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bluetooththereptile · 2 years

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His Muse

Yandere jotaro kujo x fem reader (Phantom of the Opera au)

(Gif by unknown)

( English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in the following text.)

Note: this is a gift from me to my dear friend @helpimhyperfixating. Check out their blog they've got so many interesting fics for our Jotaro boy!

Also I know I've said I won't do ansfw but please if you are not okay with mentions of past "improper" actions please don't proceed!

Summary: You've revealed an old secret to your friend, and you'll meeting the consequences of it!

Tw: mentions of past abuse, past nsfw actions, injuries and yandere tendencies

"You are a true monster! A blind beast, you can't see the hideous thing you are! Can't you see the pain you've inflected on me? Can't you see all of those years that I spent here to be close to you? Is this what I get as a reward for protecting and taking your side? For being loyal to you? Is this what I get for being your only friend? My beauty, my promising future, my heart, my purity...they are all gone because of you, and this is how you treat me?"

Your words echoed in the dark dungeon you were in as your mind shifted between reality and the nightmare you were experiencing, you screamed, letting out the frustration that had built up within you in for a long time, but you stopped because of feeling heavy and your head throbbed in pain. You could see outlines of the tall caped figure in the shadows, the person you were talking to, but you knew it was unreal. He couldn't have been there with you, you were already out of the Opera Populaire...how could he be there?

But soon you'd find out that you were wrong. Your body felt heavier every second that passed, the storm of your nightmarish dream subsiding as your body woke up. Your first reaction after opening your eyes was to groan as pain rushed within you, your head, hand, and belly aching so hard as if something heavy had crushed you beneath it. You tried to move your hand that was not hurting as much as the other, but it felt heavier than your other arm. Some seconds needed to be passed so your mind could progress what was happening but you couldn't collect your thoughts. You finally opened your eyes, thinking you'd find yourself in the uncomfortable bed of an Inn with Jolyne next to you. But what you saw didn't meet your expectations.

The first thing that caught your eye was the black thin curtain around you. You could swear the inn's bed was not that elaborate to have a curtain when you had checked it for the possibility of having lice. And it was black? Who used such a color for a bed's curtain? Confusion filled your mind as you felt the soft mattress beneath you, the sheets rather slippery and softer than a normal one, you didn't remember that when you had passed out on the bed from exhaustion.

You moved your head a little and it dipped into the several pillows and cushions behind it, the smell of perfumed pillows filling your nostrils. Alright! This must have been a dream or something of such sort, maybe your mind had made up something rather nice to ease up your anxiety after the nightmare you had experienced. But the pain seemed too real! You moved your hands so you could lift your body, but noticing several things made you freeze in your place.

First of all, your hand that hurt badly was wrapped with a bandage, and the red spots of your blood could be seen on it. There was no surprise at seeing your injury, after your little argument with your old friend you had cut your hand, but the strange factor of what you saw was that the bandages were not dirty, you had wrapped your hand in a rush with q dirty cloth, risking the infection when you were in panic after finding out your hand was bleeding, but these were clean! Not to mention your other hand that was handcuffed to the headboard of the bed! So that was why it felt heavy, the chains linked to the handcuff seemed heavy to move around.

But noticing that you were completely naked, laying on a huge bed with red sheets was the reason you were frozen in place. Obviously, someone had pulled the covers away from your body since you could notice the pile of the covers at the curved end of the bed, and they had let you see what kind of a mess it had become. Your inner thighs, under your belly, chest and neck were filled with blue and red kiss marks, several bite marks could be found here and there that were deep enough to break your skin and let blood ooze out and dry...and between your legs was a large sticky stain, the sticky liquid oozing out of your insides as you struggled to close your legs despite the sharp pain and fatigue you were experiencing, realizing what the horrible scene meant was not that hard.

Panic rose within you as you looked at yourself, chained to a bed, naked in an unfamiliar place with your body mutilated. Did the Inn keeper do something funny to you? You could swear that old bastard's knowing look at you and your daughter hid dark things beneath it. Remembering Jolyne you looked around, but she was nowhere to be found. You tried to shout out her name, but your dry throat clenched at the sudden rush of air, making you start to cough loudly. Your body tensed up as you realized the mistake of making a sound in your situation. The loud sound of footsteps made you realize the grave consequences of that mistake.

You pulled on the chains as the footsteps came closer and closer to you, your mind thinking about what you were going to face when the curtains were gone. Your actions turned more hectic with every second passing, your body trembling in fear. All of your life you were afraid of ending up in a situation like this, many of your friends with the same background as you had ended up going missing a long time ago, and now you were in the same position as them, used and injured by an unknown person. Your head turned to the right, where the curtains moved, and revealed your captor.

You gasped at seeing a familiar face. Those deep blue eyes, the face covered in a half mask...the sharp cheekbones and bold eyebrows...It couldn't be! You got away from Opera Populaire days ago! You were three days away from Paris when you decided to rent a room in an Inn! "J-Jotaro?" Your shallow voice hardly reached your ears, it was him! Your captor was your old friend! Jotaro, the Opera ghost...the man that had bounded you to the Opera Populaire...your captor was him!

Your heart ached as you held the handle of the lantern in your hand tighter, you ignored the chilling wind swirling into the dark tunnels beneath the Opera, you had left Jolyne and her friends alone, so she would stay unaware of your disappearance, she was a naive girl and that helped her to stay ignorant to your misery, which was for the better, at least she wouldn't question her mother's sadness. You wanted your innocent little angel to be away from the dark shadows that haunted you, she didn't have to know, the world had shown her cruelty already.

Your feet felt heavy, throughout all those years of being the leading lady, you hadn't felt this hesitant until now. You knew you were entering a wounded beast's lair, but you had to bare your soul to the only person that had linked you to this cursed opera, you had to speak up and tell him the truth you've been hiding for all these years. You had to tell him that he was the cause of your misery, the reason behind all of those false accusations and burdens that you carried on your shoulders, all on your own. He had to know it all, even if it meant his anger would be unleashed upon you once more! He had to know!

"Jotaro?" You called for your old friend who had been living in those tunnels since the time you had rescued him from the hellish state he lived in. Only the hissing sound of the wind answered you, you knew he could hear you, and if he was not acknowledging your presence it meant he didn't want to have you there. But you were determined to summon him. "Jotaro?" You called for him louder this time "We need to talk!" The sudden rush of air behind you made you freeze in your place, your inner voice begging you to leave, but you stood there, coping with the intense gaze upon you.

"Leave!" The deep voice of him echoed in the tunnels as he shouted making you close your eyes as you bit your tongue to hold onto the last drops of courage you had. Anyone would have left by now, the mere thought of what he was capable of making anyone that had dared to enter his lair run away as soon as they felt his presence, but you were not going to back away, not this time. "We need to talk Jotaro...there's something important that you should know-" the sudden thud sound of him landing next to you made your body straighten up in shock, your hand that held the lantern starting to tremble as you raised it, so you could see the caped figure that loomed over you better.

