tried to talk her through moving on and grieving, as Zhang Qiling fought the ghost in real time). So wu xie is jobless again living rent free at the humble abode, Zhang Qiling worries wu xie is going to get killed because he seems to attract monsters, and wu xie just went to take photos of the crab apple blossoms. Turns out, a movie is shooting, and someone tries to yell him out of the park. Then who arrives, the gorgeous actor? Why XIAO HUA of course.
Also, it should be noted the way the story is told is So cool... wu xie gets dreams/weird dizzy spells and sees flashes of ghosts memories, and of things happening he’s not a part of... then at other times the narrative bounces between wx or Zql to the case-oc plot scenes like last one was a flash of comments on a handsome man’s profile pic, and wu xie dreaming himself/a man is reaching out to touch that man - and now I’ve realized it’s Xiao Hua. Just the way the writing mixes close character perspective narrative, with the slightly eerie blur between what’s real or a hazy dream or happening somewhere else, is so cool.
Anyway here’s where Xiao Hua shows up, because I’m loving it. Then below is a machine translation from DeepL. 1. Because I don’t have time right now to translate it myself (but it IS better in the original, it flows so GOOD I love this writing style). 2. I heard DeepL does much better machine translations then the other sites so I’m testing it out compared to what I actually read.
“你们在做什么？”吴邪话音未落，便看见一个穿着粉色长衫的男人娉娉婷婷的走了过来。虽然用娉婷这个词来形容男人或许有些不妥，但是那张俊美阴柔到连女生都自愧不如的脸，实在是比这满园的海棠还要姣美三分。
“爷，这小子赖在这儿不走，我怎么说他都不听。”刚才还凶神恶煞的汗衫男立马换了副嘴脸，点头哈腰的笑着。
目光落在吴邪%e8%83%b8`前的相机上，那男人挑了挑纤细的眉毛，柔声问道，“你是记者？”
“你想多了。”吴邪已经认出了这样倾国倾城的男人究竟是谁。是说，除了这两年演艺圈里炙手可热的解语花，谁还能有这么大的架势。
“你是本地人？正好，我这些天要在这里拍MV，我们剧组找的向导突然有事请了假，你能来暂时替他帮我们个忙么？不会很忙的，主要就是带我们去些景点。”解语花慢悠悠的说着，“工资日结给你。”
本打算老实承认自己不是本地的，但是当听到最后那句时，吴邪立马点了点头。开玩笑，天上难得掉个馅饼下来，自己已经欠了张起灵不少房费和伙食费，可算是能还上了。
“爷，这不合规矩啊！”那衬衫男瞪了吴邪一眼，还想阻拦。
“我就是规矩。”解语花轻轻的笑着，可是说出的话却没有一丝温度。“吴邪，跟我来。”
“我告诉过你我的名字么？”疑惑的看着解语花，吴邪觉得自己的心莫名的悬了起来。
“没有么？谁知道呢。”解语花并没有再多说什么，自顾自的走向了那边已经等得炸开了锅的摄影地。而那个汗衫男瞪了吴邪一眼，赶紧亦步亦趋的跟了上去。
带上了STAFF的工作证，吴邪突然有一种似乎回到了两年前的感觉。自己已经很久没有过‘同事’这个概念了，看着身边忙的满头大汗的工作人员，吴邪无所事事的站在遮阳棚下四处张望。
刚才那个汗衫男果然是场务，大家都管他叫邱哥。虽然表面上大家都对他毕恭毕敬的，但是吴邪能看出来大家眼神里的鄙视。另一个给解语花补妆的女孩子叫小七，是解语花的助理之一，看上去年纪虽然不大但是做事很细致，小小年纪就能跟在一线明星身边，看样子应该有些本事。
其他人吴邪看了个大概，都没记住命字，反正自己平时也就只需要和场务还有助理打打交道，其他人认不认识无所谓。
不过要是现在没自己的事的话，是不是能先去照两张啊？吴邪看着漫天飘舞的海棠花瓣，趁着没人注意自己，刚想举起相机对着那海棠照几张，镜头前突然变得漆黑一片。
“现在不能照相哦小同志~”���然是很有磁性的声音，但是吴邪却总觉得这调子轻挑的很。放下手中的相机，只见一个穿着一身黑衣还戴了个黑墨镜的人，正站在自己的镜头前，刚那一片漆黑，估计就是他墨镜的镜片。
自己只是穿了件衬衫都觉得热，这个男人长袖长裤就算了，还全是黑色？吴邪看着他被墨镜遮挡了大半的脸，额角一丝汗水都没有，脸色也丝毫不像有热的感觉。
不是吧，又大白天见鬼了？吴邪赶紧揉了揉眼睛在心里开始自我催眠，但是那男人并没消失，依然笑意盈盈的站在自己面前。
“你是谁？”既然不是鬼，那只能说这个男人有病了。吴邪同情的看了他一眼，不知冷热的人真可怜。
“嘿嘿，我和你一样，都是这里的临时工~”并没在意吴邪眼神里那明显的同情神色，那男人笑得依旧轻佻。
“嗯，我叫吴邪。”听着临时那两个字，吴邪对眼前的这个男人总算有了些好感。
“小天真，下次不要轻易把名字告诉陌生人哦~~”神秘莫测的说完，那男人就笑着走开了。
吴邪听着他的话突然莫名的打了个冷颤，抬头看了看依旧灿烂刺眼的阳光，转过头找着那男人，却发现他站在离解语花不远的地方，嘴角那轻佻的笑里，似乎还多了些别的情愫。
娱乐圈里果然盛产怪人。
打了哈欠，吴邪搬了张小椅子坐了下来，要不是为了今天就能结下来的工资，自己才懒得在这里浪费时间。虽然说解语花确实是红得发紫的大明星，又是演员又是歌手还会唱花鼓戏，人气高的快要赶上珠峰 ，可是自己对他实在是不感冒。
远远地���着解语花穿着戏装走在漫天的花海里，一颦一笑都充满了余韵悠长的柔美。粉红色的海棠花瓣散落在他的肩头，像是在与他低声的细语呢喃。名花不解语，无情也动人。解语花这个艺名起的，倒还是真是衬他的人。
百无聊赖的打了个哈欠，吴邪撑着下巴，不知不觉的就闭上了眼睛。
“你看，这是你最爱的海棠花，我怕它的颜色褪掉，就用血泡了三天然后风干，你看，是不是比之前更好看？”◇思◇兔◇網◇
“你知道么，从我第一次见到你开始，就爱上了你了，这个世界不会有比我更爱你的人了。”
“可是你为什么却像是看不到我呢？你的目光为什么不能停在我的身上呢？”
“我知道你平时唱戏吊嗓子会很累，你看，这是我特意给你做的花茶，里面也有那些海棠干花，混着我的血，喝起来一定会很甜的！”
“解语花，我爱你，我爱你——”
—
"What are you guys doing?" Before Wu Xie's voice could be heard, he saw a man in a long pink shirt Lovely as a painting walk over. Although it might be a bit inappropriate to use the word picturesque to describe the man, but that face that was so handsome, so beautiful that even girls were ashamed of themselves was really three times more beautiful than this garden full of begonias.
"Master, this brat is relenting on staying here and won't leave, no matter what I say he won't listen." The man in the changshan who was fierce just now, immediately changed his face, nodding and laughing.
With his eyes falling on the camera in front of Wu Xie`, the handsome man raised his slender eyebrows and softly asked, "Are you a reporter?"
"You're overthinking it." Wu Xie had already recognized who such a noticable man really was. That is, who else could have such a big presence other than the hotly-anticipated Xie Yu Hua in the showbiz for the past two years.
"You're a local? I'm shooting a music video here these days, and the guide we're looking for has suddenly taken a leave of absence. Can you cover for him for a while? It won't be very busy, mainly just taking us to some sights." Xie Yu Hua said slowly, "The daily pay will be paid to you."
Wu Xie was going to honestly admit that he wasn't a local, but when he heard that last sentence, Wu Xie immediately nodded. Joking aside, it was rare for a pie to fall from the sky, and he already owed Zhang Qiling quite a bit of money for the housing and food, so he was eager to be able to pay it back.
"Master, this isn't according to the rules!" The man in the shirt glared at Wu Xie and tried to stop him.
"I am the rule." Xie Yu Hua laughed lightly, but the words spoken had no warmth. "Wu Xie, come with me."
"Did I ever tell you my name?" Confused, Wu Xie felt his heart hanging inexplicably as he looked at the undecipherable flower of a man.
"No? Who knows." Xie Yu Hua didn't say anything more and walked on his own towards the photography spot over there that was already waiting to explode. And the guy in the sweatshirt glared at Wu Xie and hurriedly followed in his footsteps.
With his STAFF work permit on, Wu Evil suddenly had a feeling that he seemed to have returned to two years ago. It had been a long time since he'd had the concept of 'colleague'. Looking at the busy, sweaty staff around him, Wu Xie stood under the awning looking around idly.
The man in the sweatshirt just now was really the field service, and everyone called him Brother Qiu. Everyone called him Brother Qiu. Although everyone was respectful to him on the surface, Wu Xie could see the contempt in everyone's eyes. Another girl who was patching up Xie Yu Hua's makeup was called Xiao Qi, one of Xie Yu Hua's assistants, who looked like she was not very old but was very meticulous in her work, and at a young age, she was able to follow a top-tier star, so it looked like she should have some skills.
The other people, Wu Xie looked at a general idea and didn't remember the destiny words, anyway, he usually only had to deal with the venue and the assistants, it doesn't matter if the others recognize him or not.
But if you don't have your own things to do now, can you take a couple of photos first? When Wu Xie looked at the begonia petals floating in the sky, while no one was paying attention to himself, he was just about to raise his camera to take a few pictures of the begonia flowers, when the lens suddenly became pitch black.
"Can't take pictures now oh little comrade~" although it was a very magnetic voice, but Wu Xie felt that this tone was light and provocative. Put down the camera in your hands, only to see a person wearing a black shirt and also wearing a black sunglasses, is standing in front of your own lens, just that piece of darkness, presumably is the lens of his sunglasses.
He just wore a shirt, must be all hot, this man had long sleeves and long pants even, but also all black? Wu Xie looked at his face, which was mostly covered by sunglasses, with not a trace of sweat at the corner of his forehead, and his face didn't look like it was hot at all.
No way, seeing ghosts in broad daylight again? Wu xie quickly rubbed his eyes and began to hypnotize himself in his mind, but the man didn't disappear and still stood in front of him with a smile on his face.
"Who are you?" Since it wasn't a ghost, it could only mean that the man was sick. Wu Xie looked at him sympathetically, it was pitiful to not know whether he was hot or cold.
"Hey, I'm a temporary worker here just like you~" not caring about the obvious look of sympathy in Wu Xie’s eyes, the man's smile was still frivolous.
"Well, my name is Wu Xie." Hearing the word temporary, Wu Xie finally had some good feelings for the man in front of him.
"Little naïve, next time don't easily tell your name to a stranger oh~" after the mysteriously inscrutable words, the man laughed and walked away.
Wu Xie suddenly shivered inexplicably at his words, looked up at the still brilliant and blinding sunlight, turned around to look for the man, but found him standing not far from Xie Yu Hua, and there seemed to be something else in that frivolous smile on his lips.
The entertainment world really is full of weirdos.
Yawning, Wu Xie moved a small chair and sat down, if it wasn't for the salary that would be settled today, he wouldn't have bothered to waste time here. Although it was true that Xie Yu Hua was a big star, an actor, singer and flower drum opera singer, whose popularity was about to catch up with that of Everest, he was really not interested in him.
From afar, He watched Xie YuHua walking in the sea of flowers in his costume, his every gesture and smile full of a long, soft charm. The pink begonia petals are scattered on his shoulder, as if they are murmuring with him in a whisper. A famous flower does not speak in decipherable language, but it is ruthless and touching. The name of the artist name of "Clearing the Whispering Flower" is really a match for him.
Yawning in boredom, Wu Xie braced his chin and closed his eyes without realizing it.
"Look, this is your favorite begonia, I was afraid of its color fading, so I soaked it in blood for three days and then dried it, look, isn't it better than before?" The internet read.
"You know, I've been in love with you since the first time I saw you, and there won't be anyone in the world who loves you more than me."
"But why is it like you can't see me? Why can't your eyes stop on me?"
"I know you usually get tired of singing and hanging your voice, look, this is a special herbal tea I made for you, it also has those dried begonia flowers mixed with my blood, it will taste very sweet!"
"Unbreakable flower, I love you, I love you-"
Translated with www.DeepL.com/Translator (free version)
—-
*ok I lied I edited the machine translation a bit, because wu xie’s name Translated as Wu Evil and also a few glaring errors in sentences I couldn’t stand to see and had to fix. Wu xie also translated to Wu Wu lol. And the gender issue Mtl’s usually have happened with this one too - he switching to her, etc. Positives of this Mtl DeepL - I think it KEPT most of the words and details instead of omitting (a big problem I have with Baidu Translate is it often summarizes and shortens/cuts out descriptive lines), most of this reads similar to how it did in chinese just rougher word choice. Also it handled the perspective thing ok - this author often does “I myself should take this job cause muself feels screwed otherwise” with ziji a lot, or like a line is a person sort of mentally talking to themselves like “you see a chance, take the picture!” DeepL handled those in a way I can actually notice easily.
ALSO SUNGLASSES SHOWED UP
Also I love how Xiao Hua is an actor here, but he still absolutely feels like a Threat underneath the surface.. just like in dmbj.
The purple text is a great part that shows how this websites Mtl actually preserved the nice descriptions.
And the end part is the writing style that I meant - wu xie gets tired, and it’s like his conciousness goes to this or else the scene Shifts to this scene. And then the following dialogue is just words coming out, maybe in wu xie’s mind, maybe in his dream, maybe on a phone screens comments. You can’t quite tell at first, until later when the narrative will tell you what it was. It’s such a cool way of imtroducing the unsettling moments, the building up of the case arc plots.
Also this is a supernatural fic so who knows if Sunglasses is even human in this ovo)/
Genuinely though like. If you want a link just message me. (Or look in my older posts tagged 寒舍 , rec list, I’m sure I’ve mentioned this link before o3o )
29 notes
·
View notes
Text
Soulmate AU: There Is a Unique Song in Your Mind That Only You and Your Soulmate Know
The song in your head was . . . unique, to say the least. Arguably, that was the point: To have a song so distinct that there would be no bones about it this was your soulmate. But the older you got and the more thought you gave it, perhaps you were a special case. Because in spite of it being practically tattooed to your mind for as long as you could remember, you could never actually voice it, much less hum it any kind of justice.
It wasn’t that you were an incompetent singer -- after all, even the most incapable were at least able to sing just enough to find their partner. No, no, it was more like whenever you tried, no matter what you did, it just seemed. . . distorted, for lack of a better word.
Attempting to replicate it would always pose a problem because first you would need to decide what part to even focus on: The overbearing brass section; the delirious woodwinds; or the strings that sounded warped whenever they weren’t being trampled by everything else.
But if you were feeling particularly daring (or perhaps stupid), you would try with what you had decided were the singing parts. There weren’t any actual words, from what you could make out. But what you could discern were the pitches. Or rather, pitch: Rising above the cacophony, there was a high D-flat. Tainted by its surroundings, perhaps, but it was definitely there.
It was a note only a professionally-trained soprano could hit so unwaveringly. Admittedly, it might have been wishful thinking on your part to assume this meant your partner was connected to opera -- there were plenty people with symphonic pieces playing in their heads that found themselves matched with butchers, bakers, and candlestick-makers.
But even if it were, at least your ambitions had gotten you a pretty pleasant job: Not just anyone could say that they had gotten a job as a costumer at the prestigious Opera Populaire.
However, the downside to this was that not just anyone you came upon there could admit they shared your affliction of an aria.
“Is it . . . supposed to sound like that?” you would often get asked after every “performance” you gave. The answer, unfortunately, was maybe which meant you definitely weren’t meant for each other on that aspect. You tried not to feel too shocked after a while, especially as the pool of possibilities began to dry up.
Nonetheless, you stayed: After all, the pay was good and the people were, for the most part, decent.
Perhaps, you often found yourself contemplating, it’s just my lot in life be alone and go insane. For whatever this noise is to slowly drive me into the embrace of madness -- You would often pause after thinking such things, ceasing your needle as you tended to split seams or loosening beading. When have I ever spoken like that? How dreadfully dramatic! Maybe being in this place was having more of an effect on you than you’d thought . . . Or maybe you truly were losing your grip on reality.
You were humming more often, for one, and not even any of the arias from rehearsals that you constantly had to hear La Carlotta screeching. There would be many times as you worked the midnight oil where, in a moment of clarity, you would realize you had been humming your own song. You tried to consider why this was (maybe you had been singing it so often since you got here that it was becoming second nature; maybe it was to give you some sense of companionship as you tended to stay up late in the sewing room by yourself lately). But as much as you wanted to believe in the latter option, to provide yourself some romantic comfort and hope, the reality was there was also a bit of a third option: Perhaps it was a reflex to quell the increasing sensations of feeling like you were being . . . watched.
The dance choreographer’s daughter, Meg, had recently begun to whisper about the possibility of a ghost living in the walls of the opera house. You had no idea where she’d gotten that idea, nor did you want to invest any stock in it, but it was moments like tonight where you couldn’t help but wonder . . .
