"There is no reason to treat me with such inhospitality."
"Inhospitality?"
Mama said "The fuck you mean inhospitality?"🕴🏿
"Erika now? What happened to your angel of music?"
*pinching the bridge of my nose* "can we not?"
"No man sung like that, with the sinful depth of a baritone, with the high grace of head voice unbetrayed by the twinge of falsetto."
Me: "It's art! A masterpiece, oh dear Lord"
"Before I 𝖐𝖓𝖊𝖜 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲."
*GASP*
"Don't fear me, let me see you."
Me:"Please stop"
Also, I fucking love the prose when we don't have dialogue- it's very observational. I don't fucking know how to explain it, but I also love how it isn't flooded with dialogue. Very orgasmic... Yes, I meant that.
^The illustration above was a commission from @grechkathekasha. This is her work, don’t you DARE post it somewhere else or I’ll throttle you.
Summary: A remix of both the Gaston Leroux novel and the musical to resemble something of my own personal archetype/imagining of the phantom. But make it gay.
Warnings: Leroux accurate violence/murder mentions
A/N: This was a passion project that took a damn YEAR to write with my schedule, shared for the masses and their enjoyment. Because this is such an individual passion of mine, it doesn't make much sense without book and musical knowledge, so I apologize if it's vignette style is confusing/misleading to readers. Au revoir!
Word Count: 7k or so
The auction was a dreary place, dark taupe curtains covering what was once the grand stage of the Opera Populaire. Bidders sat in a sad line of chairs, none speaking with the casual air of Parisian aristocracy. Rain drizzled from the ceiling above, floodlights illuminating the makeshift stage constructed for the showing of each object. Mystery and memory blurred foggy here, each bidder with their own
"Sold! Your number sir?" the auctioneer called. "Lot 665, ladies and gentlemen, a papier-mache musical box, in the shape of a barrel-organ."
A burly porter in a tired suit walked forward, carrying a small monkey with cymbals, the hand-craftmanship clear.
"Attached, the figure of a monkey in Persian robes playing the cymbals. This item, discovered in the vaults of the theatre, still in working order." the auctioneer said, beginning the bid, "Showing here…"
With the twist of a hidden lever, the box sprang to life, monkey delicately clapping two cymbals together with feather-light touch, a melodic tune playing softly from the hidden box. For a moment time seemed to freeze, an elderly gentlemen dressed in a fine tux and overcoat pausing at the music, eyes misty with the memories of a hundred past circumstances.
" May I start at twenty francs? Fifteen, then? Fifteen I am bid." the auction continued, snapping the Vicomte out of his trance.
Two bidders began to slowly fight for the box, a gnarled woman raising her number again, much to the Vicomte's annoyance.
"Do I here twenty-five? Twenty- Thirty? Thirty once? Twice? Sold! To the Vicomte de Chagny."
Returning from the stage the porter moved towards the crouched man, showing him the piece up close. Fine lines deepened as he studied the figurine, weary eyes watery from the dim-light or memory, none dared to draw their attention for too long.
"A collector's piece indeed, every detail exactly as she said," he spoke softly to himself, "She often spoke of you, my friend, your velvet lining, and your figurine of lead. Will you still play, when all the rest of us are dead?"
Drawing one hand to the side, Raoul de Chagny dismissed the porter, leaning heavily against his chair. More bidding would come, more pieces to be pulled and bid for, like gulls scrapping for a piece of bread.
"Lot 666, then: a chandelier in pieces," the auctioneer continued, "Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera; a mystery never fully explained."
The Vicomte sat up noticeably straighter, shoulders pinned back in attention. He knew well enough the mystery, the affair, the atrocities committed in this very opera house.
"We are told ladies and gentlemen, that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous disaster. Our workshops have restored it and fitted up parts of it with wiring for the new electric light," he continued to narrate, voice gaining a theatrical tone, "So that we may get a hint of what it may look like when re- assembled. Perhaps we may frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination, gentlemen?"
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹
Forty years prior…
The most human thing you ever saw Erika do was wash her laundry. Bent over a metal basin, salt and pepper hair obscuring her mask as her hands dove into the sudsy basin, she scrubbed a linen undershirt against the washboard. She looked peculiarly at ease, something uncharacteristic of her, something you knew she struggled with. Back and forth her hands worked, frothing the water beneath oil-lamp light. For all the effort she put into music, the rage-fueled tempo at which her hands would grate a horse-hair bow against her violin, this action itself seemed calming. Milky hands, scarred in odd, criss-crossed patterns up to about the elbow. A sadistic teacher, you'd assumed. In hindsight you seemed more naive than ever.
The wet slap of the cloth against the board ended, tendons flexing in her hands as she made quick work of wringing out the cloth. It was the closest to beautiful she was in your eyes, mundanity making sweet work of her otherwise erratic temperament. The cottage she lived in, though it was better described as a shack, put all of her capricious tendencies on full display. The drying rack was set before the fireplace, several bits of rope broken and retied. There were several holes in the wall, filled with a crude mix of clay and plaster, gently papered over in the original, unstained wallpaper. Every so often the chimney would cease it's filtration, belching ash and soot back into the living room, staining the red furniture almost purple. A single finger drawn against the fabric revealed its original hue, though the black had stained under your nail for days.
Throughout your time spent in captivity in her home, it was never easy to feel welcome. Her cooking was well enough, the bed she supplied you adorned with all of the proper sheets and such, but the very air seemed foul, though Erika assured you the ventilation system she'd constructed remained perfectly functional. On the fifth night of your stay, two nights before the destruction of tender trust between you, the air had been almost sweet. Erika seemed pleased by your noticing, her hands a bit stained with oil from the machine she'd been tinkering at. It was the new vent, Erika said. It sucked air straight from a garden some astonishing meters away. A cherry tree was in bloom, sweetening the air and filling it with the promise of spring, a spring you hadn't yet seen. Sometime in your slumber, the angel of music had slipped into your bedroom with a tender clipping of those same flowers. All this time spent smashed in your diary and the petals still seemed to smell of cherry.
Your captivity in her home had left more questions than answers. Her strange manner of speaking, though filled with large words, were pronounced carelessly, or with tentative recital, like she'd learned them sounding out the phonetics rather than hearing them firsthand. Her drawing room was her respite, filled with musical instruments and inventions alike, though sometimes the two intersected into marvelous music makers. There would be no tender entrance into her world, no sweet invitation to breakfast in the sanctity of her office. You trembled to imagine the potential greeting such an encounter would offer, wrists still raw from the iron grip you'd felt last night.
No sound greeted your ears as you ventured into the main sitting area. The fireplace crackled with dull life, left to burn out with the same disregard she was fabricating around you; merely an illusion, she would never stray so far as to forget. A small platter of bread, eggs and jam sat at one of the coffee tables, left so that you might eat something. Her generosity was something to be noted, no? Perhaps Erika still hoped for your relationship to be mended, though you'd wounded her so terribly.
Each bite of cold egg and stale toast made your stomach turn, though you felt more strongly than ever that refusing food from Erika would be greater insult than refusing the King. Mon ange, a woman with a voice capable of such low tones, almost a baritone, and yet more light and graceful than yours, spilling out high notes in a startling female falsetto. There were not the words to describe how her grasp of music pulled at your soul, how her wounded, solitary nature drew bitter tears of compassion to your eyes. Equal parts affection and terror fused together, love, and admittedly lust. No two women should love as you were beginning to understand you loved Erika, and yet she was such an abysmal individual you almost resented her as much as the love itself.
Least of all was her mask. The carved ivory molded so perfectly to her face, hardly needing a string to keep it in place. Bright eyes peeked out, always far more intelligent than you were ever prepared for, haunted and terrible where you wished they would be tender instead. What her body looked like beneath her appalling choice of men's fashion, one couldn’t know. Her hips flared, though only slightly noticeable from the tailor of her clothes. Her breasts seemed almost flat at times, though you knew them to be there. A roll of bandages, she'd tentatively admitted. Thus she could drop her voice, walk about Paris at certain nights appearing every bit a man as she desired.
"Anonymity is a privilege behind the privilege of masculinity. My dear, I have mastered both." she'd remarked one cold evening.
A ventriloquist, as you'd discovered soon after. And yet there was no true word for Erika's alarming ability to throw her voice around a room without so much as parting her lips. Her genius, her mystery and the occasional magnanimity she had shown you during the winter's captivity here only added to her strange charm. You'd been too brave, assuming she could withstand such an attempt, such an injury from the only person she had come close to trusting. You suffered her to exposure with the removal of her mask. And in turn you suffered her anger as Paris had never seen it.
"There." a voice said, coming from your left, tucked into the wallpaper like a centipede.