"Get out!" He snarled, leaning down so he could stare into your eyes, his non-masked eye reaching deep into your soul, making you feel uncomfortable. "I won't!" You said, "You should know the truth!" You continued. "Truth about what? That you betrayed me by letting that filthy man take my Christine away?" Jotaro hissed as his gloved hand grabbed you by your chin, squeezing your jaw. Your insides burned in jealousy at being reminded that he still held Christine in his heart. You couldn't let him treat you like this, no, not this time.

"Listen, man child, Christine didn't love you!" You said before whimpering in pain since his grip tightened. Jotaro was a strong man, he stood way taller than an average person, and his strength was proved to be enough to snap someone's neck, like what he had done to the poor caretaker of the stage. He snarled in your face "Don't talk about her like that!" "I won't stop telling you Jotaro! She didn't love you! She didn't want to commit herself to love you! She didn't want to spend prime years of her life dealing with a man child that you are, she didn't want to end up like me!"

Jotaro's intense gaze didn't subside but he arched his brow at your last words, still holding a tight grip on your jaw, making you struggle to speak "I've...I've come here to talk to you about two important things..." your hand tightly grabbed his wrist to make his grasp loosen, but it didn't help, so you continued to look at him in the eyes as you spoke "I'm leaving Paris Jotaro I'm leaving France...I'm leaving Europe, getting miles away from you, and I'm taking Jolyne with me!" He narrowed his eyes "Why do I need to know about your pathetic life and your stupid daughter?" You frowned at what he said "Because you are her father!"

Jotaro, who had been having enough of your babbling shoved you onto the floor, making the lantern in your hand break, the oil inside it poured out, getting lit by the fire of the lantern, brightening where you were at. You hit the floor hard, your face burying in the dirt. "Stop talking nonsense woman!" He said, turning away from you "You are Jolyne's father Jotaro! Why can't you understand? Haven't you all of these years wondered how I became pregnant with her while I didn't have any patrons or lovers? Can't you see the year she was born was the time you used drugs to get inspired by those imaginary muses you always talked about? You raped me and forced me into having her Jotaro, and yet you don't even remember the fact that you had done that!" You said, spilling out the secret you were holding in you for years.

"Stop projecting your past lustful acts upon me woman...everyone knows you became pregnant by whoring around!" He responded to you, breaking your heart even more. You screamed to make him stop "Shut up!" Your anger took hold of you as you stood up "Just shut up! Don't think that because everyone ignored your pain, you have the right to ignore my misery and say such filthy things about me!" You grabbed his cape as you pulled on it not so gently, not caring how he would react. "I've been your only friend and you think of me like that?" Jotaro turned toward you so he could grab you by the collar of your dress and pick you up from the ground. "I don't have a friend named Y/N anymore! After the moment I found out that you sold me to that filthy man you died to me!" He put you down, spitting in your face "Now, Leave! I don't want to hear any nonsense about your past or that stupid daughter of yours-"

Jotaro was silenced with your hard slap to the masked side of his face, it was so hard that made the thin glass mask crack and half of it fall onto the ground, the other half cutting your palm deep. "Monster! You foul ignorant monster! All of these years I valued you, helped you with everything I had, I loved you and gave up so many things to be close to you, and you, a man child that was blind to his surroundings fell for another woman? And now that she has proven to you that she didn't want to keep up with you, you mourn for losing her? Now that I've told you the harsh truth I've been facing for years you treat me like this? You deserve to be in a cage and displayed as a monstrous being, but not because of your deformed face, it's because of the dark soul you have, murderer! Son of the devil!" You screamed the last parts before running away.

"I see that you're awake darling..." Jotaro's soft tone made you shiver as you tried to back away from his touch when he touched your cheek with the back of his fingers. He frowned at your reaction, but the look was not filled with rage, it was...worry that lurked in his eye. he put down the bowl of water he held as he knelt beside the bed, looking at you up and down as he sighed deeply. "I do apologize...but I lost my control last night..." his fingers touched your belly, making you shiver "The sight of your peaceful form beside me was so alluring!"

"What...what have you done? Where am I?" You asked in a hushed voice as you tried to swallow the non-existing saliva inside your mouth. He hummed to himself as he dipped a clean cloth into the water bowl and started to wipe down the blood on your feet and thighs, making you flush and tense as he touched your unclothed form. "W-wait! What are you doing?" You shrieked, making him put his hand on your hips to make you stay steady. "I'm cleaning the mess I made of course..." he said as he gently wiped your skin, mumbling apologies whenever you hissed in pain. It took some minutes for your mind to get out of its frozen state, and Jotaro's attempt at wiping down between your legs helped that. You quickly sat up and pulled away from him, keeping your legs close. "N-no!" You said, making him shake his head as he sighed. "You need to be cleaned darling, I've seen everything already, there's no need of being shy!"

You put your injured hand in front of you to stop him from touching you, but he ignored your attempt and took your ankle in his large hand, pulling you to the side he was kneeling on. "Wait! Wait! I need an explanation first! Where am I? What happened? Where's Jolyne? How....how could you do this to me?" Jotaro hummed again as he started to wipe you clean, making you flush even more. "After you left the Opera with our daughter, I realized the mistake I had made by letting you two go. So I followed you, and..." he paused looking at you "You were going to leave for Russia?" He asked, his voice filled with concern as if he was hurt by knowing that! You looked away from him, he knew why. You didn't want to be close to where he was, in Russia ballerinas could be successful, so by leaving Europe you'd be leaving him behind as well as giving your daughter a great chance. But your plan had failed.

"It was not hard to find you two, I convinced the Innkeeper to put drugs in your drinks so I could take you back home. I put Jolyne under the care of the new leading lady and took you here with me, so I could take care of you personally..." You whimpered in pain when he touched your bruised hips, reminding you of what he had done to you. "I do apologize, my dear Y/N, I swear that I couldn't help myself, I had to claim you! You've been sleeping for four days and I couldn't hold back..." You could feel his hot breath on your neck as he pulled you closer to him "I haven't realized what a precious thing you were all these years, your beauty maturing even more after all those decades!" He whispered to you, making you shiver "P-please let me go...Jolyne needs me!" You pleaded, your body weak and your mind filled with horrifying thoughts, you couldn't get away from him, you struggled to get out of his grasp, you even tried to slap him again but he took your free hand and firmly held it down.

"Hush now my love...don't speak of leaving me!" He said as his arms pulled you even closer to his clothed form. "She thinks you're away on a long, long trip... don't worry, I'll treat her well until you're ready to meet her again, but for now...I shall spend my time with you...to make up with the lost time" he kissed your head before starting to murmur in your ear:

My dearest angel is with me,

Her wings are broken.

