#blossoms justjams2003

[justjams2003]

Blossoms- 14

Pairing: Erik Destler x OFC (Mariposa Claremont)

Summary: A young author travels away from her family to The Opera she has heard so much about. She is lost and confused and yet still seems to get a job there as a cleaner. Yet when she meets a mysterious man there, everything changes. Her mind is entirely consumed, but will she allow her burning need for him to consume her life as well?

Warnings: Teasing, singing (it is a PotO fanfic so that is to be expected...), mentions of the death of a grandparent, parent issues, talk of patriarchy, alcohol. Tell me if I miss any

Word count: 2,1k

Masterlist

Part 13~Part 14(coming soon)

Dividers: @yaynowimglad @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

Tags: @rclector @jordanmunson3 @ann-vic-9 @ssssssws-world @gryffin-whore

“Mariposa Claremont.” Before I can utter another word, I can see the recognition in his eyes. His face forms into this wide grin, that seems like he could get away with anything. “No way, Claremont?” He chuckles and then takes a big sip of his bear. The foam clings to his top lip and he licks it off, then he hums. Then he holds out his hand for me to shake.  

“Elliott O'Murphy.” My eyes go wide and if my cheeks weren’t already pink from the cold, they are now. “My parents have been like trying to marry you to my older brother for like, forever.” He laughs and shakes his head. I sigh and roll my eyes, just my luck to meet the man I’ve been trying to avoid’s brother. “Please tell me you’re not as obnoxious as he is.” I say, scratching my scalp as I cringe.  

Again he laughs, “Trust me, I feel about him the same as you do. He’s been fed with a silver spoon all his life and he believes the sun shines out of his ass.” He places his hand over his chest to show his sincerity. “And you don’t?” I ask, raising a brow and placing my hands on the pint of beer.  

“Let’s just say I prefer to avoid saying my last name.” I smile at that comment since I relate so much. I then take a sip of the beer. It burns down my throat and leaves a sour taste in my mouth. “Eww, who drinks this?” I say, coughing and sticking out my tongue. He lets out a boisterous laugh which makes that an embarrassed smile slowly creeps onto my face.  

“You’ve never had beer before?” He says, his eyes wide in shock. “No! I don’t usually go into the areas of town where beer is drunk, like this place...” I say, looking around at this dirty pub. Drunkards play dice and a bard sings terribly off tune and people can’t help but glare at him.  

“Ohh, okay, I see, so you’re like Carson. You two fit together perfectly! Too pompous for the peasants of France.” He says dramatically, and I can’t help but gasp and shake my head. “No, nothing like that! It’s just, I’m a lady and don’t take part in such activities as drinking myself stupid.” I say, then directly after taking a sip of my beer, trying to get used to the sour yeast taste.  

He too raises his brow, “Ladies also don’t usually cry in piles of trash at night in the rain.” I just huff at his response, knowing he’s right. After all, my stupid unladylike acts are what got me in this situation in the first place. “How exactly did you end up, you know, crying on a pile of trash?”  

I sigh and lean my head against my hand. “Well, I work at the opera house, chasing the dream!” I say, lifting my beer as if to celebrate what people rarely have the guts to do. “And uh, let’s just say that I really need to learn how to keep my big mouth shut. So I’ve basically kicked myself out of the only place I had to live...”  

We both take a sip from our beer. “Why not go home?” He ask with a shrug and I scoff. “That is exactly what I can’t do! I can’t let my parents know that I basically failed on what I set out to do. That’ll really go to their head and before I know it, I’ll be birthing your nephews.” I pout taking another sip. “Oh yeah and we can’t have that.” Again I just sigh and roll my eyes, I’ve just met him but he so easily plays banjo with my nerves.  

“Why are you here then? Shouldn’t you be... doing whatever it is that your family does?” I ask and he laughs at me having no clue how his family has got their fortune. “Well, you see I was not raised by my pretentious parents and rather by my grandmother. And she refuses to leave France.”  

I can’t help but let my brows furrow. “Why? And your grandfather?” “Well, if you bothered to learn family history or care about someone other than yourself, you’d know he’s dead. And my grandmother was Prima Ballerina at the Opera House. I suppose this is where she feels most home. And I come to visit between working on the shipping ships. Which is what we do, by the way. Transport goods.”  