Against your better judgement, you paused your hemming and tempted to glance at a nearby mirror before mentally scolding yourself.
Don’t be so ridiculous! you fussed. You are not going crazy and even if you do, it’s not going to be over some ghost that isn’t even there!
And that was that.
Until one morning, that is.
Notes weren’t exactly the most practical means of communication in the opera house. The way of the little world generally boiled down to just shouting upwards (or downwards) at nearly any given location, and surely the message would get to whomever it was for. There was just something ominous about receiving a note, sparking both curiosity and anxiety.
The blood-red seal in the shape of a death’s head wasn’t doing much for your morning, either.
You glanced around the workshop: Nope, nobody was here this early. You tried listening for any breathing heavied by anticipation amongst the piles of petticoats in need of washing or the mannequins sporting half-finished gowns. Nothing. If this was a prank, whoever was pulling it was either really good at hiding or was perhaps missing the point of sticking around to watch the victim’s reaction.
But, as you so often found yourself doing whenever in this room, you went against your better judgement: Gingerly, you peeled away at the parchment’s lips before retrieving the letter from within . . . and couldn’t help but furrow your brows.
You read it again. A third time. A fourth. But the black script remained in the same strange message:
Dear (M./Mlle. L/N),
I extend to you my fondest of greetings, as well as my firmest of apologies for my belated welcoming of you to my opera. I can assure you I shall not fail to be attentive to you again. On that note, it has not gone unnoticed that you have a melody you struggle with conquering.
It is a fragile piece. One that, in the wrong hands, could fall sour and lay defiled. I write this to offer you my services. I believe I can help you. All I ask of you is your dedication. Then and only then will you and your song be brought to your true potential.
I await your response with anticipation.
Your Ever-Obedient Servant,
O.G.
You blinked and flipped the paper over, but nothing more remained to be seen. What you saw was all you had, but what exactly even was that? You looked at the signature once more.
Who the hell was O.G.?!
Truly, if this was a prank, what sort of purpose did it serve beyond to confuse you? You had half a mind to toss the paper in the wastepaper basket and carry on with your day . . . except for the fact that another half of your mind was . . . reluctant to say the least. You weren’t quick to call it a gut-feeling -- that was the term you’d used when deciding to use that D-flat note as a lead, and look where that got you: An opera house where nobody you knew of seemed to recognize your song.
No, a more proper term probably would have been . . . curiosity. Morbid curiosity, even. Though as you tucked the envelope and letter away into your apron pocket, you decided to correct yourself: Intrigue. Sentimentality. And, admittedly, some anticipation as to what would happen next.
You tried to continue on with your morning, deciding to use the quiet to collect yourself and to dwell on the subject for a later time. But as you positioned yourself at your table, ready to sew roses for the dress of the prima donna’s upcoming role, you couldn’t help but give yourself pause.
You could have sworn that distantly, faintly, you heard your song being sung.
It sounded . . . otherworldly . . .
#the phantom of the opera imagine#the phantom of the opera imagines#poto imagine#poto imagines#erik the phantom x reader#erik x reader#the phantom of the opera x reader#why yes i have been sitting on this since the streaming reminded me why this was my favorite musical for so long#and yes i am only now finally pushing this tragic boy out what of it?#(srsly tho guys erik is hard to write when you don't want to attract the wrong attention)#regrettablewritings#the phantom of the opera
154 notes
·
View notes
Text
Bark at the Moon, Chapter 3: Lost Patience
<Previous / Next>
Or read on my Ao3>
Rating, Setting: Gen, Pre-canon
Chapter Warnings: None
Chapter Summary: Reunited, the brothers try to get things back to normal. Sans thinks going back to where it all started holds the answer... but it’s never so simple.
Nearly a month had passed since Sans had retrieved his brother from his self-imposed exile. Despite wracking their brains and recalling trials no creature should have endured, neither had gotten any closer to remembering or rediscovering anything useful, and the stress was taking its toll. Papyrus collapsed from lack of sleep one day, and only reluctantly explained he was avoiding nightmares after Sans uncharacteristically snapped at him. They’d had their disagreements over the years, but this was the worst in a series of fresh spats that had erupted in the brothers' household as frustrations mounted. Sans hated it, maybe even more than Papyrus did.
He was supposed to be the chill guy who stayed calm no matter what... But he'd found himself in increasingly bad moods as time went on. It was getting hard to be as friendly as usual when he went out, and though no one had said anything they were starting to notice. Passers-by would give him a bit more space if they crossed his path, and the other regulars at Grillby's were hesitant to joke with him as much as usual.
And then one night, he was awoken by his brother and found he’d punched a series of holes in the wall with a bone attack in his sleep. So he’d started avoiding sleep too. His mind buzzed with too many thoughts anyway as it tried to find a solution. He didn't care too much what happened to him--not while Papyrus was stuck like this. All that mattered was making sure he could be happy again.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, brother, but you need to rest,” Papyrus begged him one afternoon as he stubbornly read a book on magical theory. “You look terrible, and I think it’d be for the best in this instance.”
“what’d be best is if we could get this figured out. i’m not gonna let you be forced to live as what he wanted you to be,” Sans retorted, eyes fixed on the page in front of him, and Papyrus made a worried hum.
“Well, yes, that would be ideal, but, I think at the moment it’s best you, er, returned to your lazy ways and got a nap.”
Sans stiffened and didn’t answer for a while. “… bro. we escaped that place and got him back for everything he did to us. knowing you’re stuck as something you never wanted to be, something you shouldn’t have to be… i can’t rest until you’re free to be who you want again. y’know?”
“Oh Sans…” Papyrus sighed, “I really appreciate how much effort you’ve put into this. It’s… more than I expected, if I’m honest, and it means a lot to me. But I don’t want you making yourself sick, or, hurting yourself somehow, or—or anything of that nature, so please, go take a nap. The book will still be there when you wake up.”
“yeah, and i’m reading it now. aren't you always saying sleep's a waste of my time?”
“Sans... I, um, think I may have been slightly. Wrong. About that. Because you without sleep is not a very good version of you. I hate to do this, but... please go sleep. If not for yourself, then… for me?” Papyrus pleaded, tilting his head sadly.
“... ok,” Sans finally conceded. He flipped the book shut, slid from the table and trudged up to his room—but not to sleep. That had been a lie. He waited, listened to Papyrus nervously approach and hover around his door for a few minutes before slowly returning downstairs, then took a shortcut into the abandoned, sealed-off section of the labs in Hotland.
He was glad he was a skeleton as he inhaled stale air a monster with real lungs would have suffocated in and stalked through the pitch-dark halls, his way illuminated by his eyes alone. Turning corners and passing ragged, deteriorating equipment, he indulged the flashbacks that followed him through the facility. It was worth pursuing whatever memories surfaced, even when they were painful, on the off chance it'd unlock what he needed. He’d done this before, another time when Papyrus thought he’d been napping, and put together more of what had happened to them here. Days of tests, procedures he'd never understand, harsh words that left him aching even now, years later, after he'd failed to meet some expectation. It all would be worth it if only he could remember the right thing.
He mostly seemed to remember the wrong things. He shut his eyes against the apparatus that had once drilled into his magic and stretched it so thin he thought he’d shatter right then and there; his fingertips itched at the memory of claws and he rubbed them in his palms, grounding himself on his blunt digits. He’d once been so comfortable in that other form, once believed that man and his claims he was no more than an animal, and it had taken so much fighting—mainly on Papyrus’ part—to help him reclaim everything he could be. And after everything that had happened, somehow a dead world and its ghosts were threatening to unravel all they'd done to bury it.
Sans flicked his wrist, and the apparatus shattered under artificial gravity. He wondered why he hadn’t done that before—maybe some lingering fear of retribution. He left the splintered metal and plastic behind, idly considering what else of this hateful place he could smash. Turning the corner, he came to a vaulted room lined with large cisterns that had been the holding tanks for living weapons as they grew. Only two had ever released successful constructs—before that, who knew what had met its end before it lived.
“YOU’LL NOTE THE SUBJECT APPEARS TO BE WELL-BUILT, WITH A STURDY AND ELABORATE BONE STRUCTURE,” the man said, gesturing at him, “BUT UNFORTUNATELY, LOOKS ARE DECEIVING. AS YOU CAN SEE, ALL BASE STATS ARE SEVERELY STUNTED. SPECIAL CARE MUST BE TAKEN IN ALL CASES OF HANDLING AND TESTING TO MITIGATE RISK OF FRACTURE AND METAPHYSICAL FAILURE. RESEARCH WITH THIS SUBJECT WILL BE OVERSEEN BY MYSELF AT ALL TIMES. VIOLATORS... CAN CONSIDER THEIR CAREER TERMINATED. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?”
Sans grimaced at the unbidden memory, the thought of being seen as an object leaving a slimy feeling in its wake. Even when he’d worn that form, he’d been more than that, he’d been a person in his own right. That man had thought because he’d made them it gave him the right to control them, to coax and prod them in equal turns until they became what he wanted them to be. He’d nearly won, but Papyrus—oh Papyrus, the best thing this place had ever produced, undeserving of all it had done to him—had seen through his manipulation and come through. And now he needed someone to come through for him.
Sans left the tank room behind, resisting an urge to tear it all down with blue magic. He needed to poke a little further, push a little deeper. He'd make this place give up its secrets, but he could feel his patience wearing thin. He was running out of ideas, too. Maybe if he shifted, he could work out what to do from there? No, that would be—
“NO. IF YOU WANT TO TEST WITH YOUR… BROTHER TOMORROW, YOU WILL CHANGE BACK THIS INSTANT. SHIFT NOW.”
Something in Sans’ soul wrenched free, and he staggered, doubled over, clutching at face and chest. If he’d been well-rested, if he’d been his usual laid-back self, maybe he could have resisted the way he had a month before. But worked up by both past and present, he was too out of sorts to quell the power tearing through him; he only had the presence of mind to shortcut home as his body warped and became what he’d tried so hard to fight.
It was the buildup to the final romantic scene in Metatons's latest soap opera when Papyrus’ viewing was interrupted by a rounded form appearing in front of the TV and landing on the floor with a thud.
“Sans!” he barked, trying to stay focused on the show, “you’ve got to stop using shortcuts in your sleep! One of these days you’re going to—Sans?”
Papyrus stared at his brother’s prone form. He didn’t like how still he was. And he especially didn’t like how he was no longer round and friendly, but round and spiky.
The romance was forgotten as Papyrus leapt from the couch to shake his brother’s shoulders, words catching in his throat. Not Sans too, not again, surely this was a bad dream only it was Sans who wasn’t waking up. He whimpered, and looped an arm under him to drag him to the couch and curl around him. How often had he done this when they’d shared only a bare cell, how many times had he feared that last round of tests had finally done his brother in? How long would their past hold them captive?
Sans awoke with a start the next day, sometime mid-morning. Papyrus watched him rise blearily and stumble over unfamiliar feet onto the carpet; his eyes came to rest on the hands he’d caught himself with, and he slumped to the floor completely. After a silence that stretched on for minutes, he spoke.
“welp. sorry bro. i messed up. guess that’s the last time i try hard on anything ever...”
“Oh Sans, don’t say that!” Papyrus cried, getting up himself to roll his brother over. “Come on, now it’s even more important we work to solve this most elusive of riddles! As outlandish as it may seem, maybe you’ll have even more success than me! Come on, it's already late in the day--let’s have breakfast and then we’ll get to work.”
Sans only groaned. “i want grillby’s… but i can’t go to grillby’s like this… i’ll never have grillby’s again…”
“Sans! Cease your dramatics!” Papyrus demanded. “We have toast, which is perfectly good breakfast fare and certainly better than some grease-drenched horror! I’ll even make it for you since you probably have to learn how to use deadly claws again.”
Sans moaned from his place on the floor, and Papyrus left him to get started. As he waited for the toaster to warm up, he grabbed his phone and delicately entered Undyne’s number. He was getting much better at using his own deadly claws for fine motor skills again--it was one thing he was proud of in all this mess. After a few rings, Undyne picked up.
“Hey Papyrus! How’s it going?” she asked cheerfully, and he hesitated on what to say.
“Greetings, Undyne! Everything is going well! But I called to let you know that Sans won’t be able to work today. He’s, sick,” he replied, wondering if it was really a lie as his brother continued to rest limply on the floor in the next room.
“I take it you guys still haven’t made any progress, huh?” Undyne asked sadly, and he sighed.
“None. We’ve almost made backwards progress, really.”
“Ah geez, well, I know you won’t but don’t give up! And kick your brother’s butt into gear too, I’ve seen what happens when you let him slack off and it’s not pretty. Hey, I KNOW! I’ll stop by later tonight, how about that?”
Papyrus’ mind raced; it’d be no good if Undyne found out Sans had changed too. “Oh! Well! That would be okay! But my brother will probably be asleep and totally unavailable for interaction.”
“Nope! He’s not getting out of socializing THAT easily!” Undyne quipped brightly. “I’ll see you punks tonight!”
She hung up, and Papyrus was left staring blankly at his phone. Once Undyne had decided on something it was very hard to talk her out of it. He had to think fast or they’d get the chewing out of their lives and more questions than either of them wanted to answer. It was better the world didn’t know about their abilities and the man who thought he’d play god.
The toaster popped, and in an instant it was pierced by a bone. Sparks showered from the ruined appliance, and Papyrus slowly sat, staring at what he'd done. All this tension was getting to him, and he sighed. He stood, shaking his head. He could only feel frustrated with himself as he salvaged what he could of breakfast from the wreckage. He was better than this! He had the best control out of anyone Undyne knew, and he knew she was telling the truth—not a half-truth or white lie some people felt they needed to tell him to soften a world he’d already seen the sharp edges of. Undyne was guilty of that, and even Sans was, but he forgave them. They were trying to keep him safe and happy, and he appreciated that much, but he wasn't a child and it had worn on him for years.
At least Sans was doing it less now, after they'd spent the last month admitting what had happened to them back in the lab. Papyrus was certain, though, there were still things he was hiding from him. The fact he’d either transformed in his sleep, or not been sleeping and doing something he shouldn’t while pretending to sleep was proof enough of that. Huffing another short sigh, Papyrus glanced out to the living room, saw his brother was still on the floor, and put the two ragged slices of toast on a pair of plates and brought them out wearing his best smile.
“Well, we’ll need a new toaster but I’ve managed to prepare a simple one-course meal to tide us over until lunch. Up and at ‘em, brother!”
Another groan, but at least Sans slowly propped himself up. “hey, it’s not burnt. see bro, you’re improving all the time.”
“Indeed! I’ll be renowned cook and Royal Guardsman very soon!”
The rest of their meal was quiet—mostly on account of it being so short—and after brushing crumbs from his mandible Papyrus stretched and stood at his full height. “Alright, brother! We have until evening to finally make a breakthrough and pretend none of this ever happened! So! Get those mental bones shakin’!”
“… just don’t see what we could do differently. we’ve thought of everything,” Sans mumbled, sinking back to the floor. “i oughta just accept my fate.”
“No, I won’t let you,” Papyrus refuted, picking him up by his ragged hoodie with one hand. “You were right, earlier. It’s not fair for us to still be at the mercy of our past in this way. I’m even thinking, that, maybe it was bad we stopped being all of what we are… because we should be proud! No other monster can do what we do, and we are monsters! Not weapons like he wanted us to be—never like he wanted us to be. We should take back this part of us, because it never wasn’t a part of us.
“We’re going to change back, but, maybe it’s not a thing that can be forced. Not anymore. We’ve… accepted there’s a lot we can’t change, haven’t we? So, perhaps, this is. One more thing. We can accept…? We'll keep working! But! Not be so hard on ourselves if we don't get it right away.”
Sans blinked slowly at him. “bro… you’re so cool. if anyone can own this, it’s you. i just… yeah, i like bein’ that other shape, a lot more than i like being this one, but… i dunno. i think deep down i know… this was what i was always supposed to be. so... i'm accepting that.”
Papyrus gave him a very long, sad look. Slowly, he turned, and walked to lay Sans on the couch before joining him, and Sans eyed him warily the whole time. Judging by the look on his face, Sans regretted saying what he had.
“Sans,” Papyrus began, “I know he always wanted you to only be this way, and just be an animal. He never let you change, don’t think I didn’t notice! I think, in your rounder, friendlier form, it reminded him… that you were so weak? And you know how he hated, er, failure… His! His failure. He made us, so anything we’re bad at is his fault! Nyeh!”
Sans huffed a short laugh.
“In any case! You are just as entitled to owning all of who you are as I am! You are just as smart, and kind, and friendly and everything else in this form as you are in the other, even if it is easier to be all of that in the one you're not in now. And no matter what, just know that I love you, and nothing could ever change that!”
“… of course bro. right back at ya.”
But Papyrus could tell Sans didn’t really believe him. Or, it wasn’t that he didn’t believe him—it was more that he didn’t believe in himself, and that had been the hardest thing to work through as they’d put their lives together. Sans had never really done anything wrong, but he’d often done things in ways the man hadn’t liked—they both had, really, but somehow Sans always got the worst of it. He was too clever, too eager to take shortcuts and do things his own way. It wasn’t fair then, and it wasn’t fair now. All the more reason to work extra hard on mastering the quirks of their beastly forms all over again.
