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thegayoftheopera · 2 years

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Roses Are Red - Erik Destler (The Phantom) X Female Reader

Title: Roses Are Red

Erik Destler (The Phantom) X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Christine, Madame Giry (Mentioned), Meg (Mentioned), Reader's father (Mentioned)

Requested

WC: 1,628

Warnings: The reader has a father, the reader wears a dress, insecurities, and slight family angst, and that's about it

The beautiful fabric felt heavy in your hands. The soft cotton and lace in such unique designs, it was your best work yet. You had spent months on this dress, working long hours after everyone was asleep to complete it before Christine's big night. You'd always been good with a needle and thread but you hadn't ever made an extravagant gown before. Stopping at Christine's dressing room door, you stared down at the dress. Christine was so lucky, getting to do what she had dreamed of doing since she was little, getting to be a star. You only wished that one day you could be like her.

Stepping into Christine's dressing room, you were immediately greeted by the rising singer. She quickly turned around, eyes widening as a gasp left her lips. "Is that it?" She asked, breathlessly.

"Is that the dress?" She repeated as you handed it over to her.

Christine took in a deep breath before taking it in her arms. "Yes!" She cried out happily. "It's perfect!"

You smiled. "I'm glad you like it."

She ran her hands along the material, running them across the delicate lace and soft fabric. "This is so beautiful! I've never seen anything like it."

You smiled sheepishly, "Well, it is a one-of-a-kind dress. Made for you." You joked lightly and Christine nodded with a huge smile.

"You are amazing, Y/N." She said, brushing her hand against your cotton sleeve. "Thank you."

"No problem." You replied with a nervous chuckle.

You helped with the corset and strings as she brushed down the many layers of the dress's skirt. You both worked in silence, enjoying each other's company while getting ready for the biggest performance of her life. When you finished with the last bit of laces, you stepped back to look at the final product. It was beautiful on her, and you were glad you finished it in time.

After finishing up her hair and make-up, Christine was ushered out of the dressing room and backstage. You stood in her dressing room for a moment, sighing as you clasped your hands and bowed your head. You would usually stand on the side of the stage, watching most of the show, and you knew it would be the right thing to do; supporting your friend. But, at that moment, you wanted to be alone.

Heading up the stairs to the dancer's shared bedroom, you headed to the back of the room, where a wooden door stood. Grabbing your key from your skirt pocket, you unlocked the door and headed inside, climbing a smaller set of stairs before arriving at your small room. This was your special place. A place where you could go to feel safe and relaxed. You carefully shut the second door behind you and locked it with the key, before sliding the bolt closed. Lighting a candle and hanging up the lamp, you walked over to your desk and grabbed your violin.

Picking it up, you ran your fingers against the ebony wood and sighed once more. It was your father who also was a violinist like Christine's father. He was long gone by now, leaving you alone to care for my Meg's mother, Madame Giry. While Christine now had a grand room to sleep in, and Meg slept in the room with the other dancers, you had your small room. And that is all you could ever hope for. Closing your eyes, you began to play softly, humming along with the melody. As you continued playing, you noticed your fingers were beginning to ache, but you didn't stop or slow down. You continued to play your deathly beautiful tune, feeling the song flow through your body.