That’s new. And actually very beautiful. Touching, I wish I had that type of connection with someone in my family. “I do care about others.” I reply back, with a shrug. “I just can’t make them a priority. It’s a difficult world for a young girl like me. Woman will always be put second, I’ll just have to put myself first.”  

“The fact that, that is what you choose to focus on just proves a point.” I just shrug my shoulders. I am kind, yes, I’ll help other’s out if they ask, but I won’t put anyone else above myself. “I-” Right at that moment the bard hits another terrible note. Both Elliott and I cringe at the noise.  

Then he gets a terribly mischievous grin. “You work at the opera house, why don’t you sing us something?” I blush and shake my head. Looking down at the bubbles in my drink. “Oh come onnn, anything can be better than him.” He says, dragging out his words to encourage me. Again I shake my head, but he insists by standing  up, coming to my side of the table and pulling me from my seat.  

“Elliott!” I squeal, being picked up and placing me on my feet. I glare, looking up at him. “I’m gonna go tell him you want a turn.” He says, his cheeky grin growing bigger. “I am begging you not to.” I grab him by his wet coat and he seems to think for a moment before seeming to give up.  

I thought. Until he steps up on the table. “My son John was tall and slim and he’d a leg for ev’ry limb!” And then suddenly, because somehow everyone in the pub knows this song, sings back at him. “But now he’s got no legs at all for he ran a race with a cannon ball! Timmy roo dun da, fadda riddle da!” I’ve got no idea what they’re singing!  

All of them are at least a little tipsy and at most about to piss themselves. But still they sing back with slurred words and a big smile on their faces. They stomp on the floor and slam down their own pints of beer to make a beat for the song they’re singing. It doesn’t seem to need any music, only the drunkan chants. And when they seem to finish their song, their cheer and clap.  

“Another!” Someone yells and Elliott smirks looking down at me, smirking, while I blush bright red. “A song from the lady?!” He calls out and they all cheer. I almost die from shock. “Elliott!” I’ve never met anyone bolder than me and now that I have I can’t seem to keep up.  

He holds out his hand, which no longer has gloves on, urging me on as everyone demands for more. I cave, why not have a little fun? I slip my hand in his, it’s rough, like someone who’s worked hard all their life. But when I’m standing up on the table and all these people are looking up at me, I freeze.  

I look up at Elliott’s stormy grey eyes, who flicker with joy. “I don’t know any songs that they’d like.” He scoffs and groans. “Come on, you must know something!” He encourages and I just sigh. In panic, the only thing I can think of is one of my maids, who would watch me when my mother couldn’t, which was always. She used to sing to me when I would beg and beg to hear some sort of music.  

“Look how the light of the town, the lights of the town are shining now. Tonight I’ll be dancing around. I’m off on the road to Galway now.” Before I know it Elliott is joining me, commanding the bard to play the tune on his flute. Then, the drunken men join me. I mumble over the Irish parts of the song, not that anyone really notices. Elliott takes my hand in his and we dance across the table. His hand is warm. 

I don’t hold back my smile or singing. When I sing and dance there is no control. Just the free flow of movement and music. Who would want to have power of something bigger than yourself? There is no dominating music. There is no mastery and there never will be. Only energy, flowing from you to those around you and back. And anyone who dare tries to command it should be punished for believing they ever could.  

When the song is finished, again everyone cheers. I turn to Elliott, he looks so confident. He’s not afraid to be seen, be perceived. As if he’s never been shamed in his life. Like he’s never had to deal with pressure to be perfect, just to be happy. His broad shoulders are relaxed and his wide smile seems to freeze time.  

“Get of the table, vous deux idiots!” The waitress yells behind us. “Allez Judith, ne sois pas si aigrie. On s'amuse juste un peu!” Elliott replies and I can barely keep up with their quick French. “Are you going to clean the table then?” The waitress asks with a pointed look, crossing her arms.  

Elliott winces, then climbs off, holding his hand out for me too to settle my feet on the floor. “No can do, we’ve got to get going.” He turns to the window, it’s stopped raining, I didn’t even notice. “How much do we owe you?” He asks, pulling out a pouch of money. She sighs and rolls her eyes.  