"Well, you think about it for a while, and I'll keep trying my way!" Papyrus conceded, leaving his brother to sit in the middle of the living room. They had to keep trying...!
He went through every method he’d thought of again, calling on his reserves of magic, remembering how it felt to walk on two legs and not have claws or a tail, to no avail. He even meditated for a while, and that was hard to do when he always had so much to think about. Sans had fallen asleep on the couch—which wasn’t so surprising as it was annoying. He'd told him to think of a solution--he’d never change back if he just slept all the time! Papyrus shook his head with a huff, and reached out to jostle him awake.
Fangs snapped inches from Papyrus’ forearm, and he leapt back with a yelp. Sans’ eyes focused, and widened as he realized what he’d done. Wordlessly, he began trembling, and buried his face in the couch cushions; Papyrus bounded back to his side and gently patted his shoulder.
“Brother, it’s okay, I startled you. I know you don’t want to hurt me,” he comforted, trying to nuzzle the face still wedged as deeply into the old cushions as it would go.
“i—i thought you were him, i wanted to—i wanted to snap your arm,” Sans admitted in a quiet, panicked rush. “i’m sorry papyrus, i’m sorry. you were right, i shoulda just napped, i shoulda stayed here and just been my lazy old self, instead i’m this and i’ll never not be this again. i just… i’m just gonna give up now, get it over with…”
“No Sans, you can’t! Yes, you should have stayed here, but we’ll get you turned back! We’ll both turn back, and be who we want to be again, just like I told you! I know we can! I believe in us!” Papyrus assured him, trying not to sound desperate. “Truly, it’s okay brother. Come out of there, you’ll never get who knows what out of your sutures.”
But Sans only groaned softly. With a worried huff, Papyrus grasped his brother’s skull and pulled it free. Sans offered no resistance as he was curled up and encircled by a blanket, and then his brother’s bony form; Papyrus knew he should have been continuing his work, but if he was honest he couldn't think about it at all. Sans was too close to letting himself go.
“Alright Sans, we’re going to rest,” he spoke as he folded his forelimbs under his chest. “But it can’t be for long! Undyne’s coming over and we have to be ready.”
There was no reply. Papyrus laid his head down next to his brother’s, tried not to think about how miserable he looked, and found himself drifting off after a while. Maybe some rest really was in order. He curled a bit tighter around his brother, and let his eyes close.
They snapped open when heavy knocking sounded on the door. Oh no.
“Hey Papyrus, open up! It’s hang-out time!” Undyne called, sounding cheerful. Papyrus leapt from the couch, which startled Sans awake. He blinked sleepily, then snapped into alertness when he realized what was going on. And in a blink, he was gone.
Papyrus groaned. He hoped Sans hadn’t gone too far, but at least it solved the problem of Undyne trying to interact with him—for once he was grateful for Sans’ avoidant tendencies. Mustering his usual high spirits, he answered the door.
“Hello Undyne! Welcome to the humble abode of the humbler Papyrus! The greatest skeleton you will ever meet!”
Undyne laughed. “Hey Papyrus, it’s good to see you. Still stuck as a horse lizard thing, I see.”
“Yes,” Papyrus huffed, “the tragedy of our time. I’m close to a breakthrough though, I can feel it!”
“I know you can do it!” the captain beamed with all her fangs. “Where’s Sans? I don’t care if he’s sick, he’s not getting out of at least a little noogie from me! Oh, but I also brought soup, I thought it might help him feel better.”
“How incredibly thoughtful of you!” Papyrus uttered, taking the small container Undyne handed over. “As it happens, he’s just stepped out for some fresh air.”
“You told him I was coming, right?” Undyne said with a frown, and he nodded.
“Of course I did! But you know Sans does as he pleases.”
“Yeah,” Undyne griped. “Well, hopefully he’s back soon. We're gonna have fun, but I wanted talk to both of you for a moment.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I’ve been hearing some things from the other guards. I… guess we could talk about it now, but I don’t want you to worry and it mostly concerns him.”
“Oh no, go on! I worry anyway, it’s no big deal!” Papyrus assured her cheerfully, and she gave a bittersweet smile.
“Okay, okay… Well, I guess Sans has been kinda… irritable, lately. Dogaressa told me the other day. She said he hasn’t been joking around, or going to Grillby’s as much—which, normally I’d say is a good thing, but knowing your brother I know that means something’s up. I guess he snapped at Jerry, which, if it was anyone else it'd be totally understandable, but Sans never snaps at anyone.”
“He’s… stressed,” Papyrus admitted. “He doesn’t like that I’m stuck like this.”
“Hmm... I guess I can see that, but he’s normally so… unflappable,” Undyne said. “If this is just something you can do, why’s he so worked up that you’re stuck? Unless he’s actually an even crappier brother than I thought and thinks he can decide what you should be like.”
“No! It’s nothing like that!” Papyrus refuted, internally horrified at the thought of Sans being so controlling. It’d be too much like him. “He hates that I’m stuck, not that other preposterous thing you said.”
“Psh, okay, I get it,” Undyne laughed. “Still. It’s putting him in a pretty bad mood and it’s got people worried… and maybe it’s why he got sick, y’know? He threw himself out of whack with all this…”
“Yeah, it’s really unhealthy…” Papyrus agreed, looking away. “I’ll talk to him when he gets back. A grumpy Sans is hardly a Sans at all! Now! What did you want to do on our hangout?”
They ended up watching one of Mettaton’s new cooking shows where he competed against and judged himself with various dishes made under both time and ingredient limits. The clips were cut so it really looked like there were three of him in the kitchen at a time, and he played up the tension when he judged himself harshly on a failed dish. Of course, even the failures were absolutely perfect—he just liked the drama of elimination. It was good, bad TV, and for a little while Papyrus could forget his predicament. After a few hours and an attempt at making their own versions of some of the dishes they’d seen, it was time for Undyne to head home, and Papyrus was left with a quiet house once more.
“Alright Sans, it’s safe to come out now!” he called, on the chance Sans had merely taken a shortcut up to his room. There was no reply. Papyrus leapt up the stairs to poke his head into his brother’s room and found nothing out of the ordinary—but it was empty. Sans wasn’t home.
Papyrus returned to the living room and sat on the floor, tail flicking idly as he wondered what to do while he waited. Sans was fine--he’d be back eventually. He wouldn’t leave like he’d so foolishly run away--Sans liked the comforts of home too much. Even if he relapsed and sank into the cloying lull of instinct and everything he’d been trained to be...
He'd still know where home was and couldn't be gone for long.
... Right?
#undertalethingem writes#undertale au#gaster blaster au#bark at the moon fic#it..... continues.......#it's 'sans makes bad decisions' time! our favorite right?#sans (undertale)#papyrus (undertale)#Undyne (undertale)
422 notes
·
View notes
Text
Children Of The Prophecy - pt. 1
Okay, so at the beginning I wanted to note that English is not my first language, so sorry for any misspellings or grammar. Also, I'm still figuring Tumblr out.
Next Masterlist
Tw: TWs: death of a parent mention, fear of loved ones being taken away, kinda disturbing descriptions, negative headspace and thoughts, burning, threats, murder/injuring attempt
While the snowstorm was subsiding, it did not in fact make Jesse’s day better.
She was curled up on the couch, bundled up in blankets and her partner, Vi’s, lap, trying and failing to not let the recent events get to her.
Being the one who found Élaine, she had to touch her mother’s corpse, call 112, give her statement to the police and notify her siblings. And all in the short interval of the last four days.
And now, since her mother didn’t have any living relatives, and Jesse was legally an adult , she had to attend a court meeting to get her siblings’ custody rights transferred onto her.
Summarizing, the day was awful in every single of its many aspects.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” asked Vi, putting her hand on Jesse’s shoulder in a reassuring manner “This must be a lot”
Vivien Ember Duvau, to most known as just Vi, was a nineteen year old, icy-blue-eyed trans girl, and Jesse’s queerplatonic partner. She usually had her ashy blonde hair in a fishtail braid, with a bay leaf shaped hairpin holding half of her bangs from her face.
Jesse was quiet for a few seconds “yeah, it’s just..” her breath hitched “I have no idea what to do, y’know” she said, her voice shaky “everything just kinda collapsed. My mother’s dead, the twins are god knows where and might get taken away”
She leaned her head against Vi’s shoulder, cueing the latter to put her arms around her, which she did.
That was a month ago. Truly a disaster, if you ask me.
Well, at least one good thing came of that, and that is; Jesse V. Blackwood managed to win custody of her siblings
Which also meant that—unfortunately—she had to prepare lunch.
And truth be told she couldn’t cook, even if her life depended on it, which I suppose it did.
So after destroying two pans and almost burning the house down, trying to heat up some half dead omelet that Vi made, she had to admit defeat.
And thus she decided to order pizza. She bought two, one with salami and one hawaiian. She hated pineapple, especially on pizza, but oh well, the twins loved it.
While the pizza was still not here she went to the living room, definitely not looking at the charred spot that was haphazardly covered with a rug. And absolutely not having her mother’s dead eyes staring at her very soul flash before her. She flinched, repeating a string of ‘shut up brain’s and keeping her eyes shut.
When she finally managed to collect herself she flopped down onto the couch, and reached for the TV remote, but it turned on by itself.
“What the hell…” she whispered, staring at the screen in confusion
It showed a soap opera, or, more accurately, a single scene replaying over and over.
She didn’t however get the chance to figure out what that meant, because the kitchen radio suddenly turned on, making her jump.
The volume gradually increased and she felt herself start to shake. The radio would only be able to pick up on polish stations, and yet it spoke in english. It was a snippet of an interview with someone.
Jesse could feel the temperature drop, which was now at somewhere close to 10℃. Her breaths soon turned opaque, as she slowly descended into the bottomless pit of panic.
She grabbed the triquetra shaped necklace she always wore and clutched it desperately. She’d gotten it from her father, Antoni, back when he still loved her was there.
“Whenever you feel scared,” he’d said back then, with a soft smile “just hold it and think of me”
Then, she saw a woman materialize in front of her. She had really pale skin, almost like a (pun intended) ghost, with raven black hair. She had very prominent bags under her pitch black eyes and was dressed in a simple white nightgown.
Along with her arrival, the main light started flickering.
Jesse wanted to sc— well, at this point her to-do list was horribly long and thus she did nothing, just staying frozen, staring in horror.
The woman stared at her, before saying:
“It is really you” her voice was eerie, somewhat robotic and generally unsettling “She, of whom They speak”
Despite all that was currently happening, every ounce of fear Jesse had, seemed to disappear, leaving her to dumbfoundedness.
“Wha..what are you doing in my house??” she asked, her mouth somehow not making any sound
Still, it didn’t bother the woman the least. She paid Jesse no mind and just kept talking
“I truly cannot fathom you exist” she said, her body still “The Daughter of A’graeth” a sinister smile ghosted on her thin, pale lips “As luck would have it, you’re all by yourself, dear. All the wardings are down…”
Jesse just stared
“Oh, and would you look at that” she teased “It seems that you have just lost your mother”
“Get out of my head” whispered Jesse, her tone dripping with spite
She knew she should’ve been scared, there was a ghost in her living room for hell’s sake.
And yet she couldn’t
Huh, that’s strange
“Oooh She speaks!” the ghost beamed, taking a step forward “Well, why don’t you tell me your name, dearie?”
Jesse slowly stood up and took a shaky step in the direction of the exit. “Why should I? You’re a ghost; it’s not like you can hurt me” right??
The ghostly woman just laughed. It was an awful sound, demonic almost. It made Jesse think of the way a serial killer might laugh while murdering their victim. Loud. Disturbing.
“Oh, sweety,” she didn’t stop laughing. “You poor child. You see, that would’ve been true, if you weren’t wrong about something else” Jesse paled significantly “Because I, my child, am not a ghost”
There was not enough time to react. Jesse bolted to the exit, but the woman was too fast. She lunged at her, pinning the girl to the wall.
SHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHIT
Jesse tried to wiggle herself free, but the woman's grip was made of steel. There were small trails of smoke coming from where the woman’s claws fingers were touching Jesse’s black hoodie.
The woman raised her hand, her awfully long claws ready to lacerate the girl’s whatever vital point she had chosen, when she suddenly stilled, her hand frozen mid strike.
Jesse dared to look at the woman and, seeing her lips locked in a silent scream, slid to the ground.
And luckily she did, because the next second the woman was engulfed in flames.
They were so bright she was actually afraid they might permanently damage her eyes, and so she shut them, not looking at the horrible sight in front of her. She couldn’t move, as if her limbs were made of lead, and glued to the ground.
And at the exact moment, the front door opened.
---
Alright, so this is the first part of my Fic. Lemme know if there are any misspellings or stuff like that because splish splash my autocorrect is trash.
#Original work: children of the prophecy#Not sure what I'm doing but yeah#I just like to murder characters#Paranormal#Sorry for the format but I'm on mobile#I already have like six chapters but I'm to lazy to rewrite them—#Writing#Jesse (oc)#Vi (oc)
5 notes
·
View notes
Note
I too am curious about 3, combined with 5? also 15 and this might be a nightmare question but, 22 for DoL
3: Do you have any upcoming WIPs? How far along are you with them?
5: Share a snippet that you’re proud of from an upcoming fic/chapter.
Okay so. The WIPs. 1. The farthest along is the college students in a cabin being killed by a monster story, which I wrote for a Pitch Black Halloween event a couple years ago and now I am editing to publish as its own novel. I’m actually at the last scene! Unfortunately I also need to rewrite the last scene because the current last scene basically introduces two new characters and I think that damages the effect I’m going for with the story overall. It’s a story with a small cast and very few extras and closing on strangers adds distance between reader and story which I don’t want.
2. Then there’s my Phantom of the Opera fic, which yes it has been maybe a year since I worked on it, but I really want to finish it and put it into the world. I just thought it would be shorter, since I repeatedly said to @marypsue, “I’m not going to rewrite the Phantom of the Opera”…cut to card saying “Gretchen rewrites the Phantom of the Opera.”
3. There’s the fic I was working on for Dead Dove Day. I wanted to write some smut with a completely blank slate being introduced to sex by someone with tons of experience (which apparently now gets a frowny face put in one’s file) and also every character has dual genitalia (I’m still waiting for the paperwork to come back about whether I’m allowed to fantasize about that or not, and then of course there’s all the other forms to determine if I’m allowed to encourage other people to also fantasize about this). The smut is done unless I add another scene at the end but it developed a plot so I’m trying to resolve that.
4. There’s some simple! classic! blacksand! that won’t resolve for some reason and makes me feel like I lost the ability to write. I know this isn’t true but it’s like…I need to be writing this in class or something. I need to be getting away with it.
5. Last, there’s blackgeneral which I have put in a human AU and made even worse! But if you’ve never written something where you wonder at least a little bit if it would fail the Miller Test, have you even lived?
Now for some samples, in the order in which they were mentioned (lmao this got long):
1. “Did you see that, did you see that?”
“What was that?”
“Yeah, I saw it but—”
“It was tall, it was tall, it was a bear!”
“No, it was skinny! It couldn’t have been a bear!”
“And anyway, it was fucking gray!”
“Okay, okay,” Gabe said when things had quieted down a little. “Everything looks kind of gray in this light.”
“I’m not really concerned with its color!” Sugar said.
Kelly had stood up in all the commotion and now moved behind Gabe, resting her hands on his shoulders. She hadn’t liked the look of that thing in the woods, but now Gabe was pointing his flashlight down into the lake, and that was actually worse for her.
“Shine your light at it again,” Sandy said. “We’ll either frighten it away or get a better idea of what it is.”
They waited tensely as Gabe swept the trail again, revealing nothing.
“I don’t know if anyone else is thinking this,” Minnu said, “but I thought…I thought it kind of looked like a guy.”
“Yeah,” Gabe said, after a moment. “Yeah, it kind of did.”
“That kind of seems worse,” Sugar said.
“True,” Sandy said. “So, what should we do? I vote for going back to the cabin.”
“And I think we should go without our phone lights or flashlights,” said Sugar. “If that was a guy, he could have a gun.”
“The person that was found dead wasn’t killed by any gun,” Kelly said after a short pause.
“Well, this could be someone entirely different,” Sugar said. “It’s not like there’s a rule, only one thing that can kill you in the forest at a time. In fact, it’s pretty much the opposite of that.”
“Guys, guys,” Sandy said. “I know this isn’t the most normal thing to say, but…are we really sure that that thing looked like a…well, a human guy?”
2. She screams. She screams her sorrow and her rage, and her rage is at the way of the world but also at herself; why had she been a coward? All she had done was seen, and she had still frozen in fear? All she had were her hands, but should she not have used them? She should have flown forward and strangled the man! But she had only frozen, frozen and silently watched, as if she was nothing more than the ornament she was supposed to be.
“You will hurt yourself, screaming like that,” a voice says, then.
No one else is in the chapel with her. She checked many times in succession before closing the door. The voice is that of no one. A ghost.
But the abruptness reminds her of Mme. Giry as she instructs the corps de ballet on form. You will hurt yourself, bending like that.
But since no one is here, she responds as if she is alone. “No one ever taught me how to properly scream.” As she says this, she can feel the rawness of her throat. It hardly matters, she has no solos approaching, and probably never will.
“Do you want to learn?” the voice asks. “I could teach you.”
“What would be the point? No one wants me to scream.”
“No one wants me to do anything,” the voice says. “But I know how to do many things.”