You slowly opened your eyes again, your chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. Setting down the violin, you dragged your heavy feet to your bed, falling down onto the scruffy quilts, you shut your eyes and fell asleep.

~~~

You didn't know how much time had passed, but you quickly opened your eyes and sat up in your bed when you heard footsteps at your door. One of the perks of being a light sleeper. You just hoped it wasn't that creepy man who wandered the dancer's room while they were away. Staring at the door, you waited, quietly, watching, only to furrow your eyebrows when a small letter slid under your door. Getting up, you walked over, picking up the letter. It was a soft creme color, with a dark red wax seal, imprinted with a skull. Ominous, yet beautiful. Unlatching your door, you quickly swung it open, only to find no one there. Narrowing your eyes, you hesitantly shut the door again, locking it, before sitting on your bed; the letter in your hands.

Sliding your finger under the envelope's seal, slowly breaking the wax and freeing the letter from it. Setting the envelope on your bed, you unfolded the letter, immediately impressed by the writer's handwriting.

"My dear, you played beautifully. Your talent is something that should be cherished, not hidden. I would love to hear more. - O.G."

Your eyes widened as you stared at those two simple letters. The Opera Ghost had written to you. Complimenting you, wanting to hear you play again. A thrill ran through your stomach. You hadn't expected someone like him to notice you, he was the one who indeed got Christine her role. Flipping the letter, you were surprised to find more writing.

"Meet me in Christine's dressing room."

Your eyes couldn't have widened anymore. Christine's dressing room? Why? Why would he want to meet there? What does he want? Shaking your head, you closed the letter and stood, tucking the letter back into its envelope. Whatever it was, you were too curious to not go. That was your one flaw, you were so intrigued by the Opera Ghost, not even Meg's ghost stories could change your views.

You hurried downstairs, making sure to lock your door behind you before heading downstairs. You paused outside Christine's dressing room, listening for voices, of which you heard none. Stepping inside, you froze. There was no one there. Was this a joke? You figured he would at least be waiting for you, but instead, it was completely empty. Slowly turning around, you found yourself face to face with the Opera Ghost. Hidden behind the large mirror, half of his face was covered with a white mask, cloaked in all black.

He raised his hand out towards you as the glass moved to the side. He held his hand out to you as his light blue eyes silently begged you to take it. Taking a step forward, you hesitantly reached for his outstretched hand. His gloved hand was cool and smooth as he pulled you closer, reaching around to pull you closer as well. You shivered as he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you close to himself. Looking down at you he whispered,

"Please don't be afraid, Y/N."

You couldn't look away from his eyes; the perfectly blue hues staring right back down at you. "You know my name?" You asked, voice soft, breathless even.

He chuckled, nodding his head. "I do."

"But why?" You questioned as he cupped your cheek.

His smile was blinding, piercing you with its beauty. "I have heard you play long before tonight. Almost every night you play to the ghosts of the opera house. And I've been watching you ever since then." His voice was so low, like silk against your skin.

"Why me? Why am I the one that you've shown your face to?" You asked, unable to look into his eyes, casting your gaze on his black shoes.

The Phantom gently cupped your chin, lifting your face to meet his eyes. "Because I can see you as clearly as if you were standing in front of me. I know how hard you have worked to get where you are today. From being left behind, to finding a place here. And I know you will continue to work hard. That is why I chose you."

You felt his warm breath against your neck as he spoke. "What do you mean?" You asked, tilting your head to the side slightly.

"I want you to audition for my next production." He said simply, "I want you to play my song. The one I wrote especially for you."

You blinked rapidly, trying to process what he'd just told you. "What?" You asked, unsure that you heard him correctly.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, letting his lips linger there before he finally released you. "I'm sorry," he murmured, "I forgot myself. I'm going to take my leave, but please, think it over, my darling." He spoke, pressing a leather folder into your hands.

And, within a blink of an eye, he was gone. You stared into the dark hallway, before exiting the mirror passageway. The mirror slid behind you as you stared at the leather folder in your hands. Unclasping the leather clasp, you flipped it open, eyes scanning the notes on the lines. You began to hum along to the song as you slowly left Christine's dressing room, closing the door behind you.

Christine ran down the hall, holding the skirt of the dress in her hands. "Y/N! Did you hear- what's that?" She asked, noticing the leather folder in your hands.

You looked up at her and back down to the music sheets, closing it shut, "It's... Nothing... I have to go... Congratulations on your big night, Christine." You spoke hastily, before stumbling past her as she frowned, having recognized the leather folder in your hands. She was worried about you, and what the Phantom was planning.

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thegayoftheopera · 2 years

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Mine (Michel Myers x AFAB!Reader)

summary: before Michael was ever ‘The Shape’ of Haddonfield, he was just a boy. he was a boy in love with the girl across the road, his sister’s best friend— the only girl to show him kindness, love and warmth. you.