“5 Francs per piece.” Elliott pulls out the exact amount then they both kind of just stare at me. “Oh! Right.” I feel for my money in the pockets of my dress, until I remember, I left everything back in the Opera House. I wince and look up at my new friend. “I left it all back there...” He just sighs and hands the waitress another five Francs.  

“Now come, grand-maman is already going to be mad at me for bringing a guest without telling her. We don’t want to make her any angrier by being late.” He says, holding the door open for me. “You’re letting me come with?” He nods, “My grand-maman would be furious if she found out I let you sleep in here.”  

I can’t help but chuckle, such a bold man covering in front of his grandmother. I smile at him, “Thank you.” Again he sighs and this time scratches his neck. “You’re not all that bad. Nowhere near as bad as Carson. Almost bearable.” A sweet moment ruined again. “I shouldn’t have told you who I am.” I sigh, once again stepping on his hand to climb up on the horse’s back.  

“Yeah but you did. And I’m really enjoying it to tease you.” Again I sigh and just roll my eyes. It’s so strange. It’s rare for me to talk to a guy at the Palais Garnier. All the maids are women and I share a room with the ballet girls. It’s only Erik and I can’t really joke with him like this. He’s sensitive and rigid at the same time.  

I can’t get through to him and at the same time he takes everything to the heart. He’s so contradicting... But I guess I am too. I say I was raised to be ladylike and then dance on tables singing with drunk men I don’t know. I say I care about other’s, but don’t give Erik a chance to change... But I shouldn’t. He’s being immature. Telling me who I can like and who I can’t.  

“You shouldn’t frown like that.” I scoff, of course he has something to say. “You shouldn’t tell me what to do.” Now it’s his turn to scoff. “Brave of you to say to someone who’s giving you a place to say.” I huff and pout, how is he always right? “You just have to have the last say.” I mumble under my breath. “You’re quick to make assumptions of me.” He sounds almost offended?  

“Am I right?” I ask, peering down at him. He just scoffs and shakes his head. “No, if I’m wrong I’ll admit it. But I rarely am so...” I snipe back at him. “Okay, yeah, such a delight to be around.” I mumble and now he snipes back. “Says the spoiled brat.” “Wow! Alright, I see how it is.”  

The whole way to his grand-maman goes like this. He makes a comment, I retort back, until eventually we both just kind of...laugh about it...? I like seeing him smile, I wouldn’t mind seeing more of his smile...  

If you want to be in the taglist, just ask!

#phantom of the opera #the phantom of the opera #erik destler x reader #erik x reader #erik the phantom #erik destler #erik destler x ofc #erik destler x oc #opera ghost #opera ghost x ofc #opera ghost x reader #blossoms #blossoms justjams2003 #Spotify

[justjams2003]

Blossoms- 13

Pairing: Erik Destler x OFC (Mariposa Claremont)

Summary: A young author travels away from her family to The Opera she has heard so much about. She is lost and confused and yet still seems to get a job there as a cleaner. Yet when she meets a mysterious man there, everything changes. Her mind is entirely consumed, but will she allow her burning need for him to consume her life as well?

Warnings: Stalking, masturbation, Olfactophilia, cursing, screaming, mentions of alcohol, obsession, unedited, not proofread, tell me if I miss any.

Word count: 1,9k

Masterlist

Part 12~Part 14(coming soon)

Dividers: @yaynowimglad @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

Tags: @rclector @jordanmunson3 @ann-vic-9 @ssssssws-world @gryffin-whore

The doors slam behind me. How hard did have to push the huge Opera House doors for it to make such a huge thud? More importantly, what on earth was I thinking? What was I doing? Why did I act so damn immature? Run away like some spoiled brat? It’s my only place to live! What now? And when did it get so dark? “God fucking damnit!”  

Some nearby trash takes the grunt of my anger and frustration. More anger at myself than anything, for being so so damn stupid. “Damnit!” Why is everything crumbling in front of me? Why did I open my big mouth? Why didn’t I just keep staying friends with him? I can’t help lean against the wall and just allow myself to give up. To sit down and maybe just think for a moment. 