The shape of her mouth flickers towards a smile. The concept is oddly enticing: to build a skill that no one wants. And this voice, that is oddly enticing, too. It reminds her of the heavy velvet that she’d noticed in the costume shop one day, brushed to a shimmering dark red like a fire behind smoked glass. The soft weight of it had been a glory in her hands that sent a strange shiver all down her spine.
And just as she knows that velvet doesn’t grow on trees, she knows that this wonderful voice didn’t come naturally, either. A lot of work went into its creation, and right now, she is the only one being given that beauty. That’s enticing, too.
It seems she’s taken too long to respond, for the voice speaks again. “I could teach you how to sing as well as scream. I’ve heard you sing on your own before, away from the chorus. You could be the greatest soprano the opera has ever heard.”
“Singing is something they want,” she says. “And you say…the greatest. Do you think I could be sublime, as a soprano?”
“Sublime,” the voice muses, and the slow word makes her shiver again. “I have met few who truly desire to be sublime.”
“I do.”
This time it is the voice that takes a long time to respond. “I believe you,” it finally says, sounding curious, and a little sad. “Yet I do not fully understand you. Perhaps I will if I teach you. And I can. I have far more experience with sublimity than with beauty.”
“Your voice is beautiful,” she says tentatively, “at least it is as you speak to me. But I hear in it something that tells me you can easily transcend with it to the sublime. I only wish to say, from hearing you, I would guess you had experience with both.”
“You do not know what you say,” the voice replies, with control so careful she cannot be sure what it conceals, “but that is all very well. You will have a voice with sublimity waiting behind its beauty, this I swear. Sublimity will be yours to hold to heel or to unleash, and when you do—”
“Yes,” she interrupts. “What then?”
She can hear a smile in the voice now, at her eagerness. “At the very least,” the voice says, “you’ll be able to shatter glass.”
She smiles too, imagining. “Every globe in the chandelier, from the stage.” It is a reckless wish, and a thoughtless one—she does not really want to rain glass down upon the audience, or if they were not there, to make the cleaning-women sweep up thousands of razor-sharp shards. But if she could, oh, it’s an uncanny thing to do. Not a pretty thing.
“If you have the will, I will show you the way,” says the voice. “If you agree, will you tell me your name?”
“Yes, and yes,” she says. “And my name is Christine Daae. But what is yours?”
“I am the ghost,” he says.
3. The Pitch held Sandy close with one arm while their other hand flowed down Sandy’s body, slow and sweet like honey. They bent to kiss Sandy’s mouth as they fondled their full breasts. And it wasn’t—it wasn’t as if the Pitch spent a long time at the stiff points of Sandy’s nipples. They were too sensitive for that right now, the line between pleasure and pain too thin. But they did touch, and the touch of their inhumanly long fingers felt somehow both reverent and barely restrained. Sandy knew this could only be their projection onto such a new Pitch, but knowing didn’t make the feeling go away. It didn’t stop them from going half-mad with it, their cunt getting wetter and their cock getting harder, barely a breath away from begging the Pitch to pinch them, hard, to fall over the line of pain to see if there was pleasure on the other side.
But that was part of a different lesson, and not something every owner wanted their Pitch to learn. Sandy wasn’t quite sure it was what they wanted, either, except that it would be more sensation and more was what they wanted from the Pitch.
But of course the Pitch could give more, and of course they would give more. That was what they were for.
The Pitch caressed their belly luxuriantly, their speeding breath and some soft sounds muffled by their mouth on Sandy’s proclaiming their absolute delight in every curve of Sandy’s very ordinary body. And again it felt like real desire, as if the Pitch had forgotten that the point of their actions was to arouse Sandy. As if it was assured, as if there was a long understanding of mutuality between them, as if indulging themselves with Sandy was something they knew Sandy would enjoy.
As for the last, with Sandy, they were right. Every greedy touch of the Pitch’s hands was a gift, a drug.
A drug that opened the mind to some dangerous ideas. Pitches are made for pleasure. If I could choose a pleasure construct I’d choose a Pitch. I’d choose this Pitch. Precocious Pitch and I wonder, I wonder if in a different world where Pitches are what the born look like, if this Pitch would commission a Sandy if they could. It should have been unthinkable. But pleasure constructs were also made to make the unthinkable possible.
So obedient, and they come with their own built-in taboos for you to think about breaking!
4. Conversation is all right, Sandy said. If you can find someone to do it with. But there are things I like better. He looked up at Pitch. Things I think you might like better, too.
“Is that so? You know something good enough to make me be good?”
Sandy grinned, now, and Pitch—Pitch absolutely felt his heart beat faster, though it was getting harder now to say that this was out of panic or even simple fear.
I don’t know if it’s that powerful, but I’d be happy to give it a try, Sandy said. What do you think?
What did Pitch think? He felt like somehow he’d been herded through a great number of corridors in his mind and now he had reached a dead end. Or—not exactly a dead end. It was just that all the doors around him were ones he had locked tightly, and he had tried to forget that he still had the keys. It was the Sandy wing of his mind, and now the real Sandy was blocking him from leaving the corridor the way he came, and spinning a key ring around his little golden finger. If Sandy unlocked any of those doors, then he’d see…he’d see…
Maybe…Sandy would see something he…liked?
“Try me,” Pitch said, giving the words an unsuitable earnestness.
5. Porcelain skin and blue-black hair from their mother. Sharp angular faces, proud aquiline noses, and bones that promised height from their father. And yet their mother’s influence performed alchemy on these traits, somehow making them gracile, proving that on those infinitesimal spiral staircases of fate, she would always have the higher ground. Their lips might be thinner than hers, but they were still perfectly formed to bring to mind sensuality, even from this young age. They might be forbidden cosmetics, but the lashes she gave them were long and thick enough that no one who saw them would be able to stop themselves from wondering. And their eyes, of course, were hers, that exquisitely rare and exotic topaz had completely overshadowed their father’s pure northern blue. There was just enough of their father in their looks that they could be no one else’s sons, but the rest of their looks whispered this open secret: Though he was powerful enough to wed and bring to childbed the most beautiful woman within a thousand miles, claiming such beauty meant that he would never have a son quite in his image. That single, perfect, impregnable vessel of immortality for himself was nothing but a ghost. What he had, after having everything else, was this uncanny pair. Warped reflections of their mother, warped reflections of their father.
And perfect reflections of each other.
15: Which fic that you’ve written relates to you and your personal life the most?
A Draught of Light. I was working through a lot of stuff in that fic and while writing it, I’m not done working out everything I was working out in that fic, and bizarrely it seems to continue to become more relatable to me as years pass, even through situations I could not have possibly have foreseen. But also Speak Oil Into My Ear is very near and dear to me because of how much of Austin, TX I put into it, and that’s where I was living when I wrote it.
22: Have you used any symbolism in A Draught of Light? What does it represent?
You mentioned this might be a nightmare question and I guess it kind of is, because DoL is like…not subtle in any way. That’s just how it is. Any symbolism is baked into the magic system because it’s how magic works—if a light adept can figure out how to understand what they’re doing as related to illuminating/revealing/opening etc., then they can do it with light. If a shadow adept can understand a working as related to concealing/vanishing/hiding etc., then they can do it with shadow. Fire is change, water is healing/restoration. The ending doesn’t go full allegory but like. For those who are familiar it’s very obvious why I would think of this story more around Easter than around the autumn equinox, when it’s actually set.
But! Story time! When this story started, it was partially due to three factors: a kinkmeme prompt that I wasn’t sure if my idea actually addressed, a round pool at the apartment complex I lived in at the time, and a dream I had where I was standing in this underground circular stone chamber, and I clapped my hands and water began flowing from them, and (here’s the symbolism) in the dream I knew that the water represented forgiveness. (Though that’s not really what it means in DoL.
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
Angel of Music
The Wraith (Philip Ojomo) x Survivor!Reader
ok so
I’m probably very late to this, like 3 years late, but whatever just hear me out
My smooth brain has been going crazy lately for Phantom of the Opera and i just realized how similar Wraith’s “Angel of Music” cosmetic is to the drama (i mean, i known it is inspired by it but like).
so now with this glorious revelation, me and the monkeys in my head have come up with the brilliant idea to write a Phantom of the Opera inspired Wraith fic. gods speed you funky lil dudes.
note;; this is going to be very OOC for him. I’m am going to model wraith to be more like the phantom he is dressed as, thus expect a more devilish, seductive creature rather than the tree-man we already know. also, he can talk now. maybe sing
literally no one asked for this
word count: 4110
TW: Death and blood. Stalking and obsession. Musicals
This place is an undeniable and indisputable nightmare. An eternal night that twists and corrupts all with shadows and despair. From the repetitive game of cat and mouse that almost always ended in death to the ever-present feeling of eternal damnation, there is absolutely nothing inherently good about the Fog. There wasn’t even light. As if stuck in the haze of an ecstasy-trip, time bleeds into itself seeming to stretch on forever yet also never move an inch. A true paradox.
And to make matters somehow even worse, you had started to hear voices in your head.
It first spoke to you on one of your regular trips into the woods. Scavenging for tools and items that could be used in trials, you hummed to yourself. Oblivious to the world around you, lost to the music playing in your head. It was easier to forget the horrors of the night and give in to the melody of some old song than to ponder on dangers yet to come. You found personal peace in singing, drowning out all your earthly worries by the power of your own imagination. The fog swirled and swelled with the rise and fall of your song and out in the darkness the voice made its presence known. ‘Sing louder.’ You obliged willingly.
Initially, you had chalked it up to your heightened sense of purpose and inner monologue being superimposed so as to form its own being. You would command yourself in third person, detaching and driving your body as your thoughts spoke. Intuition personified. This theory made sense; endless panic often causes those to develop the most peculiar of coping mechanisms. In passing conversations with the other trapped souls you realized that they too had their quirks; one had a rubber band that he snapped on his wrist whenever scared, another rubbed dirty into her palms to stop them from sweating and so on. Unfortunately, you had developed the most bizarre habit out of everyone else. You only started to question the voice’s true intention when its orders became more sinister.
‘Leave him.’ It spoke over your shoulder referring to your teammate dying on hook, an open exit gate before you. ‘Run away.’ It commanded to your half-way through healing another when you spotted the killer fast approaching. All these new and selfish instructions, although ensuring your survival, left you feeling hollow inside. You escaped but at what cost? The lives of your friends. If it really was your true self talking to you then, by default, did that mean you were as evil as the voice was? No! You plead. You were a good person. By God you were human, and the weight of all the death and suffering inflicted by your obedience to the voice began to crush your conscience. You couldn’t even look the others in the eyes anymore.
You couldn’t just ignore the voice either. When it spoke there seemed to be an almost physical force behind it, driving it and giving it momentum. Sometimes it even felt as if someone was standing right behind you reaching out and instructing you with their hand as they whispered in your ear. There was also the fact that you drew strange comfort from the voice. In this desert place, so drained of softness and angry with hate, you depended on what little gentleness the voice offered you.
It even occurred to you that maybe, the voice wasn’t even yours - as in it belonged to someone else entirely. An unknown watcher, a ghost or phantom, who somehow had a deep connection to you, a one-way mode of communication. A large part of you wanted desperately to believe that who were just overreacting and that it was all just in your head. Regardless, you just couldn’t shake the feeling.
For what felt like days now the voice had been uncharacteristically silent. You noticed it in your first ever trial with the killer that could go invisible with the toll of his bell. There was no guidance, no consoling vector to take your hand and help you through your problems. You had been left alone like a new-born chick, blindly searching for the love and warmth of a guardian. Feeling completely lost, the panic that sat on your chest was overwhelming in that trial. But oddly enough, no matter what you did wrong, how many times you blew up a generator or accidentally revealed your position, the killer never disturbed you. You didn’t even see him until the end where, standing in the exit gate looking in on the realm, you spotted the figure. Bright eyes gleamed back, a bloody weapon in his hands. He allowed you a moment longer to gawk at him before ringing his bell and disappearing into the night.
Even after escaping the voice didn’t return. Your ears yearned for the sound of it, hungry for its filling noise. You sat alone at the campfire, eyes staring unblinking into the mesmerizing flames. It was so lonely, the panic and unrest mixing into a dangerous concoction in your head. There was nothing good anymore. Why do you keep on trying? Perhaps it would be better if you just gave in already. You almost jumped out of your skin when, as if manifested by your desperate cry, the voice called.
‘Come.’ It sounded from the treeline, darkness bending and beckoning you into it. It didn’t feel real. Perhaps you were imagining it. ‘Come,’ It said again sensing your hesitation. You looked around at the other survivors none of which appeared to notice the disturbance. You faced the forest again, it opened to you like the mouth of a great fish. Your feet itched to run to it. There was a powerful pull and before long you followed it.
The woods were freezing, broken branches grabbing out as you passed them. Through all these adversaries, pushing past doubts and warranted skepticism, you kept your eyes focused ahead. Even with all the warning flags the voice had given you, the pure desperation you had to find anything even remotely kind lit the fire of will under your feet. Besides, what was the worst that could happen? You were dead either way. The trees swayed and whined as a tired wind blew through their crumbling leaves, oddly not even making a noise. As the voice continued to call, luring you away from the safety of other people and fire, you spotted something ahead of you. There just through the fog, like a lighthouse over a raging sea, was a light. It bobbed and sway and wondered away from you through the trees. It was hypnotizing to watch the light flicker deeper into the trees, your feet not needing motivation to follow.
The light and voice mingled in your head, overwhelming every sense until it felt like you were walking through a dream. Your pace was sluggish and sloppy, you couldn’t feel the ground anymore. Just as it seemed you’d never catch up to the light, it suddenly stopped, blinked a few times then popped out of existence. You went to its last location, looking around for any possible signs of anything to help you but instead found yourself completely surrounded by an all impressive mist. It danced through the trees creating unbreakable walls of wood and water. It felt wrong to be here, your head spin around for an exit which came to you in the form of an out-of-place stone archway.
The bright yellow of the stone contrasted brilliantly against the somber atmosphere it lived in. Your mind wasn’t your own as you unknowingly went to it. Beyond the mouth of madness lay a beast in wait, purring as he felt your impending arrival. Eagerness overtook him and slowly the wooden door creaked open to welcome you inside. The tunnel that lay behind was one lit by old candles tinting the world with a much-appreciated golden light. It stretched on for miles, leading down into the earth where, at the bottom drifting up to you like a breeze in a cave, the voice beckoned.
‘Come.’ You stepped inside. ‘Come to me.’ If, by some strange miracle, you could have stopped yourself for a brief moment from descending the tunnel, you might have noticed the voice’s odd word choice. You might have even noticed the person on the other end licking his lips and smiling. Walking as if through honey, you unhurriedly made your way to the yearning voice. Before long the warm light that had bathed you drew back its loving embrace and faded back to absolute darkness.
At the edge of the last candles reach was a room - so large and empty of light that it appeared to have no roof, no walls, no end. You couldn’t help but feel like you had walked into the lair, the most secret and quiet place, of a monster. You couldn't shake the feeling that you had passed the point of no return. The artificial night swallowed you whole; your eyes strained in the pitch black, your ears burning from the total silence save for your own beating heart. The shadows inspected you, looking you up and down while you were none the wiser. His eyes also ate you up, so pleased to have you alone that he let the moment slip into an uncomfortable length.
You wanted to speak, make your claim against whatever had brought you here. You could sense something out there just outside of your already limited view. But the silence held you tight in its suffocating grasp. You dared not even breath. You had to wait for him to make the first move.
“Bravo.” The voice called from somewhere behind you, startling you to the point of drawing a gasp. “Bravo! Bravissimo!” Someone started to clap. You could hear him stepping around you, his voice echoing endlessly around the room, impossibly loud and booming. Although there was something deeply unsettling about the voice, the only thing you could take from it was odd comfort. It was real. A person. A guardian Angel! You spun around on your heels desperate to see the source of your guidance however he managed to remain hidden in shadow. You swear you could hear him grin at your confusion.
“You listen well, my dear.” There was no denying it, it was the voice. Although only now, when it spoke so openly, did you notice that it was inherently male. So relieved with the news that you weren’t going completely mad with disembodied voices, you glazed over the other implications this reveal came with. If it wasn’t yourself than just who have you been talking to all this time? And, the more pressing matter, just who were you stuck with in the room.
The stranger claps again and moves around in the black, shuffling from one side of the room to the other and at times seeming to even be above you, looking down. “I am beyond impressed my dear.” The stranger smiled, unbeknownst to you getting closer with very advance. “Do you know where you are?” No reply. Honestly you had no clue. You had never been in this place before - it felt so detached, so different when compared to all the other realms you had grown accustomed to in the Fog.
“Hell.” The voice answered, purring like a cat with a trapped mouse, teasing it - relishing off its fear. “The deepest pit. And, what’s more, you came here all on your own free-will.” He moved again not content to stay in one spot for too long, trying to view you from every possible angle before he made his last move.
“Won’t you sing for me. My Angel of music. You know the one I mean.” His words hit you like a ton of bricks. A song? As you wracked your brain for whatever he could be referring to, a faint idea began to materialize right in the tip of your tongue. Words of a melody that you swear you had never heard before but still feel familiar with in your heart. The voice, it sang to you. How could you forget!