Basically, Michael falls in love with his sister’s best friend at 6, who sometimes played emergency babysitter especially when Judith was fooling around with her bf. He clings to those memories growing up in the asylum until the day he breaks out, where he decides the first thing he wants to do is find you and keep you, your sunshine only for him. Reader is super girly and feminine, which just fuels michael’s possessiveness.

cw: gore, violence, kidnapping, obsession, manhandling, possessiveness

Michael remembers the first time he saw you in perfect, vivid detail.

When things get bad at the asylum, he closes his eyes and remembers, and sometimes it feels like he’s really there all over again. It’s like he’s four all over again, sitting on the sofa with the TV turned on, squashed between Mom and Dad. They still loved him, then. They act differently now, so remembering is like remembering different people.

But everything was different.

He remembers the door swinging open so roughly, it smacked the wall with a bang. In strolled Judith, and after, you. And he couldn’t stop looking at you.

“Judith! I swear to-”

You, frowning at something Judith was saying, quickly schooling your expression when you noticed Michael and his parents. An uneasy smile settled over your face as you turned to his sister and glared that little bit. You looked so fierce. He’d wondered what you were warning her about with that look, because Judith had passed you a smile so smug back. A smile that said trouble of all sorts of alarming degrees, but that was Judith. And that trouble would later become Danny.

This is where Michael started to get a little distracted. It all starts to come back when he remembers-

Back to you.

You were so angelic back then. His parents had loved you. Judith, while often mistreating you and taking your kindness for granted, was protective of you for as much as her selfishness would allow. That wasn’t much. It wasn’t long until Danny burst into the picture and whenever you were available and their parents weren’t, he was kicked out into your house. But that wasn’t so bad. He liked your house.

And he liked you. Loved you.

Not in the way he loved his mom and dad, or the way he loved Judith, even if he was sometimes so mad at her he thought he hated her. But loved you. There were no words to describe it.

Anyway, the first time you came to his rescue he’d been sitting on that same sofa. Judith had told him to stay down there as she wondered upstairs with Danny. He didn’t like Danny. He dragged her upstairs and weird noises started punctuating the silence, and they sounded like they hurt, but the door was locked when he checked. And Judith had screamed at him to leave, so he had, and reassumed his spot on the sofa all over again.

You walked into the house a moment later. You must’ve heard her yelling.

The walls were thin.

“Hey, Mikey.” You knelt down in front of him. “Why don’t you hang out with me for a little bit?”

“Why?”

“It can’t be all that fun sitting down here all by yourself. Judy is having her own fun.” You casted a sharp glare at the ceiling. It creaked with movement in response. “Why don’t you come to mine? I still have all my toys from when I was a kid. I’ll let you play with them, or we can play together, if you want.”

He didn’t like toys too much. But he liked you.

So he let you take him by the hand and lead him out the door. Your hand was warm. So soft. It was all he could think about. He didn’t even process it until he was sitting on your pink bed, the fluffy pink duvet pillowing his sides. Everything was pink. Your walls. Your furniture. The toys you were talking about, which ended up being in a pink box you dragged out from under the bed and showed him. He was interested in them for about two seconds until he saw you approach your vanity and start poking and prodding at your face with those little tools.

You were pretty. So pretty.

And Michael was mesmerised.

When he thinks about it now, he realises that you were supposed to go out. You were all dolled up and prettier than usual, so pretty that it was almost dangerous. A hazard to other boys. Boys like Danny, maybe? No. No no no. You picked up your phone a minute later and dialed a number.

“Sorry, but we’ll have to reschedule! I know, I know. I’m sorry. Things came up. But I’m hanging out with my most favourite person in the world.” You winked. “Hm? Oh, don’t worry about that. But call me when you’re free next time, okay?”

Those words had meant nothing. All he’d heard was that he was your ‘favourite person in the world’, and he’d fixated on them, obsessed over them, replaying them over and over again until he was a hot, blushing mess. But all he could do was blush. He was your favourite person? You were his favourite person, too!

He ended up returning home when Danny left.

He ended up going back to your’s every time he came back. He didn’t care. He was delighted. You would watch movies with him and eat ice cream and cuddle under a blanket. He liked the last part best. Sometimes, he would pretend he was asleep just so you would let him lie there, close to your breast with his head tucked under your chin, your hands stroking through his hair.

“Mikey?”

“Mmh?”

“Nevermind, go to sleep. Long day, hm?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course. Life must be so stressful,” you would tease.

Michael would just play along with a very high-pitched, whiny, “yeah, I’m so tired.”

Each and every time, you would cancel all your plans to be with him. He could tell you were getting sick of it. He really, really hoped you weren’t sick of him.

Because he really liked your cuddles.

But all good things came to an end, didn’t they? Of course they did. Your mom just had to take you on a holiday and leave him all alone with Judith, who was just going to do what she would’ve done the first time. Ignore him. Choose Danny over him. And she did.

Well, then she died. Or he killed her. Same thing.

Then he went to Smith’s Grove. He didn’t really feel anything towards it. Not good, not bad. It was alright. It just was. The only time he ever missed home was at night when it got cold, and all he could think of was how much he missed being cuddled up in your arms. How warm you were. How soft you were when he leaned his head against you, the perfect pillow. He missed you so much.