She descended to save me,

She wears scars as her token.

I was buried in darkness,

Her hands broke my tomb,

I was pulled out of the blackness,

Her fingers turned to my hair's comb.

My Angel's wings are torn,

Her eyes are weary,

Her bones are broken,

I shall keep her company.

My fingers are covered in blood,

My shovel is in crimson,

Her features are troubled,

Her body rapidly weaken.

My Angel is with me,

I shall keep her here,

I ignore her pleas from me,

She shall stay here.

I have made a sin,

I tore the wings of an angel,

Dear God, I love this sin,

For that, I have my angel.

My angel is with me,

I will have her forever.

You were in hands of a murderer, a mad man, and he was not planning on ever releasing you. You wished you had kept your secret to yourself.

#yandere jojo #yandere jotaro #yandere jotaro kujo #yandere jojo x reader #yandere x reader #fem reader #yandere #yandere one shot #yandere anime #yandere phantom of the opera #phantom of the opera

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yandere-writer-momo · 1 month

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I need some Karou Phantom on the Opera Headcannons, he lives in my head rent-free

Yandere Baki Short Stories:

The Phantom of the Opera

Yandere Phantom Hanayama Kaoru x Christine! Fem Reader x mentioned! Raoul Katsumi Orochi

Large hands lovingly traced up and down (your name)’s figure from the other side of the mirror. A dark eye observed her ethereal form prepare for her performance in awe. His beautiful muse, the Apple of his eye… his angel.

Hanayama pressed his lips against the mirror, his eye fluttered shut in bliss. Desire had him in its clutches and he had no interest in stoking the fires that burned within him. He desired (your name). He’s been alone for so many years, rotting in this opera house and he finally has an angel of his own… and he’d be damned if he let that Count Katsumi stole her away! All he had ever asked of her was her loyalty and he knew that devilishly handsome man had entranced her. Hanayama would not let her fall under Katsumi’s spell. He would save her!

Hanayama had prepared for his arrival in his dark dwelling for months now. (Your name) would be pampered and doted on endlessly. She would never need to worry about money or food. And certainly not about him having a fickle heart. Hanayama had plenty of connections to keep her satisfied beyond human comprehension. It’s the least he could do…

Hanayama had trained (your name) for months to perfect her melodic voice. She owed him… she belonged to him! And Hanayama would not let her escape his grasp when he finally has the love he’s always wanted within reach… (your name) was his for all of eternity.

Hanayama began to sing to catch his angel’s attention. His heart swelled with pride when she immediately responded with a bright smile. There she was! His obedient song bird…

Their voices perfectly sung together in harmony, his eye never left her form as she twirled in her beautiful gown in her dressing room. Just a bit closer to the mirror… there!

Hanayama pushed the mirror open and quickly snatched up his prize. His large palm pressed firmly against her mouth as he pressed numerous kisses to the side of her face.

“Oh my darling song bird… let’s go home.” Hanayama huskily whispered in her ear. “You needn’t this life any longer… you only need me and the music.”

(Your name) was still entranced by his magical melody as he pulled her through the tunnel behind the mirror. The mirror gently clicked shut behind the duo that would never be seen again.

This Phantom would never be lonely again… they have reached past the point of no return.

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cheriihoney · 8 months

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First meeting between mc and phantom!jack. In this au, he calls mc moonlight instead of sunshine because without him mc woudlfe never been primadonna :))

#my art #sunny day jack #sdj #somethings wrong with sunny day jack #swwsdj jack #sdj jack #yandere x reader #sdj au #phantom of the opera au #swwsdj #yandere x y/n #yandere x you #look i just had to do this ykyk

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kuuyandere · 2 months

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"The world up there is unfit for one such as her. Up there is where Hell is, and I will not send an angel to Hell."

— Erik, The Phantom of the Opera 1990 miniseries

#phantom of the opera #the phantom of the opera #poto #love #poto 1990 #poto erik #romance #lovesick #erik carriere #charles dance #cherik poto #your yandere

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persnicketypomelo · 2 months

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what do you think would happen if, say, book!Erik was in one of his breakdowns and instead of just dealing with all his self loathing and sobbing, reader just… picks him up? I don’t think he would weigh that much, with him being so skeletal and all, and so the only thing would be his height making it kind of physically awkward. I dunno, I think that he might have one of those reactions like when people throw cheese on babies heads when they’re crying, but also I think he would be like “is this???? Affection????!!” hah!

I felt like this was fitting for Valentine's

mentions of kidnap, obsessive tendencies, mentions of murder

Carrying the Phantom

To say he would be caught off-guard would be an understatement

Not only that you are lifting him, but the bold display of your affection as well

I feel like this would be his one moment of true shock--where he's truly doesn't know what to do

Only when you lay him down on the loveseat to rest his head on your lap does he regain his senses

Clutching the fabric of your clothing to his face, relaxing completely around you for the first time

While you stroke his head, he will murmur in words half rambling and half meant to be heard of how much he loves you, how you are his muse

His love for you was no lesser before, but I think this might be the first time he ever truly lowers his guard around you

If he kidnapped you and forced you into living with him, then he would have obvious reservations at all moments that you might be vying for escape

But even if not, he holds an overarching belief that he is not worthy or capable of being loved and having a normal relationship, that you don't truly want to be with him

Be warned though, the first time he experiences the utter bliss of being defenceless and being cared for, he will vie for your attention and admirations very frequently

Hoping to receive your praise and affections, but too guarded or shy to openly express it

I think his behaviour would be similar to seeking validation for his appearance: trying to catch your eye and trying to impress you with his musical capabilities

For his part, he would definitely enjoy singing gentle melodies as you drift off to sleep

And his music would be the primary way he communicates his love for you, since he is both isn't accustomed to expressing his love in more direct manners

Even if he appears averse to physical affection (though this is not truly the case) know that you are the inspiration for all his compositions

Erik despite his soft vulnerability in these moments, still has a possessive streak within him that will take significantly more time to undo

He is, after all, an experienced murderer

That is to say, perhaps no twisted act is out of the picture when it comes to love

#phantom of the opera #yandere #x reader #obsessive #reader insert #erik destler #erik phantom #gaston leroux #headcanons

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cumtastiics · 3 months

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Hm, what about a yandere mafia boss and an opera singer reader?

yan! mafia boss x opera singer

tw: yandere, implied kidnapping

HELP SORRY I TOOK SO LONG UM I FORGOT TO WRITE ANYTHING

"sing for me."

you were so beautiful to him.

your voice was so soothing, it was like a lullaby.

he would often find himself lost in the melody of your words, as if they were a gentle breeze carrying him away to a place of solace. it was in those moments, when the world seemed to fade into the background, that he truly felt alive.

your beauty, both in appearance and in spirit, enraptured him. the way your eyes sparkled with mischief, reflecting the light like precious gems, could melt the hardest of hearts. and your smile, oh how it could light up the darkest room, spreading warmth and joy to all those around you.

yet, you always stayed silent.

he was only able to hear your voice when you happily spoke to others who weren't him.

so he didn't allow people to talk with you. you were more distant with him.

every night, he would lie in bed, imagining the sound that would fill the room if you were to sing just for him.

but as days turned into weeks, his longing began to transform into something darker. a seed of possessiveness took root in his heart, fed by the bitter taste of jealousy. he couldn't understand why you would lavish others with your voice, while keeping him at arm's length, like an outsider looking in.

he was so desperate to hear your voice, the way you sung reminded him always of the time he first heard you.

he was running his fingers through your hair as your head stayed in his lap, his fingers now tugging on your hair, making you yelp out in pain.