You turned, half expecting it to be a cruel trick, to find nothing but an empty doorway staring blankly instead. But there Erika stood, disheveled and glaring, still dressed in the clothes from yesterday night.
"… Angel." you spoke, voice betraying the smallest quiver of fear.
Though you tried to remain composed under her gaze, it was clear you offended her anew with hesitation, by the way you trembled across from her. Erika's eyes flickered, first in hurt, and then fresh rage as her lip curled in disgust.
"Come. You will dress, and then we will return you to your opera colleagues." she spat, hurling a simple pink dress at your stomach.
Return? Hope and humiliation warred low in your belly, fighting against the childish desire to cry, to break apart under her insensitivity. Mistreatment wasn't the correct word for her fit, rather resentment, petty frustrations nailed your heart like barbs.
"There is no reason to treat me with such inhospitality." you answered, clutching the fabric between trembling fingers, as fine as the rest of the garments Erika had ever provided.
"Inhospitality?"
Startled by the growl within her voice, you flinched, reminded once more of the way her terrible malformation had purpled with her anger, how the deformity had almost shrieked with its own fury. And yet it was not truly what you were afraid of in this moment.
"I have fed you, clothed you, taught you, kept you! I have given everything a guest could desire, everything that any better woman would have thanked me ten times over for! And yet you are unsatisfied?" Erika sneered, roughly shoving aside a music stand as she stalked towards you. "Tell me plainly, dear, why you flinch away from me."
Every rumor of the phantom spun slowly in your mind, the terrible tales of the malicious opera ghost that taxed its owners twenty thousand francs a month, left ballet girls trembling with the crack of a stage prop, a man injured by a falling beam after jeering up at the rafters. There was no doubt that Erika's anger had terrible consequences. But the worst of all was knowing how split her personality was, how remorse and guilt would follow soon after.
"Erika, please-" you tried, to no avail.
"Erika now? What happened to your angel of music?" Erika taunted, drawing closer. "It is my deformity, I know it! You fear me as the rest, despise me as the rest! You see the angel fallen and you flinch away from my every word!"
"Stop shouting!"
Your yelp seemed only to inspire more disgust, a blur of grey-black hair the final fragment of her figure before she slammed the door shut to her study. You waited for the infernal blare of the organ, perhaps the shrill wail of a violin, but were met only with silence. There would be no more explanation, no more requests to be made. Breakfast sat like a rock in your stomach as you changed in my chambers, the intricacy of the silk feeling only too rich.
Beautiful pink, perhaps even a pastel orange glowed with the complexion of your skin. To love a beast, was that what this was? To stand in a room she'd decorated for you, cleaned for you, altered for you, and to be afraid regardless? The days in her imprisonment had passed, had bled together until you felt compelled to call this place your home. But to return to Paris? To live with the other ballet brats and dance until your feet ached? To endure such a change was not one you felt incapable of, but to do it now? Without your angel of music and the soft tremble of the woman behind the mask?
Hands pale as the mask she had carved with them, tender and so timid when they rested on your back, bearing the pressure intended to flare your ribs, to engage your diaphragm and sing, sing, with the beauty of a lark fully consumed in the song of spring. What was the Paris opera without her touch? Without Erika's promise of comfort, of guidance and tutelage?
Feet moved forward, toes covered in soft moccasins padding out into the living room with new purpose. No world would be the same without Erika's touch on it, without the minuscule imprints of her fingers in the clay of creation.
"You're ready." she stated, voice stopping you in your tracks.
Cloak in place, short hair combed back into a sleek coil stood Erika, your guardian, cape pulled tight around her shoulders, lantern in hand.
"We leave now."
The dim light of Erika's underground lake house glowed ominously as she led you towards the door, the last object to greet you remaining a monkey marionette, still in pieces, still remaining to be finished.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹
Wind chilled your neck as you moved through the quiet streets of Paris. The changes at the opera house were too fast to understand, the new ownership of the building, the proposal of Raoul, a childhood friend from Nice. And yet she haunted you, a smell of jasmine and sage hanging close to your dressing room mirror. The call of the void, of the wild desires she'd instilled turned you to wandering aimlessly some nights, no chaperone or guardian to guide you, to watch closely after a young woman walking after dark.
Melody haunted you this night, the soft tune of the monkey's music box spinning itself in slow circles through your mind. Gentle steps pulled you closer towards the cemetery, your thin shoes too cold for the winter air. Six months without the whisper of Erika's voice in your dressing room, six months spent singing as the Primadonna of the Opera Populaire.
"There is no greater threat to femininity than solitude, my lady." a gentleman to your right warbled.
The ends of your hair raised at once, body stalling with the hypnotic resonance of his voice. Your arm raised without intention, looped firmly into the grasp of a leather glove. Feet moved to his rhythm, steps careful and soundless as your chaperone pressed forward to the opera house. Not a word was spoken, keys rattling with a dull 'ching' as you were let inside.
It was just in your bed, curled into the soft damask cocoon of your bed curtains did you recognize the individual. Not a single man alive could produce such a beautiful command, the subtle consonants rendering you hypnotized; compliant. Only one person alive had that power, and he was no man at all.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹
The Opera Populaire glowed with Halloween festivities. Candles burned bright, music blared from quartets in every corner of the opera. A night of celebration, six months of peace without one threat from the phantom. The opera ghost had all but disappeared, leaving nothing but the present to worry after. And your present sang with potential.
"Ladies and gentlemen, ladies, gentlemen!" a short man wearing a bear mask persistently called, tapping a knife against crystal glass in increasing 'tings.'
You paused, letting your arms rest in the hands of your childhood friend, Rauol de Chagny, and current courtier for your affections.
"It is with great honor, and tremendous bliss that the Opera Populaire be unveiled in its pristine beauty for this momentous occasion, this wonderful display of…"
Amidst the ballroom decorated for the festivities hung several pristine chandeliers, gilded with gold leaf painstakingly applied across a ceiling mural painted in swatches of baby blue and ballet slipper pink, resembling a sky just beginning to turn with the sunset. Erika had once muttered about the integrity of the murals, driven by her resentment of the artist. Her primary complaint lay in the detail he used in painting clouds, "too floral to be real." You'd laughed then, amused that she would have even known a man. This was before you understood the true magnitude of her genius, before you had stood paralyzed like a moth in lamplight under the weight of a gaze so intense it shattered your soul into a few sole notes.
That was the night you'd sang under her tutelage, truly sang with the whole base of your being. It had frightened you to tears, collapsing at her feet in frightened sobs. To be consumed by your own voice, to press outward through your lungs until nothing else remained, that was what Erika demanded of you.
She'd soothed your exhausted mind with tales from her past, of the time she spent in a Persian prince’s home, sculpting and building a palace soon to be occupied by his entire harem. Each woman she described in jewel tones, one sapphire blue courtesan that sang and played the sitar. Another, emerald green, who danced and climbed aerial silks up, up, up, to the highest point on the vaulted ceiling, only do tumble down until she was suspended mere centimeters from the ground. Onyx, jasper, tourmaline and more. For each gem you named, Erika had a story of a woman from this distant place, of an enigma she'd witnessed while carving pillars of marble and limestone.
"This all really happened?" you whispered, staring up in dim candlelight at the ivory carved mask.
"Where do you think these carpets beneath your feet come from?" she'd answered, carefully tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear.
Perhaps it was the dimness of the room that brought on such musings, staring up at the dim ceiling and wondering quietly if Erika was staring down at you, watching through one of her many peepholes. Only your gaze caught a single note falling down, careening like a leaf through the night sky. It landed at your feet, deliberately gilded with the same gold leaf of the crown molding.
"… Raoul, wait!" you gasped, watching your suitor pick it up in modest curiosity.
He read it once, brow furrowing in confusion at the scribble of letters you recognized with merely a passing glance. Once, twice, you reached for it, catching it with a frustrated grunt. The back was blank, smooth parchment wrinkled by your consistent attempts to snatch it back from Raoul. Written in swooping scrawls, almost too even to be from a carpenter's hand lie a single message: Mon ange, don't look up.
It wasn't Erika's hand that prevented you the grief of seeing Petyr Ivol's body suspended from the ceiling with a single red noose. It was Raoul, valiantly shielding you against the screams of an entire ballroom, who dragged you out into the cold night air.
You'd kissed him then, whispered sweet promises of affection out of fear, valiantly fighting for a semblance of control. The Phantom of the Opera was the true master of your ensemble, of the cast and the show, of even the stagehands who had once tormented young ballet girls with tales of a monster hiding in the shadows. He had only whispered, only dared to face the truth in a caricature of a story, not lived to see such a monster.