“Every night I was there. Whispering my song to you in hopes that one day, you could join in with me.” That was true. Each time you dared to drift off to sleep, the voice would appear. He sang to you, gently and softly, talking into your ear to lull you safely away - only to wake hours later with no memory of the night before. Perhaps that is why you were always so attached to the voice, why its absence impacted you so deeply. There was a build of pressure behind you and suddenly he was there. The stranger towered over you without even looking, his chest pressed tight to your back. Exploring hands went down your arms and slowly brought them up like the two of you were about to start a dance. His head hung low to your ear, his breathing touching your exposed neck. He sucked in and exhaled meaningfully, taking in your smell and touch and your reaction to his closeness.
“Sing.” God, his voice was so smooth, demanding and rich. A sonorous tone that had never been shown to you before this. It shocked you to your core. He sighed again, one hand moving to caress your neck with the other holding your own hand. “Sing my Angel.” Up till now you were passive, sitting ideally in a dream-state as you let the stranger do as he wished. But now you wanted answers.
“Let me see you.” No answer came from the man be it verbal or physical. He remained completely unphased and unchanging.
“Sing.” He commanded again, no anger or annoyance in his tone only patience and hunger. He yearned for you to sing with him, to join in with his symphony. For too long has he gone silent, his soul dying along with his music. The bells no longer tolling and his music fading out like a lit match in the rain. When he found you, fallen like an angel right out of Heaven, humming alone to yourself, he felt the fire of passion ignite within him. You were perfect to him and now, you couldn’t resist him. You were defenseless, night having accustomed you to its unfurling beauty to the point that you were addicted to it – needed it, just as he did. There was no way either of you could go back now. You breathed into him, your nose filling with the smell of pine and smoke, and hesitantly after closing your eyes, you began to sing the words now burning hot in your head.
“Say you’ll share with me,” It wasn’t really singing, rather just breathless talking – a whisper that only the keenest of ears could hear. Regardless of what you sounded like; the stranger cherished every word that left your mouth. He started to shake, his hands holding on to you for support.
“One love, one lifetime.” He joined you now, singing as you did in a volume that only you could truly appreciate. His raspy, low-pitched voice mingling wonderfully with yours, sounding almost desperate to get the words out. Lips grazed your ear sending shivers down your spine.
“Say the word,” His hands tightened their grip as if to empathize his lyrics. “And I will follow you.”
“Say you love me.” Your combined voices bounced around the darkness stirring whatever creatures lay in hiding, your harmony compelling and immensely sorrowful. While a part of you faded into the song’s words, swaying and melting with the stranger content for once, something crawled into your head. The song was ending, and while you wished to stay forever in this blissful embrace, you demanded to know the face behind the voice. Your moment was coming.
“That’s all I ask of -” Slipping out his grasp at the moments climax, you spin around to finally lay your eyes on the stranger. He froze under your gaze, surprised by your sudden action. Looking up at an incredibly tall man, you felt your knees threaten to give out. Staring back were the glowing eyes of a killer, the very one that had, not long ago, tormented your friends. You couldn’t help but gasp and step away from him, breaking his hold on you. You inspected him as best you could in your lack of light, squinting your eyes as hard as you could but nothing in the darkness made itself known to you save for his unmistakable eyes. The stranger noticed your efforts and, fuming at your defiance to play along with him, raised a hand.
“You wish to disobey me? Fine!” The ground shook under foot, his shouting voice ricocheting off the rooms stone walls and sending the world into disarray. “Look at me Angel! In all my glory!” He snapped his fingers.
Suddenly your senses were overwhelmed by blinding white light. You flinched, shutting your eyes to the dramatic change in the room. When next you opened then you found the room to be hazed in familiar yellow candlelight. As if by magic, all candles had all be simultaneously lit. Your attention darted around like a trapped bird before resting on the man standing in front of you, his arms open and expression unreadable. Bathed in new light you could see him in immaculate detail.
Yes, it was the invisible killer, no doubt about it. But something was off about him. He looked different somehow; maybe it was his prim suit, navy fabric decorated with golden lace that fit his slender body snugly giving him a sense of proper and divinity. Behind him hung an extraordinary cape that fluttered in a non-existent breeze. On his face sat a white mask, crooked and dirtied from years of neglect which, in all honesty, covered little to none of his truly disfigured and burnt flesh.
Unparalleled fear began to rise in your chest. He was so tall, powerful and strange that it terrified you to be standing next to him. You stepped backwards, edging closer to the exit. The stranger’s eyes flickered. How could you fear him? He had never hurt you, Angel. All he has ever wanted was to be by your side, to never be lonely in the dark again. He has given you no reason to distrust him, he has never shown you his monstrous side. Yet still you shrunk away from his touch, choosing rather silent suffering than a lifetime of music with him. He felt something break inside him.
You saw his hand twitch, his off-center head bobbing as his labored breathing intensified. He took a small step forward and you replied by taking a large one back. He halted and so did you. Next to the broken thing that rattled around in his bones, he heard something else. A beating heart, weak and faint but somehow still alive. It moved and leaped, reaching out for you to take it and hold. Just standing in your company he heard music start to swell in his ears. You had listened to him once before, maybe he could get you to again.
The stranger's head dropped; through the lumpy cape you saw his shoulders deflate. What was he doing? Playing possum so as to catch you off guard? Whatever it was, you didn’t let the tension ease out your legs. You waited for his next move, ready to run if he tried anything suspicious. You didn't expect the sound of his voice to suddenly start singing again.
“Say you’ll share with me,” He sang his solo, his voice that of an airy murmur as if afraid to sing alone. Every word he sang clung to your ears, kissing your heart and mind with a complex sorrow. Your guard started to halter.
“One love. One lifetime.” He paused, swallowing the lump building in his throat warning to overflow and render him speechless.
“Lead me,” He raised a cautious eye to find you still waiting, offering him the chance to try coax you closer. A fist clutched his chest in an attempt to sooth his aching heart. “Save me from my solitude.” He was certain he was crying but he couldn’t feel the tears; you had his undivided attention.
“Say you want me here...” He faltered here, hand itching to reach out and grab you. “Beside you.” The stranger could barely form audible words anymore, so slurred and choked up that you unknowingly leaned forward to try hear him better.
“Anywhere you go,” He tried again, begging you to close the distance and join him. It was heartbreaking, this phantom, this person and the way he sang to you, each syllable dripping with an ocean of unimaginable pain and beastly hopelessness. It was infectious really; you could feel his sadness take over your heart shaking it in an iron grasp. Miserable eyes glared you down as you took the smallest step forward. “Let me go too.”
He didn’t continue - he couldn’t. The horrors of the whispering darkness and this god-awful place left him near-drained. Everything pushed down on him, suffocating him until he thought he was going to pass out. He could only keep his eyes on you. Blurry from tears he held onto your figure like your were a buoy in a raging sea, his only safety, his air. The stranger heaved from trying to maintain his composure. Finally the curtain fell and you gave in.
Your foot falls were the only sounds that broke the silence in the room. You approached him with little to no conflict in your mind. Yes - he was scary. Yes - he was a monster. But the way he looked at you now, the way he sang and spoke; no killer would beg to be loved the way he did. It was like he was afraid of the dark, of being alone, of being condemned to an existence of pitiful silence. You craned your neck to look up at him, sucking back the wreckage still wavering just outside his control.
“Pitiful creature of darkness,” The words tumbled out of your mouth, through teeth unfazed by their possible repercussion. You were speaking from your heart. A small hand connects with his unmasked cheek taking in the feeling of old, burnt skin and years of mud. He leans into your warm embracing having forgotten what it was like. “You are not alone.”
Even on tip-toes you still were short of his lips. It was only when he gave in and leaned down that you were able to kiss him. Eyes closed, shoulders tensing, you melted into the kiss. His lips were rough, chapped, but gentle. He didn’t give anymore pressure until you asked for him, dragging you tongue along his bottom lip asking for entrance. He opened to you gratefully. Inside his mouth housed monstrous sharp teeth and an excited tongue and moved inside your mouth, tasting ever inch of you. He was greedy, demanding everything of yours. When you had nothing more to give, he relented and let you go.
You sank back on your heels gasping for breath. You noticed he was smiling, an odd sight of such a distorted and sad face.
“My Angel. My Muse.” You felt him move on top of you, a hand sneaking behind your back making to bend over so as not be pressed uncomfortably against his chest. “I have many names of which to call you. I am eager to use them all.” He laughed, the sound rattling your whole body with its bass leaving you quivering. “But you, can call me Philip.” He tilted his head in a mock bow, his free hand grabbing the edge of his cape and fanning it out in respect. You offered you own meek nod. His smile only widened at your compliance.
“Come now,” Philip said standing up to his full height, his hand still securing your back. “Let me take you away. Away from all this numb light and into the darkness where no one will find us.” He raised his arm and cape and quickly brought it down around you, sweeping it around the both of your until he had you cocooned.
The world fell into black again and all you could sense was him; his breathing, his reinforced arms cradling you. You could also hear a faint thumping when you put your ear to his chest - his heart. Once diseased and weak now pumped with vigor and delight. He had you in his grasp and he was never letting you go. You were his everything; his Angel of music.
#i spent so long on this#i have a serious addiction to poto now#poto is phantom of the opera if ya didn't know#im sorry if this is cringe#i just needed it#dbd imagines#dbd writings#dbd the wraith#dbd philp ojomo#dbd the wraith x reader#dbd philip ojomo x reader#dbd x reader
39 notes
·
View notes
Text
So Bad
For @academialynx , who made a donation to her local food bank in return for a fic! This is a college AU, moderately prof/student (though the theme is that they DON’T break the rules) boatloads of yearning, and janky building maintenance that leads to getting locked in a closet. She asked me to consider the Brandon Colbein song So Bad. Which I did. :)
Thank you, Dear! Here we go!
Rated T
On AO3
On FF
On Tumblr! (keep reading!)
Another champagne cork popped and a delighted cheer spread through the room. Glasses, plastic cups, and hastily drained coffee mugs were refreshed and the party carried on. Theirs was not a large music department, so to have attracted a fresh, exciting, multi-talented composition and collaborative piano specialist with a few international awards, one ‘early career’ grant and another from the National Endowment for the Arts meant their modest program was about to gain a little fresh clout at interdepartmental tenured faculty meetings.
“Congratulations again, Erik!” Dr. Nadir Khan hauled Erik into a vigorous handshake and pumped for a full three seconds.
Erik winced. He’d be hamfisting the keys tomorrow if they kept this up. “Thank you, Dean Khan. It’s an honor to join as a full professor.”
“I am Nadir to you, and don’t forget it.” Nadir refilled Erik’s plastic cup and tapped his department coffee mug against it, sloshing their champagne into frothy heads. “It’s hard to believe it’s been five years, Erik! You cost me a bet, I’ll have you know. I didn’t think you’d stay after you had to teach that semester of History of Rock and Roll for non-majors.”
The lantern-jawed oboe professor laughed. “Or the infamous Intro to Music Theory.”
“No, no,” disagreed Umbaldo Piangi, the portly voice teacher. “When I went on sabbatical to Teatro La Fenice and you gave him The Chamber Music Outreach Project and graduate tutoring. No warning!” Even the big man’s clucking tongue was musical. “But, Piangi is back, no? I will cut back my performance hours and take back all the lessons and weekends and let Dr. Erik Devereaux return to his writing!”
“Actually,” Erik said, and the room stilled. “The only part I disliked was the public part. I never minded the private instruction. If you would like to split the load, I’m happy to keep the instructional portion while you handle the tours, performances, and...outreach?” He suppressed the grimace well enough.
Piangi, Italian down to his fine shoes, let out a whoop and grabbed Erik in a hug so tight it pressed his ribcage and nearly dislodged his delicate porcelain mask from it’s fine wire and leather fittings.
“Ah, my partner now! I will call donors and show off the little tweeting songbirds with my lovely Carlotta while you teach them not to call for worms! A toast!” Piangi held up his plastic cup once again.
Erik accepted a toast that crackled the edge of his plastic cup and hoped for something new and shiny to distract them. Or for the lights to suddenly flicker and fail as they were prone to do, along with randomly closing doors in the terribly laid out office and work spaces. The college had access to talent pipelines that the underfunded and neglected department had not been able to tap. Their aggressive recruitment of him was a last ditch effort for change before the tiny group was relegated to a four piece for the university reagent’s cocktail brunch and a marching band for the far-better funded football team.
“To Dr. Devereaux!”
With a conspiratorial grin, Erik drained his cup and winked at Piangi. “To the songbirds.”
…
Tenure in hand, Erik started his campaign. Once he ditched the worst teaching credits to lecturers and adjuncts, he could focus on recruiting. Specifically, to score a few respected but not-yet-headliner talents. Emerging performers without a good gig had few options and the status and modest stipend to be a ‘visiting artist’ might be more attractive than the floating gulag of a cruise ship.
A few excellent but relatively unknown performers could teach and perform, receive some finishing, and get quickly farmed out into the world. The reputation-building move would be pricey, but no one gets paid dividends before investing.
His development grant would cover three such artists. He got more than fifty applications. Erik rubbed his eyes under the mask. It was a good thing he never had plans-- it would be a long weekend.
…
The old music labs building had settled over the years and gained what the senior faculty referred to as ‘personality’. Erik took this to mean ‘genially hazardous’. No amount of facility requests or complaints brought the doors and keys division to do maintenance.
He was a quick learner though, and only got locked in his workroom twice before catching the door with his foot became second nature. He even set a flaking brick, plucked from a neglected flower bed outside, in the corner by the door and kicked it against the frame as a doorstop. Every time he came to his workroom, a narrow converted closet with a work bench and packed with shelves of manuscripts, music, errant repair kits and recording equipment, he would hit the outside light switch, unlock the door, step in, catch the door, then kick the brick.
Switch, step, catch, kick. His shoes were gaining new wear marks.
After kicking the brick into place, Erik opened his laptop and went over the last files. He’d asked the department admins to strip out the audio files to just the audition pieces and remove identifying details from the fifty applications. If he was going to invite talent, their first hurdle would be their musicianship. Once he’d culled the herd to ten, he’d submitted his picks to the dean to select the three finalists. Now they needed invitations. Two vocalists and a classical guitarist made the cut and he spent the next few hours getting more acquainted with their files and ignoring the pings of his filling inbox.
At least it was just his inbox. No one came to the music labs and his closet if they could help it.
If he was honest, no one came to meet him in person if they could help it.
…
Most performers were beautiful. Entire websites and product lines were devoted to skincare for singers, makeup tutorials, look books and wardrobe consulting. Erik’s particular variety of deformity would stand out in any circumstances, but in an entire department stuffed with the striking, stunning, and unconventionally glorious, he bordered on eyesore. Even Piangi could command a room with his generous, rosy smiles and booming laugh.
The mask was the best combination of memorable and functional he could muster. Yes, surgery was an option but who signed up for years of unnecessary pain and the risk of infection? He had better things to do.
Like meet with his new visiting artists.
The classical guitarist had supple wrists and forearms like Popeye. His rolled cuffs drew the eye to the action while his cleverly knotted scarf kept you looking at his face, framed by artfully mussed hair.
“We’re looking forward to your first concerts and hope you’ll consider collaborations with local programs.”
The baritone had a one in a million voice. How he hadn’t been snapped up for opera yet was a mystery but Erik supposed it was his poor presence. When you had the goods, you still had to sell them, and the young man’s love of neon, bad hair, and questionable repertoire (pin the tail on a Hal Leonard page) needed polish. His work was shockingly precise and sounded like he had a cathedral in his mouth.
“Our faculty and staff are a rich resource for young performers and are always eager to assist. We often work in parallel with the communications department and local professionals to prepare our artists for the culture and community as well as the stage.”
The soprano was the risk. The recording had been largely boilerplate and her prior experience thin. The reason she got in was a one-point-two second pause in her audition tape. It was the silence that told Erik she had chops.
Imagine, a soprano unafraid of silence. It had been late in the weekend when he selected her and had not yet been able to examine the head shot.
“I… um...”
“Yes, Dr. Devereaux?”
“Welcome, Miss Daaé.”
…
The visiting artists would survey classes, provide demonstrations and guest lectures, and appear at university events, auditions, and generally get the word out that the department was shifting to a growth phase. That was the official description. Unofficially, there would be a mountain of effort to make each emerging artist a shot on goal for the department. Recording deals, major and paid appearances, and successful auditions all counted toward the tally.
Guitar was not Erik’s forte, and as much as he could contribute to the baritone’s look and polish, Erik had cultivated a far more… refined profile than the young man aspired to. Erik maintained collars sharp enough to cut bread and a spotless sheen on his porcelain mask. Right now, Dean Khan aspired to cut the young man’s mullet tail off.
“Excellent, Miss Daaé, right on time.” Erik slid the fall board up and they prepared to work. She understood how to modulate her tone, how to select the emotional pitch to match the song, to contrast with it for effect. She explored her range and willingly failed to find her borders. It all made for an excellent student.
It was the quiet that made her breathtaking. The anticipation of her. Tenths of seconds that tightened the chest and made a quiver run through the blood. Not often, only when it mattered, and only when it would matter enough to do so.
When he could stand it no more, he asked her about it.
“I’m sorry, I can try to stop.”
“I didn’t ask you to stop, I asked when you started doing it.”
She considered him, her ribbons of curling hair twisting as she shifted. “When my father was sick. I could feel the need for silences because he couldn’t talk anymore. It just felt… right.”