"i told you to sing."

if u want more send reqs

#yandere #tw yandere #yandere oc #yandere male #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x y/n #male yandere #angst #yandere x darling #opera #someone said it was like #phantom of the opera idk #i am cumtastic

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mariahmaru · 2 months

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I just realized I forgot to upload, the amazing art of @yanmaresu! Thank you for the sweet gifts! I adore them! 2022

2023

#mariahmaru #twisted wonderland #disney twst #yanmaresu #azul ashengrotto #fem azul ashengrotto #the phantom of the opera #yandere #yandere azul ashengrotto

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male-yandere-tournament · 10 months

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Final Round.

#polls #male yandere #yandere male #phantom of the opera #poto #shuuen no shiori #bookmark of demise #musicals

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crushingcasanova · 4 months

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Another POTO mood board! Expect a lot more of these in the future. Still taking some requests, especially theater related ones.

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burntuakrisp · 1 year

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I feel like if Wally was to Hypnotize y/n into going into the tv(or wherever Wally resides) it would sound similar to “The Mirror” from Phantom of the Opera.

Bonus points if s/o hears Wally’s voice from behind the door.

#welcome home arg #welcome home #wally darling #wally darling x reader #phantom of the opera #I swear every time a male yandere shows up my mind goes to phantom of the opera #but like Eric is one of the first male yandere type characters #also Wally as the phantom AU when #this puppet is going to be the death of me

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sunshine-for-serotonin · 1 year

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Hi! I have seen your fics that include Erik sucking on reader's nipples. Since stimulating the nipples too much can cause the body to begin to lactate (without being pregnant) after a certain time, I was wondering how Erik would react to causing the reader to milk. Thank you.

The second you start lactating is the second Erik basically becomes permanently affixed to your chest.

Try as you may, you just can’t get Erik’s mouth away from your nipples for more than twenty minutes at a time unless you’re out working in the main theatre, and even then he may beg for you to stop by box five every so often so he can nurse for a few minutes.

Erik, being the way that he is, may actually start to have tantrums of some kind of if he goes too long without nursing, he truly craves to be lovingly nurtured in the ways he missed out on as a child, so letting Erik nurse on your chest is so beyond incredibly intimate and comforting to him that he feels the need to be at your chest at every opportunity.

Erik’s mommy issues are horrendous, so it’s no wonder he’s so needy in your presence, begging you to coddle him like a child and let him drink from your chest.

You know how kittens will knead their momma cat while they nurse? Erik does a similar version of that. If you’re still wearing clothes, Erik will clench his hands around the fabric tightly before releasing and repeating the process. If you aren’t, Erik rubs his hands up and down your sides or hips.

He does this because the repetitive motion helps to soothe him further and also because he just likes feeling you against him.

If you try to pull away before he’s had his fill, Erik is not afraid to whine and cry until you let him latch onto you like a baby again, and Erik is also very prone to absolutely gorging himself on your milk if you don’t stop him.

Ideally, Erik likes to lay on top of you with his lips around your nipple while your hand runs over his head and you coo at him, his eyes half lidded and peering up at you with love.

No matter which version of Erik you’re stuck with, they all have the basic idea that taking so much of your nutrients and not replacing them= bad, so you can be certain Erik will force you to up your water intake and encourage you to eat more.

If you thought that Erik uses nursing solely as a comfort thing and never a sexual thing, you are sorely mistaken.

About half of the time he’s nursing, Erik’s cock will harden and so he’ll start grinding against your legs, trying to find some form of relief.

Position Erik so that you can reach under him and start to pump his cock without separating him from your nipple. He whimpers and moans against you whilst holding you tightly in his arms as he tears up and starts rutting into your hand.

You can bet your soul that this fuels his mommy kink to an extreme.

Musical!Erik

I feel it in my soul that this version of Erik is much more shy when it comes to both his mommy kink, and his need to suckle on your chest.

But once you reassure him that you love him regardless and you’ll indulge him if he simply asks, he’s just as obsessive with it as his book counterpart.

The first time you let him nurse from your chest and milk came out, Erik immediately felt a sense of ease and sleepiness hit him like a carriage. He may have also shed a few tears because of his mommy issues, but he isn’t nearly as bad as his novel version.

With his lips being so puffy due to his deformities, I would say you would be much more comfortable with him sucking harder on your chest than his book counterpart, as you have more padding from his teeth this way.

Kind of reiterating what I said earlier, when Erik is around you and he’s stressed or angry, he’s prone to what can only be described as temper tantrums and he cries out for you to love on him, and usually the only way you can calm him down is by lovingly holding him or letting him suckle on your chest while you call him a good boy.

Seriously, the relief that crosses his face once he has you in his mouth and your milk trickles down his throat is as instantaneous as the embarrassed blush that coats his cheeks and ears once he realizes, that yes, he did just have a meltdown in front of you, and yes, you had to calm him like one would an infant, but he finds himself too relaxed to pull away from you. Erik will hide his beet red face in your chest until you reassure him that it’s alright and that you don’t think any less of him.

Musical Erik is also more easily aroused by suckling on your chest than his novel counterpart.

It just feels so good to be wrapped in your arms and to be nurtured, to finally be taken care of after decades of being on his own, so good that it often manifests itself in Erik getting hard and needy.

You need not fear that you will be left unsatisfied, Erik is more than happy to take his lips from your nipple as long as he can place them between your thighs for hours a little bit, but when he’s done vigorously eating you out, Erik is immediately going back to nursing.

Novel!Erik

I truly believe that the first time you let him nurse from your chest, Erik full on bawled.

All the mommy issues and childhood trauma came bursting up to the forefront of his mind. And yet through his tears, Erik nursed almost greedily, as though he were afraid you would take yourself away from him at a moments notice.

It took about fifteen minutes of you cooing at him that he was alright and how much you loved him for the tears to stop falling, and even then it took an extraordinarily long time for you to get his mouth off of you, making you about an hour late to entering the main opera populair.