But you who knew her, knew what lie deep in the bones of the catacombs remained trembling in your bed far longer than any of the others. The Phantom demanded his salary, a note tied to the body declared. Three days later, an opera appeared in a galleyway, stapled with the names of the owners of the Populaire. Don Juan Triumphant, it was titled. And you were to be its Primadonna.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹
Dark was the cape your scene partner wore, perfectly encompassing Paggicio's form. Scanning the opera boxes with slight trepidation, you wondered at what fresh horror would befall the performance, what wrath the phantom had planned for the night. Only the bright stage lights burned back at you, audience waiting with bated breath for this next scene.
"… Past the point of no return…" the voice began again, silky and tempting as the choreography displayed, feet moving like water over the stage. "Our games of make believe are at an end."
Your breath caught in your lungs, as stiff as the rest of your body on the bench. Shivers of delight, of passion came with his voice. Note and vowel spun together like silk, inflected across your spine with subtle twinge of tamber and inflection. A beautiful performance, clouding your mind like spider's silk. Brief fear slid slick like an eel down your spine, the prop goblet in your hand trembling slightly as you mimed drinking. Stage nerves, you assumed
"Past the point of 'if', or 'when'…" your scene partner continued, "No use resisting! Abandon thought and let the dream desceeeeeend…."
Graceful and smooth was your choreography, far more defined and fluid than rehearsals. Even Paggicio's grip on your wrist was firm, controlled with enough leeway for you to skip through your spins to the practiced perch at the bench. Still something felt wrong about Paggicio's pronunciation, some thin accent the man had never sung with, hardly an Italian dialect. The audience didn't favor doubt, too many eyes to be so concerned with nothing but Erika's opera.
"Past the point of no return, the final threshold;" he continued, hand sliding up your corseted sides, "What warm unspoken secrets will we learn?"
Too firm were the strokes, too desiring against your hands. Clutching firmly at your hand, raising it up to your bodice… Paggicio didn't smell of oil, of handmade soap and vanilla bean extract. Animal terror welled slowly, burning at your gut as a hand certainly familiar to you drew closer and closer to your covered breast.
"Beyond the point of no return?" the voice continued, the smallest hint of vibrato betraying a mastery Paggicio had never possessed.
No man sung like that, with the sinful depth of a baritone, with the high grace of head voice unbetrayed by the twinge of falsetto. It wasn't natural, how comfortable this covered singer was in the alto range, how rich the notes were compared to Paggicio's high vibrato, the notes he had resolutely declared as 'beyond his range, or did the composer intend him to go mute?'
Dark stage filled your sight as you dashed away, spinning under the stage lights to face the masked man. But he was no man, none at all. This had been a trap from the start.
"You have brought me to that moment where words run dry, to that moment where speech disappears into silence… Silence…" you sang, the insidious duality of the lyrics slowly dawning on you as you stared across from the very writer of them.
Sitting neatly on the bench, surely watching beneath the black hood was a figure too slight to ever be mistaken for Paggicio, he was too fat! The comments about his weight, the Phantom's cruel insinuation that he ate too many pastries, consumed too much wine… How much planning, how much work had Erika gone through to ensure this very moment, a place where she could court you, envelop you in her presence where no exits lay?
"In my mind I've already imagined our bodies entwining, defenseless, and silent," you sang, choreography and adrenaline keeping the performer alive in you, watching over Erika's shoulder at the audience watching, "And now I am here with you, no second thoughts, I've decided… Decided…"
What composure Erika had rattled slid neatly back into place. The refrain slid slowly over your lips, each word pronounced with the kind of accuracy the angel of music had toiled over you for months. A performance, is that what the angel of darkness wished? She would have it, most certainly.
"Past all thoughts of 'right' or 'wrong', one final question…" you sang, watching as your scene partner seemed to tremble with joy beneath the black robe, "How long should we to wait, before we're one?"
Sliding her hands up her body, you watched with fascination as they visibly trembled, Erika's hands clammy with nerves as you grasped them in yours.
"When will the blood began to race? The sleeping bud burst into bloom, when will the flames at last consume us?" you sung, pressing yourself far closer to her than you'd ever dared with Paggicio.
The trembles you felt, the breath hot and heavy beneath the cloth growled with rage as you released her, breaking from the choreography as she dragged you across the stage, digging hard into the flesh of your arms.
"The bridge is crossed so stand and watch it burn!" she howled, voice carrying above yours and filling the auditorium with her fury.
"We've passed the point of no return-"
One motion, the cloth flung over her shoulders was all it took to reveal her to the world. Porcelain pressed into her cheek, peppered hair wet with perspiration as it clung to her unobscured forehead. Not one of you moved, both lacking the courage to step close, to shatter the astonished reverie of the audience.
She, clad in trousers and a shirt stained with sweat, she stared down at you, panting beneath stage lights designed for illumination, not comfort. Vulnerable, exposed, the legend and torment of an entire opera troop staring blankly at you beneath the gentry of Paris.
"Mon ange…" she whispered, drawing close to you, hands extending up to ribs she had only clasped a few moments earlier.
To touch you, to fondle you in front of an entire audience in a choreography so grotesquely obscene, to sing in sprawling double entendres of the passion she felt burning through her soul, to have your voice echo twin desires in lyrics written for her own gain… Your foot slid harshly against blackened hardwood, searching for purchase in heels too high for true balance, stage shoes she'd certainly picked.
"No…" you whispered, shaking your head once.
"Sing with me, the rest of the opera," she answered, searching for your elbow, "They don't know it isn't meant to be this way, the orchestra will play if you sing."
"I won't, I can't."
"Yes, yes, sing the next lyric, sing it for me, sing."
"No, I won't, you can't make me!"
"Sing! Sing!" she growled, pressing down into a register that resembled a lion's roar.
"No, no, NO!"
Harder she grabbed for you, harder you pulled, trying desperately to make it to the edge of the stage where Raoul stood in shock, where police remained standing should you cry out for help should you-
"Release me!"
One pull of ivory. That's all it took to shove the mask off, to reveal the true terror of your soul to the world. One trapdoor. That's all it took for her to haul you downward, pressing you through handmade tunnels, through stone lit only by Erika's memory.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹
"How was I supposed to love you from the sidelines?" she gasped, eyes wet and wide , devoid of the covering of her mask, "Like a spectator? Viewing the show of my creation with circus peanuts?" she spat, veins bulging from her temples.
The white dress of your costume felt all too restricting, cutting off the vital flow of oxygen through your lungs. You couldn't breathe, could barely speak as Erika paced like a woman possessed; a victim of her own immovable ambition. More terrifying than her deformity laid bare, more terrifying than the striations of purple and red splattered like wine across her face was the wolfish look in her eye. A hunger for blood, a lust for revenge, a lust for all life had denied her.
"You have harmed innocent people, you took the lives of innocent-"
"Do not speak to me of innocence!"
Both of her hands outstretched, grasping firmly at the meat of your arms. Your yelp of pain only seemed to antagonize her further, a snarl of pearl white teeth all you could see from the corner of your eyes.
"I do not hurt you, don't be so pathetic. You are a singer, not a ballet girl! I know what I've made, I know how strong I have made you!"
"You're scaring me!" you gasped, stumbling down the dim sewers towards the swaying gondola.
"Ha!" she shrieked, laughing like a harpy as you trembled in her grasp. "You would claim such a terror!"
The gondola was as unstable and jagged beneath Erika's furious hands, rocking to and fro like a see saw. Your captor only seemed to press forward with every successive paddle, gliding through the labyrinth of interlocking tunnels with more ardor than your first journey. Not a word was spoken, rather only the sounds of water rushing through the canal and Erika's own furious breathing stirring your imagination.
The phantom's abode sprung out of the underground lake like the gates of old Valhalla, unearthly and opaque in the lantern light. Each wooden board of the dock seemed to be made of the fog surrounding it, your feet sinking down grotesquely as you stumbled forward under Erika's murderous gaze.
"Ah, see how beautiful your prison is? How radiant it is this night?" Erika sneered, tying off the boat with maniacal glee, "It sings to its mistress, it yearns for her virginal embrace!"
Each step seemed to draw you closer and closer to collapse, trembling hands clawing at a nearby pole for support. You were dizzy with fear, uncertainty and terror, too afraid to gaze at the house you had once considered a home, too ashamed to look back at the woman who had built it. Erika had always been beautiful to you, lamplight had crafted an ethereal beauty that shone in the hollows of her cheekbones, the concave of her eyebrows. Lips you'd wished after, traced in your imagination puckered thoughtfully when she worked. But even the deformity, of which you knew it to be, could not fully puncture her beauty. White hair sprouting from her pale temple blended beautifully into the purple, blue eye just as vibrant as its twin set in perfect porcelain.