Erik nodded. “Again.”
…
She’d been a late bloomer. A ghost on the scene and at least five years older than the rest of the sopranos at her stage. It also meant she hadn’t spent her entire high school and college career belting Broadway in the recital rooms, building nodes on her vocal chords.
They finished late one night and he walked her to her car. “So what did you do for practice?”
She pinked under the parking lot lights. “I, um… waited tables at an Italian restaurant. You know, where your server might sing opera when they bring you breadsticks?”
Erik nodded. “Parmesan and Puccini?”
Bless her, she giggled. “Bellinis and Bellini. A few really knew when they were hearing but most just wanted to hear Nessun Dorma because they heard it on Youtube. I managed to get a few singing jobs out of it but I mostly just waited tables.” They stopped at her car but she hadn’t reached for her keys yet. “I was a bartender and the second understudy for a Gilbert and Sullivan society when I saw your announcement.”
“Their loss,” Erik said. He left off the second half.
“Thanks.” Christine hesitated. “I didn’t expect to be accepted, so… thanks.”
Something changed in the breeze. Something cool and soft in the night air mixed with the gold light pouring down from the lights. It highlighted the curls that spiralled out of control around her neck as she tilted her head just so.
It was just a moment, a funny thump that ricocheted in his chest at her upturned face, her soft smile. Maybe her eyes flicked down, maybe her sharp inhale had a little catch in it. Maybe it was the way her lip twitched, but a red flag suddenly waved in Erik’s head and he stepped back carefully. He had a powerful fear of heat and burns.
“Yes, of course. The, uh, department was very happy to offer the opportunity.”
She blinked. “Of course. Well, thanks for the great session and walking me to my car. Have a nice evening, Erik.”
Christine drove away and Erik stood in the parking lot for some minutes after her taillights had faded. He imagined it. Surely, he’d taken a friendly conversation the wrong way. She wasn’t his student, strictly speaking, but he had influence over her career, which would be just as bad.
Besides, he had completely misread the whole thing. Surely. Women didn’t look up at him like that-- like he would kiss them. After a walk after dark, telling him about themselves, and looking at him like that.
No one looked at him like... that.
Oh no.
…
She wasn’t strictly his student. He was her mentor. Even a brief thought made it obvious and completely inappropriate. Did she think it would improve her opportunities?
Erik swallowed. No, if that was the game she wouldn’t have backed off. Surely he’d misread the situation.
…
They brewed tea together. She remembered his favorite oolong.
…
He saw a cascade of curling hair on his way to the post office and his heart leapt.
It wasn’t her. The disappointment was too confusing to examine.
…
His mouth went dry when her sweater slipped from her shoulder. Then he knocked the music from the stand.
She smiled and helped him pick up the sheets.
There were freckles on her shoulder.
...
Five months into the visiting artist tour and Piangi had the concert hall packed for their first performances. Franco the guitarist, who preferred just the one name, would play a twenty minute set, followed by the baritone Burton Armstrong, as baritoney a name as Erik had ever heard, then Christine, and finally Franco would play again with accompaniment.
Erik was content to stay in a tiny box seat far to the side as Piangi introduced each performer. Franco had gained the stage he deserved, and Burton had been convinced to get a proper haircut and suit, and sang a particularly impressive Russian ballad set.
Christine was introduced and settled onto the stage. She was radiant in dark blue, and decorated her baroque set with agility. From his perch, Erik could as easily imagine her distributing bellinis as gracing an opera stage. It was not an insult. After her short set, she nodded and was joined by Burton. A duet?
She looked up and found him, up in his perch. She nodded, and the two launched into a series of excerpts from Semele, Handel’s somewhat neglected tale of a torrid affair between a mortal woman and the god, Jupiter.
Their gazes met as she sang.
O Jove! In pity teach me which to choose,
Incline me to comply, or help me to refuse!
The baritone thundered.
Too well I read her meaning,
But must not understand her.
If Erik’s ears heard the rest of the concert, he could not recall it later.
…
Dean Khan adjourned the faculty meeting. “Oh Erik, if you have a moment?”
They waited until the room was cleared and Nadir closed the door, then casually looked over the remaining pastries. “Excellent concert last month. The work with Burton is certainly paying off.”
Erik leaned against the table. “His socks were bright green, but we felt it was a workable compromise.”
“Franco is excellent in front of the crowd. Has he met the flamenco dancers yet?”
“I put in a call. I think he’s going to their weekly meeting next Thursday.”
“Marvelous. Let me know how that goes when you hear, won’t you?”
“Of course.” Erik felt his chest tighten the longer Nadir perused the snacks and chose to tear off the bandage himself. “Anything else?”
“There is, in fact,” Nadir did not look up from the muffins. “Christine’s performance was exceptional. Truly filled with passion.”
Erik tried to take a sip of coffee but his cup was empty. He faked it. “She’s a wonderful artist.”
“Yes. I couldn’t help but notice--” Nadir paused over the croissants, then passed them over to examine the cookies. “You two seem to have a unique and strong mentor-trainee relationship.”
“Thank you.” It had not been a question. There was nothing here… yet. “We work well together.”
“I’m glad to hear that. The program you’ve created is admirable for it’s transparency and integrity.”
“I agree. Thank you for noticing.”
Nadir looked up with a slight nod, then selected a macadamia cookie. “I’m sure the remaining six months will fly by, Erik.”
He had no idea how to respond.
...
Six months. There were six months left in the visiting artist term. There were more sessions, a mini tour, and a series of small concerts meant to showcase the new talent the department had ‘produced’.
Six months of lies, pretending he was misunderstanding something. Pretending he didn’t notice the way she was at his side and on his mind. Then she would leave him to the dull, overworked life he’d made for himself in the hopes of making a name for himself while simultaneously avoiding attention. More lies, but easier to swallow.
Her voice came from the hallway. “Erik? I’m heating up some water, would you like tea?”
“Is it the one you brought?”
A light laugh. Sparkling. “Of course.”
He dropped his work and grabbed his cup. “Be right there.”
…
A very successful fundraiser was wrapping up on the top floor of the performing arts center. It had a view over the campus, the nice side, and the glow of downtown caught the streaking rain on the tall glass walls.
The donors had been generous, delighted with the new features of the program and the willingness to be accessible. Erik stayed to the side, avoiding the center of the room where Piangi and his wife Carlotta took up residence. Nadir circulated the room, nudging him out from time to time for a refill and to participate. When forced to do so, Erik sloshed some middling red wine into his glass and let himself slip into Christine’s gravity for a few minutes before drifting away again.
He could feel her gaze.
The cocktail party was to end at eleven-thirty, and by then nearly all the guests had left. The last ones were rushed out and Piangi hurried to the bar.
“Open season!”
A quick crush to the bar and every open bottle was ‘liberated’ to the long-suffering exhibits. Christine topped off her glass and passed the bottle to a fellow soprano, hardly twenty years old, and the two laughed and kicked off their heels. Piangi and Burton laughed over an earlier flub and the cello player, finally able to pack his instrument and relax, demanded and received a full glass.
Erik tipped back a hearty, warm swallow and emerged from the hinterlands.
“Oh, hi Dr. Devereaux! Did you just get here?” teased Carlotta. “Your legend only grows the more you hide.”
“All part of my devious plan,” he conceded. Christine’s giggle mingled with the laughs of her peers. “If you’ll excuse me. Piangi, brilliant as always.”
“Same to you, Erik! We plan many parties now, no?”
Easing his way towards the mirth, Erik relaxed. There were plenty of others around, and this was just the after party to a long dog and pony show. Listen to the pretty songbirds and throw money at the program, invitation only. They all deserved drinks after three hours of that.
Christine was plucking a pin from her hair. She shook the curls loose. “Hi Erik! God, I’m so glad to see you.”
“Oh?”
She held up a bottle. “Yeah, you need a refill.”
It had been a long night. These events could be tricky to navigate. Sometimes there was politics, other times business rivals. More often, donors expected special privilege and access in exchange for their checks, as if the last hundred years of progress meant nothing. The way a few of them had looked at Erik, maybe it didn’t.
He let her pour some white wine over the dregs of his red. Improvised rosé. “Everything go okay?”
“Good enough. I think I have some auditions, and some stuff nearby might open up for me.”
“That’s great. Who with?”
A nice chorus. A solid baroque group. Both could springboard to bigger things. A few bigger things were here.
“What’s bigger?” She asked, her eyes dark and soft.
He had not meant to speak, and now he rushed his words. “Things! Choirs, operas. There’s a few small opera troupes and there’s churches that need choral directors that know how to work with organ and piano.”
She sniggered. “Organs.” The other soprano dissolved into giggles.
Erik pulled out his phone. Clearly neither was driving tonight. He absently tallied up his glasses and admitted he wasn’t either.
“Do you play the organ, Erik?”
“Yes.”
Christine stepped closer and, on pure instinct, Erik put his arm around her as she turned her head to speak.
“Can I watch?”
His collar was tight. He pulled up the app and ordered a car.
They ran through the rain, more than sprinkled, less than soaked. Plenty wet to shiver from the chill of the driver’s exuberant air conditioning, though. Between giggles and poorly composed directions, they dropped off the other soprano who wobbled successfully to her door before their driver sped away. Christine did not shift away to the other seat, but leaned into him, tucking herself against his side.
The driver glanced in the rear view mirror, then looked away.
She was cool and smooth. Her loosened curls had tightened from the wet and tickled his neck and brushed against his mask.
Her hand on his thigh. Erik said nothing. If he was silent there was a kind of deniability, or denial at least, of what was happening. If he could deny that her fingernails caught on the inner seam of his trousers, then she could deny that his hand was firmly planted at her waist, holding her close.
And if she could deny that, then she could also deny that her nose bumped his chin, her ragged breath loud in his ears. And they could both deny that their lips grazed, a not-kiss somehow more intimate than if their lips moved and pulled at each other. Like her singing, it was the pause that made your breath catch and your insides tug.
“What number?”
Dashboards lights reflected in her eyes. “That one,” she said, and cautiously settled. The driver pulled forward and Christine unbuckled.
“Good night, Erik. See you tomorrow.”
“Good night, Christine.”
The driver glanced in the rearview. Erik looked down. “Sorry.”
The driver shrugged.
One more month.
…
He was hiding. He’d been hiding for weeks; stopped looking for her, stopped even wondering where she was or if she was alone. There was no way to be near her without the pretense of a piano that wouldn’t leave him shaking. No way to think about her without wanting.
He was Erik, a composer, a conductor, performer, designer of auditory spaces and translator of music. He was a collaborative pianist and vocal specialist. He’d given everything to music and the service of it, the delivery of it. He didn’t need this. He’d never had this.
No one ever offered. So he’d found fulfillment elsewhere, until now.
Erik hunched over his work, safely tucked into his corner of the music labs building. Between grading, senior thesis submissions, revisions to his own publications, and a request for a letter of recommendation, he could be plenty busy late into the night with no need for anyone to--
“Hello? Erik?”
Erik snatched at his mask and settled it. He’d been found. Time to lie, except he can’t lie to her.
“Can I help you with something, Christine?” He gathered a stack and stood. She met him by his door.
“Well, yeah,” she paused, blocking his path momentarily before stepping aside. “I need your signature on my visiting artist release. And another on my endorsement for my new job.”
Erik hefted his armload to the work closet. “I’m sure they look forward to meeting you. Come on.” He unlocked the door and held it open, then followed behind her, hitting the light switch with his elbow before catching the door on his foot, then he kicked the brick into place. He had to hold the stack to keep it from spilling across the work table.
She handed him the forms. Erik moved to a span of clean tabletop and started scanning the release form. Government agency boilerplate to satisfy the grant was mixed with flowery language so no one would suspect they were anything but artists. Yesterday Franco had brought Burton’s form-- yep, this was Christine’s. So on and so forth.
Erik had just finished scratching out his signature when he heard a familiar scrape.
“Why on earth do you keep a-”
Click.
“--brick?”
Erik pressed the heel of his hand into his chin.
“Are we… locked in?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” A faint rumble vibrated in the walls. “I don’t suppose that was just… construction?”
Erik let out a mirthless laugh. “There were storms brewing earlier. Besides, does this building look like they work on it?”
“Not really.”
Another rumble, louder, and the light fixture jittered.
Christine finally took a deep breath. “Have you been avoiding me?”
“No! Yes. I don’t know.” He touched his hairline, recapped a pen. “We crossed a line. I had to get back behind it and I couldn’t if we…” His hands skated across the table top nervously.
“Is this about being my mentor?”
Erik barked an ugly, bitter laugh. “What else? God, you just, out of nowhere, with your smiles, and the way you look at me, and sing to me, and the Semele…” Erik’s skin grew tight as he recalled the cocktail party. He turned, face growing hot beneath the porcelain and his throat tightening. He was a ruin.
“--and the touching and wanting and you’re… you’re just going to leave! I’m a fucking idiot!”
On cue, an extended, throaty roar of thunder rattled the stone and brick until the bare bulb above could suffer no more. With a loud pop, the narrow room went dark. They both scuffled in the dark until they had hold of something sturdy.
“Erik?”
He was embarrassed. He was frustrated. “What.”
“You need to sign the other form.”
“Want to get away that bad? Fine.” He reached for a desk lamp and tried to turn it on. He flipped the switch furiously. The power was out.
“Here,” Christine held up her phone and lit the screen. Her screensaver was… them? Beside a piano together?
Erik snatched a pen from the table and slashed his name. “There. Just search for facilities or call the university police. They can unlock the door.”
“Erik, did you even look at it?”
“Why bother.”
She snorted at him. “God, you’re so blind.”
“The lights were out.”
“Fine, you want to be a jerk, be one, but at least look at where I’m taking a job before you decide to walk.”
She lit up her phone once more and he glared at the page like it was staring at his mask. He tracked the offer and terms until he reached the party names and…
“You took a job at… a middle school? Here?” He looked up into the dim light. “You’re not leaving?”
“Meet the new grade six to eight choir director. Go Scotties. And now you have no direct influence over my career.”
Her screensaver dimmed, and before it went dark, Erik could make out a flash of their faces, turned to each other. He wondered if Nadir had seen this moment, because they looked as passionate as lovers despite being feet apart.
The room went black again, and he could hear her moving.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“That much has been apparent. What do you know?”
She was close. Close enough to feel the way she shifted the air. “I know way too much about motif design, lyric phrasing--”
Closer. “Go on.” Her hips were near his.
“Harmonic theory, vocals”
“Can attest.” Her fingertips were at his jawline, tracing his mask. “I thought it would be cold.”
“It’s been on my face all day. Early Romantic era competition and,” his voice scraped over gravel, “that I want you. So bad.”
Her kiss was her reply. Erik’s hands flew around her as she pivoted to the table with him, dragging his mask upwards. He gasped as cool air brushed his face, followed by light, curious fingertips and her hot mouth. Erik knocked over the stack of papers and files with a satisfying splatter.
“Is that light over there?” she asked, dragging her lips from his. “Around that cabinet door?”
“What?” he panted. “I thought that was a panel.”
She pushed him off gently, peering up at the wall. “Right there, see?”
Sure enough, there was a thin line of light. It was a hidden door with a magnetic latch.
“They can’t keep the regular door from locking you in but they put a trick door at the back?” Erik complained as he climbed through awkwardly. Very awkwardly. Her lips were red and swollen.
“Let me grab my things and we can get out of here.”
Erik checked his watch. “First, we’re turning in your forms.”
“It’s almost five!”
“We’ll make it if we run.”
Panting, they caught the dean just as he was packing up to leave.
“Erik, Christine? Are you alright? That was some storm we--”
Erik shoved the forms at him. “Yep. Terrible storm. Here.”
“Indeed, Erik. Why, your hair is a mess and I’ve never seen your shirt untucked.”
“Big wind. Yep. Almost hit by lightning. Here, time stamp?”
“Miss Daaé, you may want to adjust…”
“For God’s sake just take the stupid form so we can go!” Christine shouted.
Nadir laughed and scanned the forms. “I don’t want to see you until Monday, Erik. You better be late.”
He didn’t make it in until Wednesday.
...
31 notes
·
View notes
Text
Music of the Night (1)
A/N: Hello Dear Readers,
Here is Part 1 of this precious series of mine! I have put a lot of love and care into this story, I hope you enjoy it! (There’s more to come of course)
All my Love,
Soul 💖
Summary:
The time is 1856. Location: Paris, France at the Opera Populaire. Taehyung is living his life when who should stumble into his life than the most beautiful singer he has ever heard? She was the missing instrument to his orchestra. She would complete the score for his… Music of the Night.
Pairing: Opera Ghost! Taehyung x Singer! Ballet Dancer! MC
Universe: Phantom of the Opera AU
Characters: rich! Seokjin, rich! Yoongi, dance instructor! hoseok, officer! Jimin, stagehand! Jungkook, chorus girl! BlackPink
Genre: Fluff 🥰, Mature 🔞
Length: 2.1k
⚠️Warnings⚠️: mentions of religion, stalking, slight yandere themes
Please keep in mind this is a work of FICTION this in no way reflects on any BTS members or Taehyung as a person. This is simply a story for the imagination.
Go b a c k | Turn p a g e | M.List | Request
As I sang, my voice steadily got louder claiming the attention of those who were still around. All at once, Jin and Yoongi’s conversation came to a halt. The stage hands and the ballet dancers practicing for the show in the coming weeks all stopped to hear as I sang. The music built to a crescendo and I kept in pitch perfectly but kept in time with the music a little clumsily but still pushed on.