The whole time you could feel him watching you from box five, and the second you were somewhere more secluded, Erik cornered you and began to beg for you to let him suckle on your chest more.

Yes, Erik has absolutely no qualms about conveying his need to suckle on your chest, and while his musical counterpart won’t throw quite as elaborate tantrums if he can’t nurse, this Erik surely will.

He’s not afraid to mess with backdrops, cause sandbags to fall, and just overall sabotage the crew of the opera house until you can calm him down.

Erik really is a menace to all who know him, but when it comes to you, he can’t help but let his more childish tendencies come out as he clings to you.

Novel!Erik is extremely prone to over gorging himself on your milk. He won’t stop when he’s full, he’ll drink until he physically can’t anymore, and even then you’ll have to practically pry him away from your chest.

Because of his reluctance to separate himself from your chest, Erik may actually try to push back against your hands when you try and ease him off of your nipple. Of course, this results in him getting milk splatter all over his face and paired with the tears rolling down his cheeks because you took him away from you, Erik paints quite the pathetic picture of himself and he knows it, but he simply doesn’t care.

With how he jumps at the opportunity to nurse, you may have to remind him to calm down and not suck so hard, Erik’s thin lips don’t offer much in the way of comfort when it comes to him being needy whilst nursing.

@sloppyzengarden

@groovy-lady

#erik destler x reader #yandere erik destler #erik destler smut #erik destler #yandere phantom of the opera #phantom of the opera #phantom of the opera smut #phantom of the opera x reader

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the-leech-lord · 5 months

Text

🎼Erik Destler Stimboard🎼

🎹🎹🎹|🎹🎹🎹|🎹🎹🎹

Day 6 of cringetember stimboards - Yandere

Erik’s the OG yandere lol X3

#stimboard #stimboards #phantom of the opera 1989 #the phantom of the opera 1989 #poto 1989 #poto #erik destler #erik the phantom #robert englund #piano stim #yandere stim #red stim #caligraphy stim #music stim #heart stim #violin stim

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melit0n · 7 months

Text

Miasma

- Oneshot

- Stalker Phantom/Reader

- Word Count: 4.9K

- Warnings: None

- Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50298724

Your feet move in sync with the fellow members of the soloists; different shades of tulle elegantly twirling in time with the orchestra. This was the final, full run-through rehearsal until to morrow’s show; a new production long awaited to be displayed to the public.

The dance routine was tiring, yet not the worst you had ever done: the repetitive, 10 hours of practice each day with a ballet master who was unwilling to take anything but utter perfection brought more ache to your muscles than completing your role in the show itself. Yet, even with tired, overworked calves, you continued to strive for the grace and refinement that your teacher had forged into your very bones.

The surge of the orchestra reverberates in your chest as adrenaline courses through your veins, as per usual when you danced upon the stage; practice or live show. Despite the hours upon hours you had spent practicing this piece, you still had the innate fear in the back of your mind of tripping over your own feet and falling, or crashing into one of the other fast-moving girls, subsequently earning a condescending reprimandment from the ballet master.

Nothing but perfection. Something hard to achieve with bruised ankles and lungs constricted within a too-tight corset.

Despite the lack of a large, judgmental audience, the sting of observant eyes burns into your figure. Being a ballet dancer in a prestigious company, with delicately crafted productions showing to the public almost every other day, you were used to the stare of thousands on your figure.

This, however, was different.

It was an almost eerie sensation; an uncomfortable tingle raising goose-flesh on the back of your neck.

Covertly, you scour the darkened auditorium, seeing nothing but the bright red velour of the thousands of seats and the rich gold of the engraved private boxes.

You would have left the odd feeling to be the result of nerves, or the watching eyes of the stage director, or even members of the chorus, yet, it felt unrelenting. Eyes somehow managing to stay trained on your figure and your figure alone, even through the organized flutter of tulle.

As you pirouette, however, you catch the stare of the first violin player in the pit.

Ah.

Augustine would laugh at me for my paranoia, you think to yourself.

Regardless, the swell of the orchestra sends a strain through your legs; your muscles pulled taught in anticipation of finally finishing for the day, if not to only do it again the next day.

Finally, the woodwind and strings grow louder, along with the leading soprano, and the piece is finished. You flourish your legs outwards in an arabesque, holding yourself delicately on the tips of your ballet shoes, careful not to wobble, careful not to do something that would be counted as anything less than perfection. Simultaneously, you flinch slightly as the sound of ripping fabric meets your ears.

You can feel the beads of sweat running down your back, soaking into the itchy fabric of your costume. Chest heaving, you hold your position for a few moments before a loud, happy applause erupts from the observers of the final rehearsal. Gracefully, the leading lady bows as members of the chorus and corps de ballet surround her; congratulating her on reaching her notes, as if that wasn’t what she had trained tirelessly her whole life to be able to do.

The glare of the calcium lights burns.

Eventually, the stage director himself praises your group and, as it has finally struck 6 pm, calls for the members of the ballet, the chorus members, the orchestra and the leading actors to part and leave for home. You walk, tiredly, off stage right, rubbing the back of your neck.

You avoid the eyes of the first violin player, trying to catch your gaze yet again.

Squinting in the gloom, you find a large rip on the back of your costume’s bodice. You scowl as you run your hands over the ripped threads, nails plucking the strings of fibre like those of a harp.

A careful hand finds your shoulder, and you look up to see your friend; Augustine. Happily, you smile at her, her clean white teeth smiling back while she tilts her head in question at you. You stand straight and state, annoyed, “My bodice ripped.”

“Good riddance.” She replies, sarcastically.

"For the amount of funding the costume department receives, I would have hoped they would make one of the main pieces of our costume more durable-”

“-And less itchy.”

“And less itchy.” You agree. “The costumers are not the ones dancing in those for two hours,” You sigh out as you run your hands over your bodice again, feeling the threads of the expensive fabric and praying, quietly, that the costumers would not ask for payment in fixing it.

Augustine laughs joyfully at your expense, saying, “Perhaps you should send a complaint to the costume department, or even-” You huff loudly, already knowing what she was about to suggest, “-The Opera Ghost himself! He’d be sure to scare the costumers into submission, no?”

Laughing tiredly at her jokes, and both of your aching muscles, you continue to walk backstage, cautiously avoiding the moving scene– being directed by the shouting stagehands above– and passing by your fellow actors; each either gossiping, rubbing their fatigued muscles or talking amorously with the sweating stagehands.

“I don’t think I’ve been so tired in my life,” Augustine mumbles.

“Perhaps you are getting old?” You joke back.

“Don’t you even start!” She nudges you harshly in the side, smiling, while you cry out in faux pain. “I don’t think I’ll be able to move after I’ve gotten into bed.”