What terrified you now could never be her face, it would never be something so shallow as her body. The soul that lay beneath it haunted you more, the beauty you found in her tender care with you polluted like the deformity of her face, brackish and diseased with wrath.
"Oh, does my bride dwaddle at my door?" she crooned, boards creaking beneath her feet. "Ah! She waits but for her groom to carry her over the mantle!"
One glance at her expression and you would know for certain that this was all another game to the angel of darkness, a sarcastic farce at what would never be a true ritual of love. And yet you crumpled into her arms the moment they slid under your legs, grateful for the alarming strength of your captor. The dizziness you felt upon disembarking was still substantial enough that you worried of fainting, resting your feverish cheek against her shoulder. She smelled of tobacco.
CReeeaaAAAkkkKK
The groan of the door had it's own musicality, sending an ominous shiver down your spine. Spectral wind rushed through the cabin as you entered, glue and sulfur rushing in to pucker your nose. Electric light whizzed to life at the touch of a switch, warm incandescent light filling the room you already knew by heart. She dropped you to the floor, a pool of white silk and satin floating to her carpeted floor.
"There. You are home, wife." she spat, jab more hollow than venomous.
Moving around the room with slowing momentum, you watched from the corner of your eye as she arranged various papers and dishes with unnatural calmness. Fresh despair sang in your blood, re-igniting every ember of loathing you'd suppressed for this trickster, this two-faced harbinger of enmity and passion.
"Are you satisfied with yourself? Every life ended, every drop of blood spilt, has it all amounted to your desired outcome?"
Her hands slowed their arranging of papers, puckered flesh turning in the yellow light to glare at you head on.
"My appetites for blood, for violence, as you are so inclined to remind me of, are of the same nature as this deformity you hate so!"
With a wail of rage she sprung forward, grasping at your shoulders as the right side of her face bore down on you in all of its ghastly disfigurement.
"See it! Revel in it's corpulent hideousness!"
Red and purple puckers, the way her face twisted in one motion with each of her words blurred with each of her words, swimming in a sea of vermouth and indigo as tears welled in your eyes.
"I'm no longer afraid of your face. It is the twin distortion of your soul that holds the horror I feel so deeply now." you whispered, hands trembling in your lap.
The floor sagged towards you as you were released, despondent sobs dry and noiseless as you clung to the bear rug beneath your hands. To be trapped here with the Erika of eighteen months ago would have been a blessing. Nights spent with her songs, learning how to make pasta as she had done in Venice some years before, perhaps reinvent the kaleidoscope as she was attempting to do, throw your voice with the same perfect accuracy as she was capable of. Blood stained it all now, cherry blossoms dried and withered, springtime faded into a terrible, dry autumn.
"… You believe I would ever hurt you?" she murmured, a twin sob complimenting your own.
Shuffling hands reached out towards your own, grasping uselessly at fingers cold with hate.
"My love, my angel of music, please, I beg you-"
"Release me!" you screamed, twisting away from her from beds of satin. "You liar! You falsifier! I believed you, I believed you!"
"Believed what? My love? My devotion, was that never clear enough for you? I will burn down all of Paris if I must-"
"I wanted you!" sobbed your own anger, hands pulling and hitting at hers as she grasped repeatedly.
"Then you shall have me, body and soul…"
"Before I knew what you were."
Haggard eyes blinked unbelievingly across from you.
"A murderer. A deceiver. A false angel."
Anger, despair, terror and more complex emotions swam over her stuttering face. Ennui would be next, the worst of her moods, the most dangerous. A twin change was happening in your own soul, resentment and hatred condensing into a cesspit of slow-burning wrath.
"… I see I have corrupted you." she whispered, lower lip trembling just slightly, "… An angel of the dark cannot create another angel, I've ruined what was unsoiled. I see it now."
The bones of her knees cracked as she rose, stacking one limb atop the other until she towered over you, watching with expressionless intensity. You stared up at her, hands fisted in a white wedding gown.
"You've ruined me, is that your judgment?" you whispered, trembling at her feet. "Like a failed song, a melody too temperamental for your penmanship? Too wild?"
Erika's face spasmed once, tears brimming in her eyes for all too brief a moment.
"Go pity someone else. It's too late to lament what is already done." she turned, spinning on her heel and leaving to haunt her office.
The torches of Paris burned bright that night, police inspectors wading through the catacombs, voices loud and raucous as they searched for the Phantom, the murderer and fiend responsible for the misery of the public. You sat until dawn, cold metal around your finger warming with every immobile minute spent staring in the direction of her office. Only exhaustion claimed you, leaving you slumped against a tattered Persian rug.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹
Soft cotton cocooned every inch of your body. Dark damask curtains framed the bed, a nearby candle burning low. Not a fiber in your body ached for anything but more rest, a lifetime you could spend here, curled in a bed you cared not to decipher.
The wedding dress was gone, only a thin chemise remained. Your hair was undone of the headdress of the performance, your hair loose and wild against silk pillows. The phantom's work, surely. Done in your sleep, done without the barest twitch of your body. To be so defenseless, trusting in her grasp was injury in itself. But to be touched, toyed with, manipulated… Recoiling inward, turning from the light you hid. A body met yours, flinching immediately at your touch. Dark, salt and pepper hair splayed wildly against a pillow, a men's nightshirt covering her back.
She did not speak, assuming your movement to be involuntary, sleepy and innocent. Not a word left your mouth, eyes shutting immediately to avoid detection. So you wished, silently and as hard as you could, that this was a dream. That you'd wake in your dormitory in Paris, Meg Giry asleep beside you in a twin bed identical to yours. That this year had never gone by, that your world existed only as a ritual of dancing, soft singing in front of your mirror. No angels, no phantoms, no music besides your own.
But as you drifted back to sleep, curled into the warmth created by two bodies, a soft voice whispered quietly beside you, singing the slightest lullaby. A world without Erika's music was no world at all, none that you wanted anyhow. So when she sung a bit louder, voice sweet as candied almonds and resonant like an organ's echo, you prayed again. Not for the impossible, the constant passage of time to be unwound like string in your feeble hands, but for courage. Courage to love, to bear the strangeness of your companion, to show outwardly what you knew to be the balm to your torment.
One hand slid forwards, across the space between two bodies in a modest double bed. Ribs fluttered under your hand like a startled bird, her entire body seizing in shock.
"… Wife." she whispered, voice raspy and breathless.
"Yes?" you answered, heart thumping in your chest as you moved closer, carefully pressing close to your angel of music.
A small surge of desire burned through you, the same twinge of fire that had ignited when you'd performed hours earlier with her in front of all of Paris. No barriers existed now, no games to be played. Still you felt flushed with hesitation, the darkness of the room no true barrier between the two of you.
"Angel?" you found yourself whispering, fingers inching closer to that face on the pillow.
"I am no angel." Erika choked out, both of her hands fisted firmly into the sheets.
Her breath was hot as you leaned in, hovering above her prone form. You dared not touch her face first, rather placing both hands gently on her shoulder before your right inched up, cupping one smooth cheek.
"Will you let me go if I wish?" you asked softly, carefully stroking at her face with your thumb.
"… I know no world without you."
A single tear slid down against your thumb, wet and warm with emotion.
"But if I wished?"
Two noses brushed in the dark, the phantom's laborious breaths the only sound you heard in that dark room. She trembled with every breath, hands still fastened firmly at her sides, too afraid to touch, to consume with the true intensity of her restrained desires.
"I cannot keep you to myself," she sobbed, "No more than a man can keep the morning dew that graces green fields."
Blooming softly in your heart, with the same slow assurance it had first begun, you felt surely that you must love Erika. Desire, disgust, fear and loathing had burned too hot, too fast through your experiences. Not one clung solidly, none except the tender affections you'd felt at the first whispered song spoken so many months ago at your boudoir.
"But you're no man." came your reply, more tenderly spoken than the rest.
Erika moaned in relief as you spoke, hands finally grasping firmly at your waist, feverishly stroking over the thin chemise she'd left untouched.
"Angel, mon ange-"
The calloused hands that you'd seen work so firmly at chores, grasp with hideous strength at the levers of her inventions could not have been more feather-light, more delicate. She touched like she was learning how to cradle water, tracing the curve of your shoulders, your spine, finally cupping the back of your skull in perfect devotion.
The pads of your fingers stroked carefully at her unmarred face, cheekbones, eyebrows, even teasing the sharp curve of her jaw up into her ear. She shivered when you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to one wet cheek, yelping when you cradled the left side of her neck.
"Don't fear me, let me see you." you whispered between kisses, tracing the curve of her nose down, veering to the left side by a hair.
She gripped at your hips, firm and defensive, bracing herself to throw, to turn, to prevent the touch of your lips against her deformity. There was nothing you could do or say to prepare her for that invasion, to so senselessly adore the one thing she could only despise. So you did the next senseless thing you could imagine; you kissed her.