I finished singing the notes that maestro Namjoon gave me and timed it with him ending the music.
“Brava!”
“Tres magnifique!”
The two owners of the opera house made their way from the back of the orchestra seating going onto the stage to greet the new ballet dancer that was meant to be an addition to the ballet.
I nodded and bowed blushing slightly. “Merci monsiuers, I am most humbled by your applause,” I greeted them kindly. “I am _____.”
“Ma cher, that was quite wonderful,” The taller man began.
“A diamond in the rough,” the shorter man beamed at me.
“Mademoiselle, please meet Monsiuer Kim Seokjin,” the taller man bowed. “And Monsiuer Min Yoongi,” the shorter man bowed. “They are the owners and operators of the Opera Populaire,” Maestro Namjoon explained to me from his place in the orchestra pit.
I nodded and curtseyed again as gracefully as I could. “Thank you for taking me on as part of your chorus, I will do my very best.”
“Chorus?!” Seokjin hollered down to Namjoon.
“That is entirely unfitting” Yoongi protested.
“You forget that you signed on Francesca for another year,” Namjoon reminded the two owners with a tired sigh. “Also, Minnie got pregnant Mademoiselle ____ is meant to fill her place.”
“Right,” Jin looked down at me with pleading eyes. “ the moment to contract with our current leading soprano has finished. You will be our star,” Jin took one of my hands and got down on one knee. “Please don’t even think of leaving to another house until such time as we can give you a proper spotlight?”
I giggled at how dramatic the tall and striking man was being. Didn’t he know how happy I was to be just accepted as a chorus girl? “My good sir,” I pulled on his hand to get him to stand. “There is no need for that. I want to be here. No matter where you put me.”
“A true lady, indeed,” Yoongi smiled at me softly. “And you’re punctual?”
I nodded eager to please. “Oh yes, of course.”
“How old are you mademoiselle?” Yoongi inquired.
“I am just 24,” I answered with a small smile.
“How darling you are,” Seokjin hummed. “Please call me Jin.” I nodded agreeing to this.
“See to it that she is settled in.” Yoongi called to a chorus girl who came up eagerly and he turned back to me. “We will take this first year to train you and get you ready for the spotlight. See to it that you don’t lose this kind and polite manner.” He gave me a hard look but I could tell he was fighting off a smile.
I nodded. “I won’t disappoint you, monsieur.”
“Well go get settled then, if you please,” Jin ushered me over to one of the chorus girls.
“I’m Jennie,” she smiled up at me warmly.
“I’m ____,” I introduced myself to her as we made our way to the back of the opera house where the real magic happened. I watched as everyone kept working to build the world for the upcoming production.
“How old are you?” she asked me keeping me engaged in conversation.
“I’m 24, and you?” I smiled at her as we passed by sculptures being made.
“I’m 23!” she beamed. There were costumers sewing and there were carpenters working on the set and stage hands setting up the rigging. I looked on in wonder and did my best to follow Jennie back to the bed chambers. Though she said we would be making a stop along the way.
We stopped by the costumers to pick up a uniform for me. Jennie held up some tights and dug for another pair when she saw the poorly mended run. A skirt. A shift. A bodice. When she had gathered all the items she wanted, she instructed for me to follow her further into the back of the grand opera house.
“You’ll be sleeping beside me,” she giggled and allowed me to set down my things. “You have your own pointe shoes, right?”
I nodded. “Yes I do,” lifting up the small sack I carried. It was the last thing that I had from my father. He had bought them for me when I was a little girl, saying he would make sure I was trained by the best teachers, and he kept his word. I started taking lessons right away. My eyes gleamed at the thought of my recently passed father and tried to blink the tears away when Jennie turned to me again.
“Why don’t you get changed into this then and we will go see monsieur Hoseok before lunch?”
I nodded and waited for her to shut the door to quickly get changed. I found the silk ribbon in my sack and tied back my hair as I made my way to Jennie who was conversing with one of the stage hands while waiting for me.
“____-ssi, this is Jeon Jungkookie,” Jennie introduced me to the cute boy. Another glance in his direction showed me he was more like a boy-man. His face was so sweet, but he had the build of someone that always had to work.
“Nice to meet you,” I smiled in greeting with a small bow.
“She’s my Unnie so you better be nice and watch out for her Kookie,” the girl glared at the boy.
Jungkook looked offended. “As if I never look out for you Jennie –noona,” he guffawed.
“I’m watching you,” she challenged with a finger pointed to his chest.
Jungkook turned to me and bowed to 90 degrees. “It’s nice to meet you ____ -noona.”
I nodded and thanked him bowing my head a little. “The pleasure is mine. Jennie mentioned we would be late for lunch. I hope to see you around,” I smiled kindly.
Jennie then took my hand and we made our way to the kitchen. Where we bumped into other chorus girls. Jisoo, Rose, and Lisa. I learned that I was the same age and the unnie of the other girls as well and they all were so glad to have me around.
Jennie mentioned again that we should go meet Hoseok and Jisoo said it’d be better for us to wait. “He isn’t very happy. No one told him that Minnie was dismissed last night,” she explained with a sad look in her eyes.
He knew it was coming of course. He just didn’t think they would turn it around so quickly.
I gulped in nervousness. Maybe he would purposely try decide to hate me and make this next year torture for me? We ate lunch quickly and then made our way out to the stage again to find monsieur Hoseok and maestro Namjoon as they were discussing the upcoming production.
When we came out to the stage again. Everyone was present. Even Francesca had risen from her bed. Jisoo and Lisa pointed out that she only ever came out from her quarters when someone important was coming to visit. And someone important must have been coming today. For the diva was dressed to the nines. Her costume molded to her form, her make-up was well done, and her hair was perfectly in place.
As Francesca was warming up with maestro Namjoon, I timidly made my way over to Monsiuer Hoseok to introduce myself with Jennie at my side.
“You must be the new girl,” he smiled warmly at me.
I nodded, bowed low and introduced myself.
“Such a cute thing,” he mumbled mostly under his breath I wasn’t sure that I really heard it. “I have been informed that we will be training you for the coming year. Please know that I am strict. And I will not tolerate any loose behavior. We can’t replace you as easily, or so I’m told.”
I nodded and promised that I would abide by his rules.
Hoseok seemed satisfied with my answer and asked me to join the rest of the girls to warm up and asked Jennie that she show me how things are done around here.
Once we warmed up, we started the dance for the upcoming production. And Francesca began her rehearsals for her aria. I suddenly understood why Jin and Yoongi were so desperate for me to stay on with the promise of the future.
While Francesca wasn’t necessarily a bad singer. She was technically very good. She had good control and her voice could carry. But the quality. The quality was lacking. Her voice was grating on the ears so much so that even some of the maids stuffed their ears with cotton so as to lessen the assault on their ears that her voice inflicted.
“I wonder how long it will take for him to notice her.” Jin hummed while watching from stage right while us chorus girls were at practice. I was in the back with Jennie learning the dance and doing my best to keep up trying to not let the voices of the managers distract me.
“The opera ghost?” Yoongi questioned softly. As though just saying the words would make him appear. This made my ears prick up I’d always had an “unhealthy interest” in the macabre as my aunt once put it to our priest.
Jungkook, as though on cue, came down from the catwalk with a sealed envelope. “Here please Sir’s. It is addressed to you,” Jungkook bowed and stepped away once Yoongi took the letter.
“It seems our resident genius may already be aware,” he gave Jin a meaningful look before bringing his attention back to the crisp stationary. Yoongi broke the seal on the letter and read it quietly to himself.
Francesca at Jungkook’s interruption and the mention of the note waited with bated breath for Yoongi to finish reading. “What does he have to say, my manager?”
Yoongi looked over at the diva almost rolling his eyes. “He is pleased with the newest addition to our chorus. And some other administrative concerns.” He answered handing off the letter to his partner Jin who now took the letter to pour over the words.
“How could he possibly know of the new patron?!” Jin practically screeched.
Yoongi shared a dark glance with the man with an insincere smile. “Someone likes to talk. Loud.”
Murmurs seemed to spread through the crowd. Yoongi turned to address us, the ensemble. “Yes. We have a new patron. It is Vicomte de Chagny, Park Jimin.”
There were audible gasps of excitement in the crowd. “He is coming to visit today actually,” Jin tacked on after.
“Ah, I see you’ve made the announcement,” Jimin said as he entered from stage left causing some in the crowd to cheer and applaud. I gasped not believing the sight before my eyes.
“Do you know him Unnie?” Rose queried.
I nodded. “We grew up together. He was like my little brother. I haven’t seen him since my parents died and I had to go live with my aunt. That was so long ago almost 10 years now.”
Jimin stood among the other men smiling and conversing while we all talked excitedly amongst ourselves. Jimin then announced he wouldn’t hold us up and said he would be with us on opening night for the new production next week.
I stood up taller hoping Jimin would notice me. And visibly deflated when he walked past without a second glance.
“He didn’t see you,” Jisoo tried to reassure me. I nodded and brought my attention to Hoseok when he tried to bring us back to order. The rest of the day was a blur. So much so that I asked Jennie to show me where the chapel was. I needed a moment to breathe before bed. And I needed to pray.
While I sat in the small room. I did not know there were dark piercing eyes watching me closely. I said a quick prayer and asked God to please continue watching over me. As I sat praying. I faintly heard the most beautiful voice.
I reveled in its sound and even joined in singing along to the hymn.
I was sure it was someone far off singing loudly so they couldn’t possibly hear me, I assured myself. I slowly became quiet again as a yawn forced its way from my lips.
“Good night angel,” I called out before making my way up to the chambers. I changed into a simple shift and climbed into bed beside Jennie and promptly fell asleep once my head hit the down pillow.
Go b a c k | Turn P a g e | M.List
#bts#btsxreader#taehyung x reader#taehyungxreader#park jimin#kim seokjin#kim namjoon#min yoonji#jeon jungkook#music of the night#motn#kpopxreader#kpop x reader#namjoon#taehyung#seokjin#yoongi#jimin#jungkook#hoseok#RM#V#Jin#SUGA#Chimmy#kookie#Jhope#hobi
14 notes
·
View notes
Text
Queer Eye for the Opera Ghost
We just rewatched The Phantom of the Opera, and it looks like I’m doing this again.
Karamo: Okay, guys, special treat today: we are heading all the way to PARIS!
*all cheer*
Jonathan: OMG, I love France!
Tan: And I love you, too. *laughs at collective groan* But seriously, I am excited to visit the birthplace of the French tuck.
Antoni: I don’t know if you guys know this, but French food is good. Like, really good. Like, you hardly even need to add avocados to it, it’s so good.
Karamo: We’re going to be meeting Erik. He’s a composer, but he also has a background in architecture. In his spare time, he does free music tutoring for an orphan girl.
Jonathan: *high-pitched squeal of emotion*
Karamo: Erik was nominated by his friend, Madame Giry.
Madame Giry: Erik is brilliant. A genius, truly. But he doesn’t do well with people. He lacks confidence about his appearance, and I think he could stand to get out more. He wants to see his music performed, but I think the way he’s going about that – threats, kidnapping, and passive-aggressive notes – is not going to get him the results he’s hoping for.
Karamo: Okay, that is a lot. Also, did she furtively mutter something at the end there? Something that sounded weirdly like murder?
Tan: *flipping through papers* Apparently that was never proven? Might have been an accident?
Karamo: . . .
Karamo: Okay, right, so! At the end of the week, Erik’s opera is going to be performed. This is a longtime dream of his, so it’s a really big deal.
Jonathan: Ooh, yay Erik!
Bobby: *studying file* Um, am I reading this correctly? He lives in an opera house?
Tan: Oh, cool, like a converted opera house?
Karamo: Not exactly.
*Fab Five pull up in front of the Palais Garnier opera house*
Madame Giry: Hello! Thank you for coming! I will show you how to get to Erik’s . . . let us say, “apartment.”
Jonathan: Okay, this is a lot of, just, darkness? What’s happening there?
Bobby: *pulls out industrial flashlight* I got it. *shines flashlight around* Looks like the place has some good bones, although I am concerned about what looks like a pretty serious flooding situation down there.
Madame Giry: Keep going in this direction. Erik will meet you with the boat.
Tan: I’m sorry, the what?
Madame Giry: You may want to keep your hand at the level of your eyes. Just to be safe.
Karamo: What?
Madame Giry: I go no further! *rushes away*
*Erik glides over on a gondola lit with candles*
Erik: Honored guests! I had so hoped you would come.
Jonathan: Oh my gosh, look at you! All European and swoony with your boat and your candles! Who gave you permission?!
*Fab Five crowd onto gondola*
Karamo: You must be Erik! I’m Karamo. *bear hugs Erik*
Erik: *frozen*
Jonathan: Honey? You okay?
Erik: Was that . . . is that what it is to be hugged? *shakes it off* Ahem. This way. Welcome to my lair.
Tan: Did you just say “lair?”
Karamo: *looks into the camera with wide-eyed alarm*
Bobby: Yeah, that checks out. This is very lair-style architecture.
Antoni: Where’s your kitchen?
Jonathan: And your bathroom?
Tan: And your closet?
Karamo: The blank look you’re giving us tells me we have some work to do. All right, team, hands in!
DAY ONE: LIVING IN THE BASEMENT
Tan: I am loving the drama of your wardrobe. *to camera* Erik is a guy who knows that you don’t have to wait for a special occasion to wear a statement piece. Like that mask! That said, he could stand to shake things up a little bit, so we’re going to work on that.
Jonathan: Okay, you sexy subterranean music man, tell me about your skincare routine. You wear sunscreen, right?
Erik: I have literally never been outside during the day.
Jonathan: Hey, whatever floats your romantic little candlelit boat. No judgment. Can I touch your hair right now?
Erik: No.
Antoni: I can’t find any form of kitchen down here. Where do you keep your food?
Bobby: *to camera* This is tough. My instinct is to bring in a bunch of houseplants, but Erik’s home is very low on natural light. I’ll need to give this some thought.
Karamo: Okay, Erik, let’s talk about you. What brought you to where you are now?
Erik: A traveling circus that kept me in a cage.
Karamo: . . . I am going to have to sit with that for a minute, honestly.
Antoni: Still wondering about the apparent lack of food and food prep areas down here. Erik, you aren’t, like, living off rats, are you?
Bobby: And what’s over . . . oh, another secret passageway. That seems to be a real theme here. Big on secret passageways, not so big on adequate lighting.
Jonathan: *to camera* I think our new friend Erik might be a little self-conscious about his face, based on how he wears a mask all the time and had kind of a teeny-tiny rage-seizure when I asked if he would take it off? I want to help, but I can’t do that if he’s not going to let me see his gorgeous face!
Antoni: Taking another tack, Erik, if you DID eat rats, where would you be cooking them?
Karamo: I’m back. All right. So, let’s maybe start with something positive, Erik. What’s something about you that you’re proud of?
Erik: I am a musical genius.
Karamo: Love that confidence! Will you sing us something?
*Fab Five cheer and chant Erik’s name until Erik launches into “Music of the Night.” Everyone freezes and gapes at him until the last notes fade.*
Bobby: Oh
Tan: Oh my
Antoni: *weeping*
Karamo: Is . . . is there an orchestra down here? Did anyone else hear an entire orchestra start playing just now?
Erik: *to Jonathan* Why are you on my lap?
Jonathan: Shh. We’re dating now.
Karamo: Okay, we do have some issues to figure out here, but Erik also has immense talent and charisma when he sings, as well as possibly magical powers? Anyway, he’s clearly a diamond in the rough. So let’s get polishing!
*Fab Five dance break*
DAY TWO: OUI QUEEN
Tan: I love that you have a signature accessory. That’s great. Have you thought about playing around with color a little more?
Erik: You know, I do like red, but I worry that colors other than black would affect my ability to lurk unseen in the shadows.
Tan: Oh, do you do some behind-the-scenes stuff at the opera house? Where you have to work without people seeing you?
Erik: Exactly.
Tan: All right, I’ll see what I can do.
Karamo: Erik. I have in my hand some notes. Notes that I believe you delivered to various people working in the opera house. Is that right?
Erik: . . . Yes.
Karamo: Look, I applaud the attention to detail. Not a lot of people take the time to write notes anymore, let alone to make them rhyme.
Erik: Thank you. I feel like no one really appreciates the effort I put in.
Karamo: Oh, yeah, I see you, man, I see you. But I’ve gotta say, the tone these take is not making you sound your best. You’re coming off pushy, to be honest. Even threatening. Do you think that’s a good way to get what you want?
Erik: It’s worked pretty well so far.
Karamo: *deep inhale*
Bobby: How attached are you to this lake? Because I can tell you right now, your usable square footage goes up a lot if we drain it.
Antoni: Good news! There’s a marketplace just a short walk from here that has just incredible produce. And the cheese! *chef’s kiss* The bread!
Erik: I do not leave the opera house during the day.
Antoni: How firm a rule is that? Because –
Erik: I said no! *loud, angry organ chord plays from apparently nowhere*
Antoni: Gotcha. I will look into delivery options.
Karamo: Tell me about your pupil, Christine.
Erik: Christine is an exquisite singer, in large part due to my teaching. With my guidance, she will continue to improve until, through her, my brilliance dazzles the world.