“Bed?” You question with an eyebrow raised, “I thought we had planned for dinner this week?” Augustine and you had a ritual of going out to dinner, a new restaurant for each occasion, before a new show was performed.

“If I am to afford new ballet shoes, I think I may have to give dinner itself up for a few weeks.” She smiles a tired smile, one that does not reach her eyes.

“Do not speak so, Augustine. I’ve told you once and I’ll tell you again, if you ever need help with your finances,” You place your hand on her shoulder, “Just say so, and I will be there to aid you.”

You both pause in your walking, and she looks at you with lapis-like hues as she speaks, “I could not– would not– burden you so.” You open your mouth to reprove, but she begins speaking again, “Yet, I appreciate your offer.”

Raising an eyebrow at her, you pat her shoulder empathetically as you intertwine your hands. You walk further into the metaphorical guts of the theatre, squeezing up stairs too thin and creaky to be safe and down darkened corridors only illuminated by the dim gleam of the oil lamps not yet put out for the evening.

Oddly, with each dim hallway you pass, goose-flesh seems to arrive on the back of your neck. As you did during your performance, you chalk it up to the members of the ballet looking at you, or, perhaps, a draft coming from the cellars of the theatre.

As you walk, both of your hair pins keeping your hair in tight buns come out, as well as your shoes loosened. Many different people walk past you; male members of the chorus with bottles of liquor in their hands, hopeful, seasoned members of the corps de ballet, as well as your fellow soloists, and stagehands unhappy with their pay alike.

“What do you plan to do with this month's payment?” You ask, in an attempt to start a conversation again.

“A new-” Augustine begins.

“-Other than the new pair of ballet shoes.”

She glares at you, half annoyed and half entertained; “A restock of oil, most likely. Perhaps a new sewing kit? You?”

“Same as you; a re-stock of oil and more cleaning chemicals.” She nods, understandably, at your decision. As you turn past another unlit hallway, your goose flesh arises on your arms now, and you quickly glance over your shoulder to look for anyone in particular, perhaps that first violinist, but, you find no one. No one but the average crowd of gossiping dancers.

“Are you well?” Augustine stops and looks over her shoulder at you. “Are you looking for someone?” She squints into the crowd along with you, searching the different heads for who you may have been looking at.

“No, I apologise, I just…had an odd feeling.” Augustine looks at you incredulously, before a sly grin makes its way to her pretty face.

“Hm. Mayhap the Phantom is eyeing you from the shadows…” She puts on an ominous tone, the same tone the stagehands place upon themselves when telling ghost stories to the younger chorus members.

“Don’t-”

“-Eyeing his next victim-”

“-Augustine!” You begin to laugh.

“-Waiting for the perfect moment to drag you down into his cellars and make you a part of his bone collection!” She grabs you by your shoulders and shakes you vigorously as you laugh heartily; relieved of your paranoia by her jesting. With mention of the renowned Phantom, some members of the chorus walking past let out a nervous laugh, some lingering or slowing their gait to listen in on any gossip on the local ghost.

Still laughing, your chest aching with both the strain of the corset and the joy flooding out of your mouth, you finally reach one of the many dressing rooms, along with many of the female chorus members and soloists; some already changed, others half nude.

The dressing room was made out of warm, shined oak, and was lit in the lamp-light glow, fire-formed rays spreading like spring petals upon the peeling, ivory-coloured wallpaper of the walls. Multiple wall-length mirrors hang on the walls, the glass of them scratched and worn with time. Nothing in comparison to the official, commonplace elegance afforded to a select few of the principal dancers, let alone the dressing rooms of main actors.

Once, you had visited one of the secondary operatic vocalists in their room, invited to share tea and gossip as she had taken a liking to you, and were astounded at the elegance and grandeur of what should have been a spartan dressing room. The warm room contained a pier glass, a sofa, a dressing table and a cupboard or two. On the walls were intricately designed wallpaper as well as art pieces you swore you had seen once on a visit to the Louvre. Along with an astounding amount of flowers, a tall, wood-set, engraved mirror lay on the far left wall. It matched perfectly with the marble palisade that was the Théâtre National de l'Opéra.

As per usual, different shades of hats were sat, hanging, on dress hangers, as well as dull evening dresses. The more expensive, elaborate dresses with long trains were usually kept tucked away until show night when rich patrons (ring-bearing or not) usually paid visits to the female members of the chorus and troupe of ballerinas.

Reaching your designated changing area, where your own evening dress lay folded neatly upon the wooden bench, you began to converse with Augustine yet again.

“Are you sure you won't join me for dinner this eve?”

Sympathetically, she watches your form from the corner of her eye as she slips out of her costume, reaching around to finally undo her corset, “I am sure, I apologise, you know what it’s like-”

“-Don’t apologise,” You sigh deeply as you undo your own corset, letting the warm air of the dressing room fill your lungs. “I won't berate you for wishing to save some extra money.”

Aimlessly, Augustine chatters to you about the ache in her calves, and how she believes she’s found yet another ‘life-saving’ treatment for her damaged muscles. Your conversation filters in with the rest of the chatter that occurs in the room, and, half listening to Augustine, you pick up on some of the other’s words. In the left corner, a group of girls surround one of the newer members of the troupe of ballerinas, chatting to her with large grins placed delicately on their rosy faces. You spy the glint of gold and some sort of gem on her ring finger.

Lucky, you think to yourself as you begin to pull on your chemise and stockings.

In another corner, there are whispered nothings between two girls, one you know to be a young woman named Blanche; a tall thing with peachy skin and hair the colour of a golden sunrise, almost always kept in a tight plat. She looks at the shorter girl, half-dressed, next to her with the same sort of eyes some of the comtes and young vicomtes give to members of the chorus in the parlour.

You’re pulled back from your people-watching by tumultuous shrieking outside the corridor. Were you not accustomed to the trainee ballerina’s rambunctious shouts after they had finished practice, you would have expected them to have seen a ghost.

Or, rather, the ghost.

A collective sigh resounds in the small room as the noise dissipates down the hall, followed by your own dressing room door opening as three giggling girls enter. Augustine gives you a weary sidelong glance as the pitter-patter of ballet shoes approaches your corner.

“Hello Mademoiselle L/N, Mademoiselle Charbonneau! We finished practice for Polyeucte this eve!” Lucille, a lithe creature with a button nose and bitten-down fingernails speaks, excitedly.

“Yes yes! Yet we didn’t spot either of you,” Little Jammes began to moan, she was a favourite of the chorus and existing members of your troupe of dancers with her tip-tilted nose, forget-me-not eyes and rose-red cheeks. “You promised you would come watch!”