Every fiber of tension in Erika's body went lax, tensed again, and then melted entirely, mouth bowing slowly, pressed against yours. She did not flinch away as you cupped both sides of her face, too overwhelmed by your sweet kisses, peppered slow and gently against her mouth. Only when you tried to pull away did she make a sound, whimpering softly like a deserted kitten.
"Shh, shh." you soothed, stroking a hand through peppery hair.
Her mouth bobbed, quivering as she fought for air, for words, for strength. The second kiss she reciprocated, moving her lips ever so carefully against yours. The stutter of her ribcage beneath your hands, the way with which she moved her lips so carefully, like arranging the pieces of some impossible puzzle to fit, it filled your heart with warmth.
Rebecca Ferguson characters x Reality TV shows. Aka, which show would they likely be on, and how would it go.
I'm sick again, lets turn this into a tradition.
Juliette Nichols - Silo
Survivor
Juliette would somehow accidentally become the best contestant in the show's history
But at the same time all the other contestants hate her because she's so bad at the social strategy aspect
She despises alliances and is sort of just on her own all the time, building shelter and water filtration systems while glaring at the others
She's constantly winning the immunity challenges and doesn't even know why herself
People are constantly trying to start drama with her but she's way too clueless so she never partakes
"If you guys would like, shut up for a moment and focus on surviving we wouldn't be having this problem."
She ends up winning the 1 million but actually doesn't want to go home afterwards, and ends up spending the money on another holiday far away from everyone
Jessica Atreides - Dune
The Traitors
Jessica is IN her element in this show
She knows every liar before they've even said a word yet
In the end she manages to become almost a religious figure in a REALITY SHOW, and the entire cast just sort of does whatever she tells
"Could you get me a water-" "YES MOTHER JESSICA"
Every other contestant is having an absolute rollercoaster and a horrible time because of her but Jessica is taking a nap
Either she ends up being a Faithful and wins with everyone, or she's a Traitor and everyone's crying and breaking down
Maybe she's even doing therapy/psycho analysing sessions with the other contestants at random points of the show
"I can tell by how overly friendly you are that you have attachment issues…" Oh, okay, cool, can we go back to voting now?
Morgana - The kid who would be King
Love Island
Bringing her on this show was a big mistake, this would be a fucking catastrophe
Let's be honest, she's just on this show to fuck and be a menace
Steals EVERYONE'S partners just to make a point and is never loyal to anyone, there is absolutely no strategy to this, just chaos
Oh my God, the producers LOVE her
She treats every challenge with medieval seriousness, as if she's on trial as a witch
She's at once deeply seductive and sensual and socially feral
All throughout the show she also talks like she's out of a medieval period piece, because she sort of is
"COWARDICE IS UNBECOMING" and "YOU WILL ALL BURN, WORM HEADS"
Ends up leaving the show and losing but actively sets everyone up for failure and metaphorically setting everything on fire, then immediately goes and fucks a producer because why not
Jenny Lind - The Greatest Showman
The Great British Bake Off
I was a bit between putting her in The Voice or this but I feel like she'd fit so well in a bake off competition oh my God
She'd give off that “widowed in 1892” vibes and would be every other contestants favourite, plus, the judges adore her
Maybe she even has a Youtube baking channel where she's just staring at the camera with the best asmr voice while baking absolute masterpieces
Halfway through the competition everyone else sort of realise "oh shit, yeah, we're like competing against this woman", she is competent competent
Her bakes are amazingly beautiful, kind of old fashioned. She loves tinkering around with decorating the cakes, making stunning marzipan and fondant flowers, chocolate stencils and icing swirls, the whole nine rounds. So time is her greatest enemy in this competition
She cries exactly once over overproved dough and the internet never recovers
She may not end up wining the competition in the end but she wins everyone's hearts
Riza Stavros - MIB
Shark Tank
Riza isn't exactly pitching a business proposal, she's pitching an entire scheme
She steps into that room with a whiteboard and giant arm movements as she explains a practical heist while subtly threatening the hosts, all while looking like that meme of the guy with the whiteboard
Mark Cuban absolutely tries to invest while the producers are contemplating calling the police
"Guys, guys, give me a month, I swear,"
She somehow gets the deal in the end but the hosts are visibly shaken
Cut to when the product is then later banned internationally
Mae - Reminiscence
Too Hot to Handle
Again, I was thinking about putting her in The Voice as well but just walk with me okay
Mae enters this show entirely planning to mind her own business, but unfortunately for her, she's got mad intense divorced noir protagonist energy and everyone else is instantly intrigued
Additionally she's got that devastating eye contact and "I can fix you" energy
And everyone wants to be fixed by Mae
She forms an intense, deep and emotionally unhealthy, parasocial connection with every other contestant and they immediately unravel when they're around her
She's kind of a confessional personified and she doesn't even know why herself
throughout the entire show she's just sort of chronically confused
Also, the editors use excessive slow motion whenever she’s onscreen
Rose the Hat - Doctor Sleep
Ghost Adventures
This would be almost too perfect
Zak Bagans is just trying to do his thing, narrating and talking and she is all up in his business
Zak: "Did you hear-" Rose: "Yes. Yes I did."
Bro she is having the time of her life on this show, I feel like the ghosts would be scared of her
Whenever she's on camera, the paranormal occurrences just triple in amount, they keep hearing mysterious whispers, there's figures at corners and she's just walking around info dumping about everything
Nobody on the show leaves psychologically intact and Rose is having herself a wonderful time
The producers despise her because she keeps interrupting and correcting everyone, but at the same time she's also trying to seduce them
Ilsa Faust - Mission Impossible
The Amazing Race
This is kind of unfair because Ilsa would dominate the format completely, but that's also why she went on the show. For shits and giggles
She speaks multiple languages, can drive literally anything, can blend in anywhere, never panics under pressure and somehow looks amazing even after 26 hours of being awake
The only problem is that whatever poor soul she brought on as her partner is having the worst experience of their life
She'd keeping saying things like "No no no, we'll sleep after this border cross" and her partner already knows she's lying because she said that at the last goddamn border cross as well
At some point they probably bought a taxi ride, and when the driver is not going fast enough she just throws herself across to the driver's seat and hogs the steering wheel like this is a life or death situation, "here, let me-". (meanwhile the driver and her partner are both screaming btw)
Also she definitely seduces at least one rival team for information while at a meetup point, just for shits and giggles, again
Bonus! Hell's Kitchen. All of them together! 😨
Gordon Ramsay medically retires after this
Juliette keeps repairing kitchenware mid competition and complaining about the quality of the oven
Jessica is tearing HIM apart for some reason
Morgana threatens the cameraman with a ladle
Jenny is the only one actually cooking
Rose is having a bit too good of a time
Ilsa is running the entire show like a prison yard
Mae is outside smoking while staring contemplatively into the distance
Riza commits corporate espionage against the blue team
Tags: @mlovelore @hecatescrystaldagger @k-mzy @astrids2th @grechkathekasha @bjoerkumlaut @whatever-lmaoo and literally anyone else who sees this and goes ‘hey i wanna do that 🙈’
Summary: All cycles have to close. Whether they repeat or complete metamorphosis is ultimately up to you.
Warnings: Wounds, angst, hurt/comfort
A/N: Thank you for coming on the journey with me for one of my most popular, and memorable series. I’ve grown so much as a writer, even my first chapter feels like a century ago. Turning twenty wouldn’t be quite as special without this series and the readers patient enough to wait for its conclusion. Thank you for inspiring me and keeping me going through this journey. Kisses and hugs, brava! (Read alongside 'Nessun Dorma' covered by Aretha Franklin for extra drama!)
Words: 6.4k
Ilsa's ribs trembled against your hand as you soothed her like a child. For the second morning in a row she'd woken from another nightmare, shrieking and clawing at the sheets like an intruder was laying against her instead of cotton. Both of her arms were fastened around you neck, tight like a noose as she shuddered, a leaf ready to fall from a hibernating branch. She was bare, like she'd been the night before. The humidity was unbearable, no amount of showers, soaks in the tub or cold drinks ever killed the constant swell of sweat under your breasts, between your thighs. Skin stuck to skin as she gasped, slowly coming to as her terror abated.
"Ilsa." you murmured, her name a lullaby.
It was too early to get up, the digital clock reading a dull 4:33 against the dim light of your bedroom. She didn't stir, too weak or too shy, you weren't sure. The bed gave as you returned to rest, her limbs tangled with yours, ivy and stone curled together against the backdrop of the early morning. Every dip of her stomach as she breathed seemed to bring her closer until she was sat flush against you, breast to breast, pubic bones inches away between tangled legs.