But all clear thought leaves my mind when a crack snaps through the sky and soon rains starts pouring. And without a second thought the tears begin falling from my eyes. Rolling over my cheeks. “What’s happened to me?” I sob, my hands in my hair as I look around at my situation. “I’m sitting in trash! Homeless! Crying! About a man of all things! This is so fucking stupid! I’m so stupid!”  

Frustration takes control of me. Sobs rack through my body and I kick my feet and let a scream go through me. “What’s wrong with me?!” “That’s something I should be asking you.” I look up, smearing my wet hair to the side in quite the unsightly manner. The night is dark and there is no moonlight shining through the thick storm clouds. Only when lightning strikes I can only kind of see a tall man climbing off a horse.  

“Leave me alone!” I can only assume it’s Erik. I specifically told him to leave me alone, and what I don’t need right now is him seeing me crying in a pile of trash. “No can do, jeune femme. I fear some man would love take advantage of a pretty young thing like you.” He says, slowly bending down to my height. I know Erik’s voice, that’s not his voice.  

“I’m crying in a pile of trash. How could I be pretty right now? And like, who are you?” I ask with a huge furrow in my brow, my hands held out in confusion. This new person just laughs and shakes his head. “Call me a friendly stranger. Now, can I get you out of the rain?” He ask, his voice sounds so kind and soft and has just a hint of the same English twinge that I do.  

What other choice do I have? I’ve made horrible decisions so far, one more won’t hurt. And if it does, how much more rock bottom can I reach? He holds out his gloved hand, it reminds me of Erik, why does everything remind me of him? He pulls me up to stand on my feet and I follow him to his horse. “You can do it on your own?” He asks, hesitant to help without my word. But I can see by his jittery behaviour he’s desperate to get out of the rain.  

I struggle, with my heavy maid’s dress now wet and weighs much more than normal. I latch my foot in, I try to jump, once, twice, no luck, I’m still on the floor. “We’re gonna catch a cold if we stand in the rain any longer.” He comments, I don’t know this man, I haven’t seen his face but his voice leads me to image a man with a shit-eating grin. I sigh and give up, “Alright, yeah, I need help.”  

His firm gloved hands don’t wrap around my waist, like Erik’s would. Instead, he crouches down and holds out his hands. “Here, I’ll give you a boost.” I step on his hand and he pushes me up on the horse. And yet, he didn’t follow me? Instead he grabs the stirrups of the horse and begins walking in the direction of the town.  

“Where are we going, Mister?” I almost have to yell over the loud pouring rain. Every few seconds I have to smear my hair back. I wipe my runny nose on the sleeve of my dress. I’m cold all over and feel like I have to wring myself out like a dish cloth. The lightning tells me the man looks almost just as bad as I do. The rim of his hat has become like a small moat, filling up with water. His shoes make a wet squash noise when he walks.  

“A nearby pub.” He yells over the pouring rain. “Wouldn’t we get there quicker if you were also riding?” Just as much as him I want to get out of the rain quicker. “No can do, jeune femme. Don’t want to make you uncomfortable, just met you ma’am. My maman raised me better than that.” That feels strange? Did it sound like I was implying something? Does he think I want him? Do I seem like that type of girl? 

It feels like a long walk, I wouldn’t know just how long it actually is. I rarely went out of the Opera House, even more I haven’t been anywhere near any pubs. But eventually, he ties the horse to a post in front of a lit up pub. There is music floating out the windows followed by an amazing smell. Well, not that amazing, since it’s mixed with a pungent alcoholic odour. But, the grumble in your stomach ignores the stench.  

 The man opens the door, and seems completely comfortable in here. The waitress smiles at him and they both seem to nod in unison. He then walks to the table closest to the fireplace. He sits down, both of you sit on the bench with a wet splash. A puddle forms around you two. He takes his hat off, letting the water poor onto the floor.  

Now, you have a clear look at the man. He has no sharp features. He has soft eyes, kind eyes, an almost smoky grey colour. He smiles up at the waitress when she puts a pint of beer in front of both of you. And his smile just makes me weak. It’s just as kind as his eyes. It makes you feel just a bit lighter about my crappy situation. He talks with the waitress in French, once she’s gone, his storm cloud coloured eyes fall on me.  