Karamo: Is that arrangement working well for both of you?
Erik: . . . What do you mean?
Karamo: Just checking that you two have an appropriate teacher-student relationship built on mutual respect and honesty, working toward a clear common goal, all that good stuff.
Erik: . . . I just need her and everyone else to do what I say.
Karamo: Okay, pull up a chair, because we are going to sit down and have a TALK about this.
Bobby: Where do you get all these candles? Are you making them here? Do you have a massive standing order with a lighting store of some kind?
Tan: I’ve noticed that you like a cape. I approve; it’s a great silhouette. But you have to balance it by going skinny on the bottom. I got you these slim-fitting trousers. What do you think?
Erik: Ooh, look at my legs!
Tan: EXACTLY.
Antoni: *to camera* When it comes to putting food on the table, it’s important to meet people where they are. Luckily, where Erik is happens to be freaking Paris, and he has a generous salary. So I’m just helping him set up some regular delivery orders with local food vendors, and we’re going to assemble a cheeseboard. Yum! It’s also a good no-cooking option, since I have yet to locate any form of kitchen.
Karamo: Do you want to talk about your family?
Erik: I never experienced any kind of affection through my entire childhood. My own parents fled from my horrible disfigured face.
Jonathan: *shouting from another area of the lair* Hey! Do NOT talk about my foxy new boyfriend that way!
Karamo: Hey, look at me, Erik: your parents failed you, okay? You didn’t fail them. You were just a kid. You deserved love, and they didn’t come through for you. That wasn’t your fault.
Erik: *tears up*
Karamo: You want a hug? Bring it in.
*They hug, and soft music plays spontaneously in the background*
Karamo: That’s better, right? Yeah. Now, this is just my own curiosity, but: does ANYBODY here actually speak French?
Antoni: *shouting from across the lair* Oh, I do! Me, me!
Erik: *shrugs*
Jonathan: Okay, you outrageously talented dreamboat, this is it. This is the moment. I don’t know what you’re hiding under that mask, but I am here to help you. Are you going to let me help you?
Erik: *looks away, conflicted*
Jonathan: Take your time. I will sit here and keep complimenting you for as long as it takes.
Erik: You don’t want to see my face.
Jonathan: Would it help if we cuddled? You can be whichever spoon you want.
Erik: It’s hideous.
Jonathan: La la la, I can’t hear you over the sound of how smart and talented you are and how much you deserve to love yourself, la la la!
Erik: Fine! *whips off mask* *crashing organ chords* Is THIS what you wanted to see?
Jonathan: Okay that was a very aggressive reveal, but good job! Progress! Proud of you! *claps* Yay!
Erik: *stares*
Jonathan: All right, sweetie, come over to the mirror and let’s talk options.
DAY THREE: THAT O.G. SWAGGER
Antoni: Time to build that cheese board! Remember what I said about picking out cheeses?
Erik: A balance of mild, medium, and strong.
Antoni: That’s my boy! Okay, go with Jonathan and get your makeover on.
*Jonathan takes Erik upstairs to the backstage area of the opera house to do makeup*
Jonathan: Makeover time! Are you excited?
Erik: Yes! All the many problems in my life have been caused entirely by my horrifying face. It alone stands between me and triumph, success, and all the joys of the world.
Jonathan: Haha, so no pressure, right? *to camera* Corrective surgery doesn’t seem to be feasible for Erik, but it’s important to him that nobody see the way this side of his face naturally looks. Fortunately, his theatrical background has made him super comfortable with makeup! So we are gonna start with a nice moisturizing base, and then we are going to get out our makeup kit and go. To. Town.
*Jonathan and Erik go back downstairs. Erik dramatically whips off his mask, and everyone exclaims over how great he looks.*
Erik: I’m just so excited that I’ll be able to interact with people without them either screaming in horror or staring at my mask.
Jonathan: They’ll be staring, but only because of how totally fabulous you look!
Bobby: Ready to see the lair?
*They all tour the lair*
Bobby: You have a strong theme here with candles and mirrors and secret passages. What you didn’t have was a lot of practical everyday spaces.
Antoni: LIKE A KITCHEN.
Bobby: That’s right. So now you have a kitchen and dining area, and also a bathroom.
Erik: Oh, that will be nice.
Tan: Please do not tell me what you were doing when you didn’t have a bathroom. I don’t want to know.
Antoni: Now let’s go check out that brand-new kitchen and your delicious cheeseboard!
Karamo: That looks great! You know, you could bring one of these to your next lesson with Christine. I think she’d be very impressed.
Tan: Everyone ready to see some outfits?
*Fab Five cuddle up on the new sectional sofa*
Tan: This first look is an update of Erik’s professional wardrobe. He typically wears black to avoid drawing attention to himself backstage, so I stuck with that, but look at the lining of the cape.
*Erik flashes the inside of his cape, which is red. Everyone is delighted.*
Tan: Dramatic, yeah?
Jonathan: Oh my gosh, you’re like a sexy Dracula!
Tan: Look number two is eveningwear. Apparently masquerade parties are big around here, so Erik needs a costume for that. He wanted something powerful and edgy. And you all know how I love a print . . .
*Erik sashays out in a leopard costume with mask as organ music plays in the background*
Jonathan: Rawr!
Tan: This last look is what Erik plans to wear to the performance of his opera. Introducing . . . Don Juan!
*All squeal and cheer*
Jonathan: Love it! But why is it covering his gorgeous face?
Tan: *shrugs* Part of the opera, apparently.
*Erik joins them on the sofa*
Erik: All these years, I thought that success was about making the world see my genius. Now, I realize that it’s okay if the whole world doesn’t love me. I can love me.
Karamo: I’m so proud of you, man.
Erik: I wrote you these thank-you notes.
Jonathan: Aww!
*Antoni tears up*
Tan: *reading* This is . . . kind of an ominous and mildly threatening note?
Karamo: Still an improvement, honestly.
*all hug*
Antoni: Your opera is going to be amazing!
Jonathan: It totally is! My pookie is going to absolutely SLAY!
27 notes
·
View notes
Text
Toward the Sun
Summary: A music teacher in a wealthy household starts taking tea with the families eldest son after he returns from college. Unfortunately for Mathias plants start sprouting out of his skin at the sight of the young lord and there’s not enough places to hide, burn, and banish the sprouts to hide his feelings.
Short story loosely based off of @stutterhug art here
≿————- ❈ ————-≾
There was once a young man who taught music in the grand house at the border between the Druid Hinterlands and the humans domain.
The family was the wealthiest in the county and the matriarch was certain her family was bound for ascendancy. She sent her son to the college with the largest trophy case and whispered in the night to her daughter about opera houses and theaters and stadiums come to hear her sing.
Mathias arrived and summoned all of his knowledge of their world to bow at the youngest daughter. She sniffed loudly and waved him closer, ‘you better be good.’ The little lady Rachel said back with the authority of a matador to a bull.
Mathias only grinned and took her hand, ‘I will teach you everything I know.’ She only hummed deeply and pointed to the music room.
‘Show me.’
Mathias taught archaic choir songs in dead languages and operatic melodies with notes with no end and sheet music with high tremors and low valleys day in and day out. And for once, he thought he was safe.
But one day the eldest son returned from college to help his ailing father with the estate and he stopped to watch Mathias in the music room. And it was over.
He smiled at him as they finished and asked with a clever tone: ‘tell me, what is your favorite piece, young tutor?’
Mathias blinked several times and tried not to look at the young lord directly in the face, ‘anything by Tchaikovsky, my lord.’
He chuckled and stepped into the room, ‘good answer.’ He nodded and gestured toward the door, ‘once you’re done with my sister, would you want to take tea with me? I’m afraid I don’t know the new staff as well as I would like.’
Mathias nodded and tore his gaze away from the eldest sons golden eyes and the dent in his brow that rivaled ocean trenches. Mathias ignored the faint-headed stir in his chest. ‘I’ll see you there.’
He was officially Jack the Second or the Younger Jack, but everyone called him Jackie-boy and swore on their hearts he would do right by the tenants and staff and anyone he married. He was his mother’s golden sun and his father’s road map to the family’s future.
Mathias tread carefully- or at least, he tried to.
They took tea and it started slowly like drops of paint into clear water until it was all reds and blues and yellows so bright it hurt the eye.
They joked about other composers in the county who made their money making ballads for the king with ear-piercing cannons in the background for his ‘glory.’ They joked about the old housekeeper who swore at anyone who wasn’t directly paying her.
And Mathias laughed and pushed his thick hair back and then he worried.
That night a small sprout tentatively budded from the place on his chest. Mathias woke in a cold sweat the next morning and took a pair of skewers to it’s small head and tossed it into the cold box near the door.
He took tea with the Younger Jack that day too and they talked about the politics of the Druid Wars and the value of a quiet afternoon by the fire and favorite smells and childhood foolishness and everything else in between. By the time they had finished it was almost dinner and Jack plucked something from his pocket as the sun hit the horizon. ‘I almost forgot. Here,’ he cupped his hands. ‘I had them pick it up from the marketplace when I saw it.’
Mathias sat there without a single word left to his name. It was a silver music box that played The Sleeping Beauty Waltz from the ballet and a spinning little red rose sat in the center on a pedestal.
Mathias could only wipe his palms down on his breeches and smile, ‘thank you.’
He barely escaped the room before the head of a sunflower sprouted from his wrist. He tore it out with his hands and threw it out into the duck pond for the animals to devour.
Later, he closed his eyes and dreamt of songs and ballet and music he had never heard of before that night.
Mathias spent his days in a sweet daydream and a wild panic. He chopped and he cut and tore and wore too many layers in the summer to suppress the roses and dandelions and cherry blossoms that sprouted from his shins and rib cage and fingertips.
He was buttoned up all the way to the throat one morning when Rachel turned to him and glowered, ‘Another family came by to present their daughter to Jack.’ She said factually and gave Mathias a calculating look through her violet eyes.
Mathias smiled mildly, ‘did they get on?’ He lifted a hand from the sheet music, ‘was she lovely?’
‘She was lovely,’ Rachel nodded, ‘but brother turned her away.’
‘Oh,’ Mathias gulped. ‘Another one? What a shame.’
‘Tch,’ Rachel shook her thick curls. ‘He’s not going to wait forever.’
‘I’m sure a nice young lady will catch his eye.’ Mathias said with a dull muddy taste in his mouth and a sobering thud in his head. He was sure the bloom behind his ear from that morning was wilting. Good.
‘I suppose,’ Raechel said with a devilish grin. ‘But that would take for his eyes to be looking at them in the first place,’ She lifted her small proud chin up, ‘he won’t wait forever, teacher.’
Mathias sighed, ‘let’s do your basic scales from the top, Rachel.’
‘What?’ She groaned, ‘I was just pointing out the obvious! He lik-’
‘From the top!’
They did doreimei for ten minutes and Jack glanced curiously between the two of them when he came in to invite Mathias for tea that day.
He likes you.
Mathias could barely look at Jack that afternoon.
‘Mathias,’ Jack waved a hand in front of his nose once the biscuits and drinks had been devoured. ‘You seem distracted. Did Rachel say something? She looked terse this morning too.’
Mathias drew back, ‘it’s nothing.’ He said quickly and tried to stand up before the morning glory behind his ear burst into a weaving vine. ‘I’m sure it’s only a passing thing.’
Jack’s golden eyes alighted over him. ‘She’s getting quite good.’
Mathias grinned softly. ‘She might fill theaters yet.’
Jack nodded slowly. ‘Will you stay for that?’
‘As long as you’ll have me,’ Mathias blurted out before he could stop himself. ‘As long as I’m needed really.’
Jack smiled with his shiny straight teeth and self-confident air, ‘good.’ He reached out and pushed a strand of his hair back from Mathias’s face. ‘Because you must know,’ he breathed softly, ‘I do enjoy your music.’
Mathias’s heart squeezed like a juiced lemon and he took a step back from his touch. ‘Of course… my lord.’
And then he ran.
-------------------
That night Mathias smothered every thought in his head and every excited pulse in his chest from his traitorous heart. He tossed and turned and even opened a bag and put two socks and brown riding pants in it.
At midnight he was still staring at the ceiling and the words haunted him with the bloody vengeance of a restless ghost: Will you stay...
A sprout budded on his collarbone and spread outward like flood water over flat plains. It was the biggest yet- reaching toward the ceiling with mad fury. ‘No!’ He tried to yank it out by the stem but it was rooted deep and refused to budge, ‘don’t!’
He ran through the enormous house: up and down the grand stairs, through the long dining halls, and kitchen pantries, along the garden paths and through the foyers. He ran until he found himself collapsed in the central parlor sitting room in front of the fireplace. He fumbled for the wood pieces in the corner and the flint.
It took several attempts but eventually he watched the kindling spark and blew on it until it roared to spitting life. ‘Enough of this,’ he whispered to himself and grabbed the sprout at the stem. ‘It can never be. He is a nobleman... and you are a crooked druid.’
He gasped as he tore out the plant roots and all and threw the soft multicolored wildflowers into the hungry red embers. It burst to light and Mathias exhaled. ‘No more.’
He watched it burn and then buried everything else left inside him among the ash. Nothing could be left.
Mathias wondered back to his room in a daze and crumpled listlessly into bed. He dreamed of golden light and whispering dark nights.
Mathias woke up the next morning to a high-pitched scream, ‘bloody hell!’ Erupted Housekeeper Jane and another shout came. ‘What is that?’
Mathias burst fully awake as hurried footsteps squeaked in the hallway outside and he threw his blankets off and bolted outside in his nightwear. He stopped a passing kitchen boy as the halls were alive with bodies and confused murmurs.
‘What is it?’ He asked groggily.
‘It’s the house!’ The boy called over his shoulder. ‘Go see for yourself.’
Mathias rubbed his eyes until he saw spots and then heard a distinct sound: music. It flowed and gasped and played in ethereal trumpets and chimes and twittering voices- strange and unnatural melodies that could only be from one thing.
He was running before he knew it; Mathias tore outside on clumsy feet and skidded to a stop on the great lawn. His mouth fell open as he got a better look at the house: branches snaked out the windows and roots bursting from the ground and a glorious trunk grew directly from the central chimney.
The tree had soft pink feathery leaves, maroon bark, and grew unlike any other human plant. It molded itself into a playful unmistakable shape: upward, out, and softly inward in a delicate arch. The tree grew straight from the central chimney and formed a heart at the very top.
A towering pink heart that could be seen from leagues around.
‘No,’ Mathias fell to his knees. ‘Oh Freyja, no.’
In the branches were dark blue birds with stars in their wings, magnificent crests that were half their size, and long trailing tail feathers. Enchanted nightingales that must have been attracted by the sweet pink Lover’s Tree.
It was worse than he thought.
They sang one song and one alone: The Sleeping Beauty Waltz over and over again. Their voices boomed and filled the air with a lovely and chiming twittering that misted and settled over the land.
Mathias buried his face in his hands and the servants and people of the house all gaped at the display.
‘Evil!’ Someone shouted shrilly. ‘Druid magic, evil as the day.’
Mathias drooped and put his hands up. He had to leave now.
He turned toward the nearest maid and tugged on her skirt, ‘Jane?’ He asked quietly, ‘tell Jack… I’m sorry.’
‘Tell him your bloody self.’
Mathias turned around just as Jack rounded the house. His eyes glowed sunshine bright in the light and his expression was discerning and open.
‘No,’ Mathias scrambled to his feet and turned to run. A hand caught him by the wrist just in time.
‘Don’t.’ Jack said softly and spun him around. ‘I know.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Mathias said emptily and looked down at his shoes with his throat thick with emotion. ‘I should have told your family… what I was.’
Jack shook his head, ‘they knew. My mother bragged about it at all her private lunches. A druid as a music teacher.’ He huffed a laugh.
‘Oh,’ Mathias wilted. ‘It wasn’t,’ he stammered and face flushed red and the music swelled louder from the enchanted nightingales. ‘It wasn’t supposed to grow like that.’
Jack craned his neck back and stared up at the red tree grown into a perfect heart out of their house. He snorted gently, ‘And here I thought I was the one that was going to have to say something.’
‘Excuse me?’
Jack drew closer and closer. ‘It’s a lovely tree.’
Mathias found it in himself to flush a darker red, ‘we have to cut it down. It can’t be… Can it?’
Jack shrugged, ‘I’m a young lord. What if I want it?’
Mathias’s eyes went wide, ‘there may be no end to your troubles then, sir.’
‘Please,’ he took his hand and drew it up to his face. ‘Call me Jack.’ He kissed the soft of his knuckles and Mathias fell into him.
‘Okay.’He swept him closer, Mathias wrapped his arms around his neck, ‘Jack.’
The birds hit a high note in a silver sweeping cry that sent a ripple across the land and watching clouds above. Mathias closed his eyes and the roots took a deep and warm grip over his heart and he tilted his head back. The kiss spread bright and soft across his mouth.
And the tree reached the sun.
--------------------
if you enjoyed the story please consider donating to my ko-fi, supporting me on patreon (even a dollar helps!) or subscribing to my website
100 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
antiquarked
Anti
glassesedsophie-blog
From The Ninth Floor
carolusthegreat
Chaos & Shitposting
msrhaxoz
G1gg1L3s
wesleyferreira
Wesley Ferreira Contabilidade