"I can't let you leave." Ilsa said, stronger than she'd said yesterday, after she'd tied you to the bed for even hinting at taking a walk.
There was no response to give as you brushed your lips against her forehead, amusing yourself with the pleasurable sensation of contact. It was the same dance all over again. Obsession, possession, unbearable proximity and eventual degrading. Ilsa didn't have the stamina for this round, even if she didn't admit it. She wasn't sleeping well, even with the sleep aids you slipped into her tea. Truly you had no intention of ever leaving, at least not in the near future. But Ilsa couldn't know that. There was no mercy you could grant her, not really.
"When are you going to give this up?" you answered, softly stroking a hand through the dark roots of her hair.
Even in the dim light the gray in her hair was becoming obvious. Sexy, charming and soon to be covered by another swatch of blond box dye. You kissed her hairline, softer now. This wasn't craving, like it had been the first months. It wasn't loyalty either, even if Ilsa inspired a certain degree of fealty in you. She didn't answer your question, nuzzling softly against your collarbone instead, snuffling like a babe searching for a breast.
"I need you."
"I know, darling." another stroke of her head as she relaxed once again.
Ilsa, for better or worse, was here to stay. No fight, no terrible revelation of the past would change that. But it was only you who was able to see that, stroking the lines of her spine as she finally quieted. Even as sleep took her, her neck was still tense beneath your hand.
←:→
A week ago you had been ready to leave, to pack what was easily considered yours and escape to the countryside. A half-full suitcase was all that was left of your master escape, pushed to the side of your bedroom, lid open as clothes spilled out of one side. You hadn't mustered the courage to unpack it yet, even with your favorite pajamas perched on top.
The kitchen sink was in a similar state of disorder when the two of you made it down for breakfast. Glasses and dishes from the last week drew flies, giving the space a sour odor that only made the act of scrounging up breakfast more unbearable. Ilsa didn't lift a finger, whether she refused or simply couldn't you had yet to discern. All that remained constant was her need for touch, for validation and whatever scraps of routine remained. You made coffee for yourself, tea for her. She sat in your lap on the couch, zoning out as another cutesy movie played in front of her. The world, the physical phenomena around Ilsa seemed to be all but dead. Only you brought her out of it, cradling her as she sipped down hot tea.
"Ilsa." you murmured, once she'd drunk most of it. "Let's shower."
The suggestion was the first shudder in what had made up this monotonous routine. Ilsa's anxiety was physically apparent as she walked up the stairs, the hairs on her arms standing up as the bathroom door shut behind you. You swore you saw her lip tremble as you undressed, blue eyes wide and glassy like polished marble as she went through the mechanical motions of pulling off the robe she'd wrapped herself in. A small disruption of routine brought the entirety of Ilsa's nervous system into a state of perpetual panic, no matter how you tried to redirect her.
In the shower she clung to you, crying softly as you washed her hair. By now her body was trembling, shaking beneath the motions of your hands. You knew better than to assume this pain was one you'd caused, or one you could heal. It had begun far before you walked into this bathroom, before Ilsa walked into your apartment and abducted you, before she even knew your name. Maybe it was the threat of you leaving that had finally unraveled her, a house of cards folding in on itself with one puff of wind. She needed help, badly. So did you.
"Ilsa, Ilsa, come on honey." you whispered, rubbing firm circles up and down her spine.
"No." she moaned, brow spasming. "I can't. No."
"Can't what? Dammit Ilsa!" you broke, equally overwhelmed. "You can't what, stay in this with me? Can't live with-"
"No! I can't stay. Anywhere."
Against the red-rimmed oval of her eyes, Ilsa's gaze was startlingly blue, an ocean of color you knew, but not the staggering truth behind it.
"I ran for years. Years! One mission after another, a whole folder full of confirmed kills and… And this is too risky. I'm too risky." she hiccuped, wet hair plastered like an oil spill against her head. "I have a target the size of London on my back, do you understand?"
"So what?" you returned, head shaking back and forth unconsciously. "You are the one that did this! You begged me to stay, drugged me, lied to me, misled… Why do I have to be the one to go?"
Outside the bathroom door was your suitcase. Packed halfway with clothes, with a few sentimental objects you could never part with. But there was Ilsa's hoodie spilling out. Your pajamas, your trinkets, her mark indelible on all of it. There was no leaving Ilsa. The videos had been distressing, revolting, and inconsequential. By the next day they were gone, along with every trace of Ilsa's digital footprint on the computer. There was no wiping her from your soul, not that easy anyways.
"When they find me, which they will… These people I worked for, the people I run from, it's not so simple as changing my identity or flipping through a few false passports." Ilsa managed, hand shuddering as the shower flipped off under her hand. "My face, my biometrics. I leave the house and go to one supermarket with cameras linked to the web… I'm done. I'm flagged, I'm traceable."
Every syllable stuck out like burning cinnamon against your throat. It felt like charcoal every time you tried to breathe, every time you tried to rationalize the mountain of shit Ilsa was unraveling. She'd been an agent, you'd known that. There was no other way to explain her strange skill set. But what she was hinting at, the candid mention of a folder of confirmed kills… Ilsa wasn't some office warrior, some military manager or otherwise deadly, but reasonable ex-operative. She was a Jason Bourne, a James Bond, a… A killer. And kidnapping you was the least of what she had done.
"How… How much blood is on your hands, so to speak?" you stuttered out, breaths shallow in the steamy shower.
"In decaliters or in barrels?" Ilsa coughed, covering the terrible smirk underneath her hand.
"That much?" you winced, gut churning.
"More, probably. Confirmed kills are… Difficult to quantify when you drop grenades or… A missile."
The shower curtain shrieked as you stepped out, doing your best to dry off without making your movements too jerky, too telling. Sitting against the cold porcelain of the bath edge only made you feel more vulnerable. Her wet skin was soft against your arm. She caved the same way she caved on the couch: sinking into your side first, and then her head tucking into your neck, her nose burrowing under your jaw like a dog searching for a scratch.
"… Is the world so terrible that it takes killing hundreds to fix anything?" you murmured, finding her hand with your own.
"Yes. And no." Ilsa answered, breathing shallowly as she clutched tighter to you. "I don't know who started the bloodshed, or when really. It could be nature, it could be tradition. But we kill a father, or a mother or a child. And then they come back to kill. And kill, and kill, and kill. And at some point it became about money."
She spoke with a brokenness of character, devoid of sympathy, but lacking cynicism. Her gaze would ripple off the walls like paint stripping off of plaster. The thousand yard stare, but worse. Soldiers didn't smile like Ilsa on a good day. Didn't dance with her lightness of foot and kiss like a starved beast, a lover let free of a prison tower. She was maiden and monster together. The fire that burned in her wasn't yours to claim, nor yours to blame.
"You left because the government killed for money?"
"Proxy wars. Like the United States and Russia in Korea. And in Vietnam. It's all they can do now, to generate wealth through inflation while the truly rich, and I mean truly rich eat their fill of the spoils of war."
If it had been anyone else speaking, you would've chuckled at the conspiracy. But the world was too fucked for anything but conspiracy. Ilsa was entitled to hers, and you were at the very least obligated to listen, both for answers and for honesty. This was the most raw you'd seen her, and perhaps the most raw you were.
"And they want you dead because you left?"
She paused, taking a gulp of air, killing the dull chuckle that almost spilled out. You sounded stupid to her, probably childish or naive. It was why she liked you in the first place, but to Ilsa this might've been like explaining the alphabet instead of the intricacy of global espionage.
"Yes. Because I know too much and it's easier to dispose of me rather than buy my silence. As if I have the strength to say anything." she sighed, trying to laugh.
"Baby." you whispered, gently coaxing her up, into a soft towel.
"No, no. Stay." Ilsa shook her head, wrapping herself around you, wet skin against yours. "I want to tell you everything, let me…"
Ilsa didn't speak for a long moment, eyes glassy as she stared numb at the foggy shower curtain. Her grip on your hip didn't relent either, and you gave up attempting to get either of you drier. Your lover wasn't good at opening up. She chose the best and the worst times to do so; right before bed; before leaving for her morning runs; secrets about her past dropped in between sleepy or sexy kisses. What you wanted to know, the answers about Ilsa's past you desperately searched for, they weren't easy to get at.
"Let me tell you the truth. Please."
One nod was all you gave. The silence stretched, letting her skin stick to yours, clinging to her for warmth as the bathroom fan chilled your toes into icicles. You expected a bullet list, perhaps a broken summary of her missions. But there was nothing cold or factual about the way she spoke. No excuses, no pleads, just the truth. It wasn't a single line. She spoke in symphonies.