He would think about you all the time.

As the years passed, he would think about how you changed. If you grew up at all. What you looked like now. If you would still love him like you did when he was a kid, before everything happened. Of course you would, wouldn’t you? He was your most favourite person in the world.

Right?

As he grew older, those thoughts descended into uglier ones. Not once did he think of killing you, so no, no that type of ugly. But ugly in ways that sapped at the last of his shame, his sanity, what was left of his fractured humanity. He was sixteen when he first wondered if you would like doing with him what Judith used to do with her boyfriend. He was sixteen when he first touched himself to the thought of you, his movements clumsy and inexperienced. Grinding his hips into the bed when you possessed his dreams, palming himself desperately when he was reminded of you at random, inopportune times. Who cared who watched? Who cared who saw?

All he wanted was you.

According to everyone else, he was incapable of emotion, let alone sexual desire. Those were two things he knew that nobody would dare to associate with him. And they weren’t wrong. He wasn’t capable of emotion. He wasn’t capable of sexual desire. That was on a general basis, anyway.

But you weren’t everyone else. You were you.

And he wanted you.

But that was the thing. As he aged, he was beginning to realise that if he really wanted something, he could have it. It was all so easy.

And he would have you.

Haddonfield is… Well. It has memories.

Maybe it isn’t your wisest idea to move back, after all that happened. Losing your best friend. The little boy you used to babysit sometimes turning out to be the culprit behind her sudden death. Sometimes you blamed yourself for it.

The police had said it’d been coming. He probably felt neglected. Lonely.

If you hadn’t gone with your mom on that holiday…

Ugh. Ew.

You hate having sombre thoughts like that. Does it help you’re cleaning out your mom’s place after she passed? No, it really doesn’t. But nobody else was going to do it. Fuckers. And they had the audacity to say that they loved her, cared for her, appreciated her. Seemed there’s no reason to keep up the pretences now that she’s not around to check up on it. While they may be in the mourning phases, it really isn’t an excuse. So are you.

Yet here you are.

The neighbourhood is basically deserted. It makes for eery quiet as you meander about, boxing up your mom’s old stuff and scouring through the little nooks and crannies where she liked to hide things. Sometimes it feels like you’re breathing too hard. Moving too loudly. Everything feels like too much. Maybe you’d cry if you had the energy to.

Now, this place is… It just is. And it isn’t. You realise maybe you’re the only one who came in not because you’re the least cowardly, but the most brave.

Because this is not just the place your mum died. Not just the neighbourhood where once upon a time, a little boy committed his first act of insanity. It’s the place where just a few months ago, Michael Myers was taken back to the Sanitarium after a Halloween spree. There was no telling when he’d come back. It all seems so random, the motivation too vague to pick out, his acts too gruesome to discuss. As someone who knew him, it’s nothing short of a bad idea to be around. But it’s for your mom.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

You were in the bar when the crowd silenced, and the news boomed into the room with chilling fervor.

‘Breaking news, clinically insane serial killer Michael Myers, nicknamed ‘The Shape of Haddonfield’, has escaped for the second time from Smith’s Grove Sanitarium. Five found dead and severely mutilated. While his predicted path is unclear, residents of Haddonfield are warned to be cautious and call the authorities immediately if any suspicious behaviour is seen. Police will be on high alert. Stay safe.’

You knew in that moment that you were so, so fucked. Somehow you also decided that would have been the best moment to drink yourself stupid, hook up with some other blackout drunk fellow, and pretend none of that happened.

It’s been a week since the announcement. Police have been patrolling the streets. More than once you’ve received a few knocks on the door, asking if you’ve seen or heard anything. Those come around almost everyday, since you live right across where he used to. Every time, you say the same thing.

‘No. I’m just here for my mom. I’ll be out soon enough.’

You’re lying. You’re lying through your teeth.

Logically, you know you should leave. He’ll come back for Haddonfield. You know it. Everyone knows it. There’s no reason for him not to.

And he’ll come back for that house. The one across yours.

He might even come back for you.

But winning over your logic side is the stupid part of you that denies it. That still can’t believe that little boy became that horrid man, when just days before he killed Judith he was sleeping against your chest watching cartoons on the TV. Putting makeup on his face because he wanted to do what you were doing. Watching you doll yourself up each and every time with red-faced admiration. He’d been so innocent.

It’s just… It’s inconceivable that he became whatever he is. A monster. A nightmare. Something of both.

So maybe it isn’t really denial that he’s coming. More so denial that he won’t touch you.

And it’s so arrogant, and it’s so selfish, because you’ve seen his picture on the TV and he’s nothing short of terrifying.

It’s your arrogance and selfishness that you cling to when you hear the floorboards creak behind you.

—

GUYS I POSTED THIS LITERALLY FIVE MINUTES AGO, LIKE DUDE OKAY OKAY PART 2 COMING SOON

since it’s a side blog i can’t reply to ur notes, if you drop your name in tho i can tag you for when pt 2 is out! (either that or follow hehehehehee)

BUT Y’ALL OMFG-

also pls reblog! It really helps boost my post!

:)))) <3

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