Before you or Augustine could respond, another voice added their opinion on the situation; “They couldn’t! They have the performance for the new production tomorrow eve, imbécile-”

“-Don’t insult Jammes so, Elaine,” Augustine reprimands. “I-” She quickly glances your way, “We apologise. Myself and Y/N are quite fatigued; we were not granted a break to day. If we have time, we will watch your practice in the morning on the Monday.”

The younger girls let out a happy cheer at their small success. Elaine and Lucille skip off to where the other apprentices and members of the corps de ballet were changing, while Little Jammes lingers behind.

Nodding to both yours and Augustine’s forms, she says “I hope your performance goes smoothly tomorrow, mademoiselles.” She begins to turn back to the rest of her group, however, glances at you and speaks yet again; “Oh! And don’t forget your scarf.” She giggles, almost maniacally, before prancing out the door and off to her group.

“Will do, Little Jammes.” You call out after her. She turns and smiles, acknowledging you.

Little Jammes was one fond of jokes, one being stealing your scarf and having you chase her around the Opera House looking for it. A game of hide and seek, as well as hunter and prey. You had kept up the game for almost three years now, her having just turned fifteen.

One of the girls, just putting on her bonnet, turns to you as she fixes the ribbons; “I’m unsure how you put up with such boisterous creatures, even Little Jammes; the lot of them are such brats.” She jokes sarcastically, you smile at her as her eyes, black as ink, look into yours for an answer.

“It is not much trouble, even if all the majority speak of is the fabled Opera Ghost.” The young lady and Augustine both laugh at your jest. As she finishes with the ribbons of her bonnet, she waves, and wishes you both a good evening.

By this time, most of the changing dancers had finished dressing and had left, including the members of the corps de ballet and trainees; eager to leave the domain of the Opera Ghost for the comfort of warm blankets and dinner. Augustine and you are slightly behind schedule, taking extra time to chat aimlessly.

“I can’t believe it takes you so long to dress,” Augustine jests as she finishes buckling her shoes.

“I know you wish to leave for your apartment Augustine; go. I will walk home on my own to night.”

“Are you sure? Will you be well?”

“Of course, I will be. I am a grown woman, Augustine. Either way, I must talk to the costuming department in order for them to fix my bodice.”

Augustine raises an eyebrow at you, as if thinking this is some test of friendship, before nodding and pulling her shawl across her slim shoulders.

“Good evening, Y/N. Be safe.” She calls over her shoulders as the click-clack of her heels descends towards the exit. “Oh! And I promise to go to dinner with you next week!” She peeks her head over the door frame to call back to you.

“Sure.” You call back sarcastically. You catch a small smile on her tired face before the sound of the door echoes in the empty dressing room. Finally, you finish dressing, placing your hair into its usual updo again. As you do so, a newspaper, left behind by the young woman of whom you had been talking to, catches your eye. Its newsprint page open on the Opera and Theatre periodical, and a title in bold reads; ‘800 Pounds on a Concierge's head.’

You recognised the tragedy almost instantly, for it had only occurred but three weeks ago. You were surprised the headline was still making rounds, let alone at the top of the periodical. Although, you suppose, this may be an old paper. Underneath the pompous title shows;

On the evening performance of Helle, May 20th, one of the counterweights for the Théâtre National de l'Opéra’s chandelier fell suddenly, upon Madame Colette Auclair, aged 56, during her first and last visit to the Opera House; as she passed on impact. Stagehands deny any and all involvement with the tragedy, and report no issues with the counterweights. Many of the members of the Théâtre National de l'Opéra claim it to be the work of the ever-so-infamous Phantom of the Opera; The Monster of Paris.

You cease reading the moment your eyes graze over the word ‘Phantom’. You felt it ludicrous that an official newspaper would accept and continue to publish such a superstitious and almost mocking piece. Someone’s death shouldn’t be attributed to a spectre that lingers in the imagination of artists, the superstition of the managers, or the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet.

As are the faults of journalism, you suppose.

Sighing, loudly, you close the paper and check the date, which read that it had been re-published not but a week ago. You glare at the bold print while reaching to the hanger for your scarf, and, when your hands find nothing but cold air, you turn.

All you find is an empty hanger.

How odd, you think to yourself. It was there but a minute ago, where could it have gone?

You begin to look around the dressing room, before realising what Jammes had hinted at beforehand. Yet, you frown. How could she have gotten in while you weren’t looking? Even if you had been distracted reading the paper, you would have most definitely heard the loud creak of the un-oiled door.

Eyes searching, methodically, around the room, you finally spot the hue of your scarf peeking out from the ajar dressing room door. The tassels lying, spread, across the scuffed wood of the floor.

Exhaling, yet again, you call out for Jammes, who you still swore had left long before you had, and begin to walk across the room.

I don’t know if I’ll even have time to visit the costumers at this rate. I do hope they’re staying late this eve, you try to convince yourself.

The heels of your boots send a resounding click-clack across the now bare room. As you near the door you crouch slightly, you begin to walk on the tips of your toes, like a cat ready to pounce on its prey.

“Jammes…” You mumble out with a smile growing on your face, slowly reaching out to grab your scarf, preparing for a tug of war with a giggling ballet girl, before your scarf zips out from beneath the pads of your fingers.

You scoff, surprised, before peaking your head out of the doorway, like some weary animal, and looking down the left hall. Your scarf sits, innocently down the hall, peaking out of another corner. Mocking you.

It was unusually silent. You didn’t hear a laugh nor giggle come from the teasing girl. Glancing down the other hall, you keep watch for the lamplighter. He is not here yet. Softly, you step out of your dressing room and begin walking down the hall to your beloved scarf.

The oil lamps send shadows down the hall, long, gangly ones that claw at the hem of your dress as you walk forward. Long, gangly ones that you swear whisper in the dark of the halls. Whispers that sound much too like your fellow dancers, asking for you to follow them.

“Jammes?” You call out into the moving mass of darkness.

No reply.

Yet again, as you creep closer to your prize, it is pulled away from your grasp; whisping down another ill-lit hallway.

“Jammes,” You whine, quietly. “This is not funny Jammes. I have to go see the costumers before they leave for the evening.” Despite your worries and growing annoyance, you follow your scarf down hallway after hallway. Ones you find lead deeper into the Opera House, down passages you were sure were only touched by stagehands. Down routes that only the spiders and their webs called home.

Quite admittedly, you begin to grow afraid. Afraid of both the dark and the odd whispers that you pray are simply the evening wind whistling. The gossip of the corps de ballet begins to catch up to you too, murmuring descriptions of a man, a creature, with the body of a corpse; skin rotting off its own bones and the Night itself hiding in the sockets of the ghost’s skull.

Perhaps you are just as paranoid as the brats of the corps de ballet.

Augustine would laugh at me for this, you repeat as your scarf slips out from under your fingers yet again. Just wait until I tell her about my little exertion to morrow morning.