"What I'm going to tell you next isn't going to be easy. And it's not going to be any easier to hear. Every story has some sort of tragedy in the middle of it, right? Some awful precursor, a propellant forward into the valiant desire to do good. My dad was in the Navy. The British Navy, of course. We lived in lots of places. But this house was my favorite, mostly because it wasn't on the edge of some stormy coast.
When I joined the military I was merely a grunt worker. Nineteen, stupid, but hard-working. I wasn't the strongest, not by far. Wiry, bony, and insufferably small compared to every single man I grappled during my training. But I was fast.
She laughed, eyes shimmering like a mirage.
And strong in my legs. Men are top heavy, their center of gravity is different. It's like pressing two fists together with equal pressure; without technique they just exhaust themselves. I can maneuver, balance and bend like most men can't. I stood out, you see.
There is no path into MI6 that starts with a resume and an interview. They find you, whether through the military, like me, or through other corporate or forensic fields. And it's not as simple as signing a piece of paper and agreeing. Not until you're too far in, too excited with the possibility of being a secret agent to really refuse. I worked for so many years on military missions that initially it was all the same. I was twenty six, still burning hot enough to withstand whatever bullshit operations we were pulling through in Southeast Asia.
I wish I could tell you when I realized it was all pointless. The rain brews in the clouds for days before it falls, but even my rain didn't register until I was already soaked. I ran after a mission I did. Two years undercover, an enemy of the British state merely by correlation to the mission. I bought it back, their trust. And by the time I did I didn't want it anymore. I came back to this house to say goodbye before fleeing into another pointless errand. And then I saw the sun. For the first time in twenty years the sun was on my face, shining with a tentative smile from the doorway of a house I knew with certainty.
There is no excuse for the way I went about this. I know it was irrational, dangerous and abusive. Kidnapping someone, imprisoning and betting on the chance that Stockholm syndrome would set in, that you'd find desire in my hands that caged you. Putting you under a bushel and gulping down your light was never going to work, and still I don't know how else I would've gone about it. Starving, love. I was starving for twenty years before I found you."
Within my heart, my secret lies…
And what his name is none shall know, no, no
Till on the heart I confess it
Soon as morning lights shall dawn
Three bags sat lined up in a row, matching patterns unmistakably telling of a new purchase. The house you knew, wallpapered with soft gold crests winding over ivy green sat vacant. Closets emptied, cupboards left bare, (but neatly swept). A sign stood beside the old stone wall, white paint stark against the aging stone. It was sure to leave a square sized crater when the house sold. The one stipulation that it was to be sold to a family felt right — aside from governments, there was nothing Ilsa had hated more than landlords.
"MAUW!" Bella howled, pawing at her carrier with ferocious energy.
The black and white feline stared bug-eyed out from the cage wiring of the door, already making difficult the thought of a never-ending road trip. She'd been inside the new caravan a number of times, acquainted with all of the best spots to stretch out and take a nap, but the carrier remained her biggest enemy, the cage with which she screamed for freedom from.
"Okay, say goodbye to the house." you sighed, hauling the last few bags out of the door while Bella howled at the doorway.
Shiny rims, cherry red, decorated with adorable green stripes. Owning a brand new vehicle was a luxury you never thought you would get to have. It was Ilsa's last gift, you supposed. Even the thought of it being the last of anything had your heart clenching painfully. It was for the best, you reminded yourself. Change was good, even if you took U-haul lesbianism to the unmistakable, nomad-lifestyle extreme.
Everything about the caravan was new. The smell, the kitchenette, the loft bed with a built in entertainment center… Money couldn't buy a better designed, better machine than this. It was all a hollow reminder of the beneficiary of your new life, the unspoken creditor that supplied you with enough money to explore, to travel and put off worrying about employment for a year or two. Just enough time to remember who you were beyond the small house that stood in Berkshire, beyond the life you'd had.
As the engine purred to life, you took a deep breath, biting back the urge to cry as you gave one last glance to the stone house that was once yours. Ilsa was burned into every crevice. The new light fixtures, the windows that shone with distant sunlight. Beautiful, sturdy, and filled with memories too painful to return to.
Only when Bella's purrs broke you out of your depressive state did you shake yourself out of the hypnotic trance you were on. You'd been driving, not consciously, nor unconsciously for well over an hour. Only a few more hours and you would be close to the ferry point, one step closer to the mainland of Europe. Intelligent yellow eyes stared up at you from the passenger seat, blinking slowly. Ilsa's hoodie lay crumpled beneath her over the suede, grey fabric dotted with black fur. A pink tongue poked out as she yawned, and then rolled. It would smell like her. Of Old Spice deodorant and sweat from her last work out. Perhaps coffee if you searched for the old stain on the left sleeve.
It would stay that way, molded into the passenger seat well into your journey. Bella's fur would make it necessary to wash one day, and yet you doubted you could ever touch it again.
Oh Prince, then shall my kisses break the silence
That make thee mine
"I never knew the ocean could be this beautiful." you whispered to Bella, making use of your open window to gaze out across the Spanish coast.
Crystal blue water, lush trees and sand yellow beneath your feet. Medicine, you'd told your mother on the phone. Spain was medicine for your soul, medicine for your heart. The first night the heat had been unbearable, and you'd debated wasting gas just to have the AC on for an hour. The next night had been cooler, ocean air whispering through your open windows as you drank in mouthfuls of the cleanest air you'd gulped down in months.
Your trailer was beginning to feel like yours. Posters hung up, rich fabric carpets decorating the floor. Pictures from your travels hung like trophies on your kitchen wall. Strangers holding Bella up proudly, her concerned expressions relaxing with each successive photo. Tonight she lay curled at your feet, already asleep. Another night here wouldn't hurt either of you. There was no budget to worry over, after all. A Swiss bank account kept your fridge stocked and your gas tank full. And a credit card with no limit.
Your fingers traced softly over an oil-stained Polaroid. Flour covered cheeks, a skeptical, but deeply affectionate smirk on her face. Sourdough bread frozen perfectly in her hands. Missing Ilsa was a given. But missing the memories that could've been? All the food you'd tasted, all the people you'd met. And yet your mind still lingered, still begged the questions that you tried not to entertain. Ilsa would've loved this.
"You rat bastard." you whispered to no one in particular. "If you installed a camera in this camper, you'd better listen up."
A spasm in your throat was a warning, but not one you heeded. Even as your eyes prickled with tears, you remembered to speak loud enough to be truly heard.
"I'm on the east coast of Spain. And I have never loved a place like this." you managed, a tear wetting you trembling cheek. "The food, the language, the people. The people, Ilsa! And I keep collecting post cards to send to you, I have a whole box. There's no address I can write on them. But they're yours."
A sigh of wind rushed over your cheek, tickling the hairs on your neck. For a second you pictured Ilsa's hand, ruffling your hair, kissing the nape of your neck before bed. Perpetual silence, just as Ilsa had promised. She would leave, vanish and erase any trace of her existence from your life. No one could ever know you knew her, none could know what she'd told you.
The nightmare she'd had right before she'd left had been the worst of them all. No screaming, no shrieking, no sudden jolt awake, her hand grasping the handle of a gun she kept under her pillow. Just a jerk, a gasp of air. And then she'd slipped around you, her hands cradling the back of your head. If you'd understood the strange steps she'd taken in the days previous, the time she spent on the computer, you would've prepared yourself for her absence. At the very least you would've fought her, held her back at the doorway, maybe asked for a kiss goodbye. But Ilsa was already gone.
Neither of you had slept well the morning of her departure. She had just cradled you, breathed in your smell, pressed tender kisses to your shoulder like she'd been pressing her mark there. Your steady breath echoing softly against her cheek, the shallowness of hers only registering dimly in your relaxed state. One last kiss to your lips, and another to your nose. Kisses to last a lifetime. Sleep caught you after all.
Waking up to the empty house was like walking into a room torn open by a bomb. Every trace of Ilsa remained on the walls, and yet the devastation sat in the absence of her presence. Dishes left in neat stacks in the cupboards, the game console organized and tidy. A folder labeled with merely your name. Every legal document, every scribble of her handwriting over white paper a reminder of the reality. After all, you'd never expected that she'd be the one to leave.
Her final letter sat next to the photo. You had read it a thousand times, knew the words by heart. And even still, as you fought against another wave of sorrow, you traced over the lines.
Beloved,
I make one promise to you. Not as a soldier, or a civilian, or as an ex or a lover. I promise as a woman, as the echo of a girl once like you, that I will never let them find you. Everything you need is in the folder. I have everything arranged, a road map of the best places in Europe for you to explore. Go on a journey for me, sweetheart. Travel for a few years. Fall in love with the world, let the world fall in love with you. God knows it's easy.
My sweet girl, I am forever in your debt.
Ilsa
Dilegua o notte!
Tramontate stelle!