“Tell me, what’s your name, jeune femme?”  

The Opera House is entirely too quiet for my liking. There is no soul, no passion, no Mariposa to keep the spirit alive. She forbade me from following her after the fight, but it is as if my soul could tell the moment she left the Opera Populaire. When I found her room, completely bare of any all sign of her, my heart shattered.  

There is no point in wearing the mask, there is no one to see me. I’ve been sitting here, staring at the empty bed for the past few hours now. Stuck on the floor where I’d crumpled into a ball after seeing the devastating news. What have I done? My own cruel mind has played tricks on me, making me believe things that has pushed away the only person who has ever truly cared for me. 

The only person who hasn’t been afraid of me. Her reaction to my bare face was one of love and might I even say lust. I did not sense a single ounce of disgust. Perhaps shock yes, but never alarm, never panic. Why was I so bitter? So unwilling to open my heart to someone who is clearly not planning me any sort of pain.  

I need her. I need her with me. I need her close to me. I need to feel her skin on mine. I need to hear her voice. I need to see her. I need to smell her scent. My head snaps up to her bed. No, I wouldn’t dare. I shouldn’t even be thinking such shameful thoughts! It would be a complete invasion of privacy and more punishment to myself, being to close yet so far.  

It took me exactly a week. I could not create, I could not sing, I could not play. Nothing came alive and everything fell flat. There is no life, no character, no contrast between my alluring darkness and her magnetic light. Each time we come close, our songs ready for a dance. And when we kissed- that was the only thing I could write about.  

Poems and songs about the longing. The need and the fire. How when our lips touched, I could feel her childlike joy mix with my mature wisdom. Her need to give more and my need to take fits to perfectly with the other. How brutal the gods are for making me wait so long. How brutal the gods are for taking her from me as soon as I could feel the bliss.  

After a while, I needed more. I drew pictures of her. In every position I could remember. Every time she smiled, smirked or grinned, I tried to recreate it. The one time I saw her cry, I drew over and over. And every time I did, the guilt overtook me just a little more. How dare I see fit to decide who she chooses to love. How dare I cause a single tear on those soft warm cheeks of hers. 

Her bed called to me again. The thin mattress and even thinner sheets look so much more inviting now than my plush king-size bed. It took me a mere 10 seconds to crumble to my own thoughts. My cape and shoes thrown to the floor. Now I find myself under her covers surrounded by her smell.  

Without even realising it, my hips buckle against the mattress. My hands react before my mind can. I slide the pillow between my legs and buckle once more. The friction does more to me than I’d like to admit. My hand slides between my crotch and finds the rock between my legs. With one swift moment, it starts.  

The moans fly from my mouth. Cinnamon, Jasmine and fresh morning dew. The smell of sunshine, fitting for my light. Fitting for the blooming flower in my life. My mind can’t help but wander, thinking of what it would feel like with her touch on mine. That soft supple skin of hers, pressing against my body.  

Or even just seeing her face twist with pleasure. How that cute button-nose of hers would scrunch up. Those supple lips making the same lewd noises as me. Hearing her call out my name, begging for more, faster, deeper. My hips and hand speeds up. I press my face against the pillow as I imagine her unravelling around me.  

Clenching tighter around my form, would she be loud or quiet like a mouse? Would her pleasure manifest in a beautiful chorus for the whole world to hear, or expressions of pure bliss, whimpers and whispers for only I to hear. The hot heavy liquid flows from me, seeping into my dress pants. Would she beg me to pull out, allow me to cover her body with my seed? Or would she beg me to cover her walls with my sticky offspring, deeper and deeper to ensure kids?  

Gasp of air fill my lungs. I need her. I need her skin against mine. I need the friction between the most intimate parts of our bodies. I need to see her at her highest peak. I need to comfort her as she reaches reality once more. If I must beg, if I must plead, if I must take cruder action, I will have her to myself. Even if I become the monster they fear.  

If you want to be part of the taglist, you're welcome to ask :)

#phantom of the opera #the phantom of the opera #erik destler x reader #erik x reader #erik the phantom #erik destler #erik destler x ofc #erik destler x oc #opera ghost #opera ghost x ofc #opera ghost x reader #blossoms #blossoms justjams2003