Eventually, you find yourself in a dank hallway deep in the Opera House, near the storage room for all the set pieces, you suppose.

Jammes must have been dared down here by her friends at least once, you reason with yourself.

A trapdoor, locked, sits to the left of you, a bit further up the hall. The wood of the floors let out a cry each step you take; bending around your feet. You fear it may snap from right under you.

“Jammes!” You call out frustratedly. You had spent twenty or so minutes travelling down into the depths of the Opera House for a mear scarf; you could have spoken to the costumers and been on your way home by now! Typically, your cat-and-mouse chase with Jammes only lasts ten or so minutes, for her mother calls on her before she can go too far. You were tired, frustrated and ever so slightly fearful.

As you begin to turn yet another corner, one you would suppose would lead down into the storage rooms and the vaults of the opera, you are met with pitch black itself. It was as if there was a wall of night standing before you; a mirror reflecting a pitch-black sky you couldn’t see.

Out of the void reaches a white, silken gloved hand, holding your scarf, and your scream echoes loudly in the empty hall like the first chords played in a silenced auditorium. Your hand immediately goes to your chest, to squeeze your thumping heart into submission as your lungs heave for Oxygen it doesn’t have.

“Apologies, Monsieur, I…” You try to catch your breath, incomplete thoughts rushing through your brain due to the spike in adrenaline. “...I did not see you.” He wears the type of expensive glove only those who visit the Opera House and its members wear. Clean, white as pure as a dove’s wing, and well made. Immediately you question, mentally, what someone of supposed high status is doing so deep in the belly of the Opera House, especially since there had been no public show today. Further, if Little Jammes is nowhere in sight, then is this who has been leading you around the Opera House with your scarf? Or, perchance, has Jammes given your scarf to him in order not to get caught?

He speaks not a word; you do not even hear him breathe. Your nostrils are met with a terrible stench as a breeze ascends from under the trapdoor and behind the man, sounding more like agonised cries than wind. Mold, stagnant water and…and death. The type of miasma that lingers in your apartment when a trapped animal passes in the cage of your walls; rotting to dust.

Rotting. Rotting flesh. Rotting flesh pulled taught against bones like a drumhead. A horrible image infiltrates your fatigued mind.

You are unable to see a single inch of him other than his silk-covered hand, the beginning of his clean, nicely dyed overcoat and of course, your scarf. In the dim lighting, his hand seems to be trembling, as if holding a tremendous weight. Let alone the grip he seems to have on your scarf; the fabric crinkling under his fingers. Despite him holding it out for you to take, the grip he holds on to it with makes it seem he almost wishes not to let go. Conditioned by years of interacting with the higher class, your mouth immediately goes to asking on his well-being.

“Are you well, Monsieur?” You whisper, emphatically with fear laced in your voice.

The hand reaches further outwards with your scarf, and makes a motion for you to take it. You stand there, between the stagnant air and the man, looking back and forth between your scarf and where you believe his eyes to be.

You look at him with an uncertain stare, before gently reaching out to take your scarf. You approach this like you would approach a wild animal; with slow movements, and careful eye contact. Cautiously, your hand meets the soft fabric of your scarf, as well as the coolness of his gloves.

A shudder seems to run up his arm, and you’re half sure he flinched from your touch. Yet, your scarf remains in an iron-grip, despite your light tugging.

Again, you squint into the void, trying to find his eyes in the dimness of the oil lamps. “...Monsieur?” You mumble, even quieter than before, with an increasing amount of panic in your voice. As if suddenly remembering he’s holding your scarf, he jolts, yet again, and releases it.

Yet, his hand still lingers in the air.

Wrapping the scarf around your neck, you can almost feel his eerie gaze following your hands as you do so. His hand still floats, trembling in the air. It almost seems like he wishes for you to take it. Take it and follow him into the vaults of the opera house. Take it and make you a part of his bone collection.

You waft the idiotic thoughts away from your head with a swift movement of your hand, disguised by pushing the ends of the scarf behind your back.

Idiotically, with worry laced in your movements, you reach out for him again, gingerly placing your hand on his upper arm. A shiver of your own rattles through you, like a cold finger caressing your spine. The pads of your fingers find the expensive threads of his overcoat, and, dear Lord, he is so cold. Even through his coat, you can feel the wintery burn of his skin. He was so bony; ever so skeletal. With such a gentle touch, you felt as if you could crush the bones of his arm.

A half gasp half sob quickly escapes his mouth, regardless of the distraught tone he held, he manages to sigh with perfect pitch and time.

“Forgive me-” Taking a step backwards, you apologise immediately, but you’re met with the quick swish of fabric through the dank air as another foul-smelling wind arises from the trapdoor. It flutters through your hair and causes a chill to settle in your chest. It curls up around your lungs and heart and makes every breath difficult.

Your scarf does nothing to keep you warm.

Most of the dimming oil lamps are quickly blown out by the strong gust, and the little you could see of the man is engulfed by the dark.

Only one oil lamp remains, barely lit, behind you.

Quickly, you step backwards until your back hits the wall, and you reach for the lamp. Unhooking it, you bring it forth to the hall, thrusting it outwards into the void.

There is nothing there other than lingering dust.

Another gust of wind arises, and quickly puts out the lamp. As you now stand in the dark, a cacophony of whispers erupts upon the cold wind.

He’s here, The Phantom of the Opera.

-------------------

I had an unbelievable amount of fun writing this. I'm sorry if this doesn't read completely right; I was doing my best to imitate Gaston Leroux's writing, since I wrote this for Leroux!Phantom rather than Musical Phantom (or any other phantom for that matter). Further, I apologize to any possible ballerinas reading this, for I know the terminology Google and some ballet Tumblr blogs gave me may be incorrect. I know there isn't that much actual Phantom interaction, but I wanted to focus on the more creepy and touch-starved version of him. Either way, thank you for reading <3

Historical Notes:

- Calcium Lights = Another word for limelights

- Théâtre National de l'Opéra = The name given to the Palais Garnier from September, 1870 to January, 1939

- 800 pounds on a Concierge's head = An actual headline written by Gaston Leroux himself. On May 20th, 1896, a performance of the opera Helle was underway when a counterweight, one of multiple that held the chandelier up, broke loose and fell through the ceiling; killing a Concierge on her first (and last) visit to the Palais Garnier, which inspired the falling of the chandelier in Phantom! Forensic investigators later said a nearby electrical wire probably overheated and melted the steel cable holding up the counterweight, causing its fall, yet, for all the superstitious opera workers, it was said to be the famous Opera Ghost. The name used for the concierge is made up.

#phantom of the opera #the phantom of the opera #fanfic #yandere #obsessive love #Phantom of the opera X you #Phantom of the opera x y/n #Phantom of the Opera x reader #no use of y/n #lots of eerie silence #horror #stalking #historically accurate #mel's musings

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