Tramontate stelle!
All'alba vincero!
VIncero!
Vincero!
You sat studying yourself at your vanity. Set against the retaining wall of the kitchen trailer, the little antique rescue was one of the many finds you'd picked up since leaving Spain. Your hair lay against your head, tamed for now. But in between your fingers you held a single white hair. Eyes that you'd seen all your life stared back. Your mother had plucked hers before she turned to dye. Ilsa's gray hairs had been the most beautiful feature of hers that you'd gravitated towards, before the end. There was no reason to pluck it, you decided.
"Mraow?" Bella called, pawing impatiently at your trailer door.
Spain had been your favorite. Italy was Bella's. The vineyards around you sparkled with yellow-gold leaves. Fall was bringing the changing seasons, and the winding hills of this country left the eye with much to feast on. And yet nothing could have prepared you for the serenity you faced in this place.
"Buon pommeriggio!" you called, waving at your host.
You smiled at the elderly man as he excitedly called the greeting back. The Italian countryside was rivaled by no other. The air seemed sweeter than Spain. It was the grapes, of course. And the wine was incomparable. At least in your opinion. Tender earth bent beneath your feet, tilled over the decades, perhaps centuries. Bella pranced beside you without a care in the world. You let her return to her trailer on her own, though your path strayed farther as the late afternoon called to your restless urge to walk. The Spanish siesta had been a tough habit to leave, but the reprieve of a long stroll before dinner suited you perfectly.
Every step you took through the brown, green and gold paradise left you with a pallette to call upon. You imagined the scenes you would paint at a later time, the richness of pigments you could mix to compliment the textures of this landscape. As your feet traversed farther, it was inevitable that they brought you to a bench. Fields sprawled around you, the sun gentle and warm on your skin as you rested. A gentle bossa nova played out from a speaker. A villa hidden by trees, you assumed. The ambience was tender, warm enough to close your eyes, to relax into the familiar sway of music.
An American singer bottoming out the low notes to one of your favorite opera songs, Aretha Franklin's memory played out across swaying vineyards, glittering under the eternal sun. Your eyes were only closed a moment before you were being shaken severely, two brown eyes staring down at you intently.
"Signora, signora." your host said, coaxing you to sit up once more.
"Si?" you answered, shaking your head, desperately trying to wake yourself from your sudden nap.
The man gesticulated rapidly, voice thick with concern as he did his best at making an explanation through his broken english.
"Signora, your kitty-cat, Bella, she is gone." he said, pointing from your camper a few hundred feet away and to the vineyards around it. "My granddaughter was playing with her, and, signora, the cat is gone."
←:→
Exhaustion seeped into your skin as you slumped into your bed, already weary from dinner, and the unfortunate fiasco before then. Your skin was hot from sunburn, stinging slightly as you adjusted beneath the linen sheet. The mind wandered in meandering circles, hinting at sleep without ever truly reaching rest. Anxiety churned in your belly as you contemplated the potential solutions for Bella's absence. The vineyards stretched across several square kilometers, but the fields beyond them were far more conspicuous. Unless she found her way back on her own, there was limited possibility of finding her.
The abandonment you felt shouldn't have been your first priority. Bella was your responsibility, your longest friend and your sole companion on this trek across Europe. If she didn't turn up there was limited hope of finding her, and to make matters worse there was no home for you to go back to, should the loss cripple you further. First Ilsa, and now your cat. But Ilsa left first, and so she was easier to blame.
It took three Benadryl and sheer will to fall asleep, even then you slept disturbed. The clock read 4:32 as you came to, though the green numbers meant little to you. The bed at your feet dipped, the sound of familiar snuffling rousing you. Twin orbs floated from the bottom of the bed, a familiar pink nose and a rotund shape filling your heart with sheer relief.
"Bella!"
"Maow?" she asked, hopping off the bed and waddling over to her (unfortunately) empty food dish.
Looking up from filling the bowl, you found your trailer distinctly shut, all windows and the door not only closed, but locked. You whirled in confusion, Bella couldn't have wormed her way into the trailer and hid all day and all night?! She would've meowed for food, would've asked for water or pets or…
"Princess." a voice came, back in the same direction of your bed.
A figure sat up slowly, dark black hair cropped short to her chin. It was artificially streaked with white, meant to make her look older. The roots were growing in regardless, making it seem more silly than genuine. But her face remained unchanged, though kissed by sun.
"Ilsa."
Two steps brought you back into the bed, leaning over the mattress until you were either going to kiss her or try to kill her. Weeks had elapsed, maybe months. It all blurred together in a grey haze between the then with Ilsa, and the now. Your knees gave out as they met the bed, and you let your body make the choice as you caved into her arms, slumping right back into the comfortable enclosure of her embrace.
"Easy." she whispered, pulling the blankets tight around you.
"You broke your promise." you whispered, fighting back tears as you felt her again, truly smelled her and breathed her in like you'd yearned to.
"I know. I couldn't-" Ilsa faltered, letting out a shaky laugh. "I made a promise under false circumstances. I never could've kept it, even if I did my damnedest to make it difficult to find you."
The foreign sim cards, the registration you had to undergo for the vehicle… Ilsa had sent you into Europe simply to keep you as untraceable as she could. Not for others, not really. But for herself. But you were sure it wasn't enough, not for her, not for her talents.
"Where have you been?" you asked, tracing her jaw.
"All over. The southeast Asia, northern Africa, Venice…" she whispered, kissing the bridge of your nose gently. "I'm done now. No more traveling for me, not for a long time, unless it's with you."
She looked beyond fatigued, the sallow tint to her skin more recognizable now that the shock of seeing her was over. Not just sun, but sickness, paleness and the chapped state of her lips…
"Ilsa, you're not feeling well." you said, turning on the bedside lamp and attempting to take a look at her.
"I'll get better, shh, shh. I have an IV in the bag, don't worry." Ilsa tried, smiling quickly. "Just-"
"An IV? Ilsa…" you whispered, your brow pinched with worry.
An embarrassed flush made pink her otherwise yellow cheeks, though it was only faint. You could tell she'd been through the ringer, especially with the added light. The duffel at the foot of your bed was poorly packed, gear and clothes strewn about. You grabbed the bag in question, along with several vials of liquid.
"Okay… So I'm not a nurse."
"I know, darling. I'll put the needle in myself." Ilsa smiled weakly.
Her breathing was unnaturally shallow, and the sight of her so weak brought a fresh surge of fear to you. The IV bag was more difficult to handle than you thought, especially with the state of your lover bringing fresh anxiety.
"Tell me how to do it, guide my hand, something." you trembled, staring at her softly.
"It's better if I do it, just let me-"
"No I can do it, just show me how." you insisted, pinching the needle between two fingers.
"Don't be difficult." Ilsa huffed, staring down at you with a frightening amount of condescension.
You stared at her, frustration bubbling in your chest as you processed.
"Pardon?" you said, giving her an opportunity to back pedal.
"Sweetheart, you're more hurt than help. Just let me put in the needle."
For as weak as she looked, you knew when you were beat. Only the low call of your cat brought you out of your spiraling thoughts, the sinking humiliation in your stomach. You watched her fiddle with the needle, her hand shaking as she struggled to line it up with the vein. The first press failed, the second released a stream of blood down her arm.
"Shit." Ilsa swore, pulling the needle out and fumbling for gauze.
"You blew the vein?"
"Shut up." she snapped, lower lip curling up as she struggled to maintain her composure.
Ilsa had teeth, sharp and visible only when she was pushed too far, when your teasing was too much or too close to a nerve. It surprised you, just how quickly she could snap. And other times you were amazed that she'd held it back sooner. But you'd seen them enough to not be afraid of getting bit.
"Ilsa honey, let's get a new needle and try inserting it in another vein."
"There is no other needle, and I can't do it right handed!" Ilsa yelled, face growing splotchy with anger.
"I could try putting it in one of your hand veins." you gently answered, ignoring the volume of her voice with practiced ease.
The lack of response was answer enough, so you made a gentle start at cleaning the needle with gauze, preparing another sterilizing wipe.
"Which hand would you prefer?"
"You don't know how to do it, stop."
A simple shake of your head was all the argument you gave, gently taking her right hand in your own.
"Can you search up a tutorial for me?"
Ilsa scoffed, shaking her head in anger.
"No, I can tell you what to do."
"Alright then, I'm going to clean the back of your hand."
Small cuts covered her hand, the dryness of her skin apparent as you gently cleaned away the area.
"Okay, you need to get my veins to press out of my hand." she sighed, pained face more concerning than her aggression.
You squeezed with gentle pulses, warming her cold hand in yours. Gentle massages, using the light from your bedside lamp to gauge the swelling of her veins.
"It's a butterfly needle, they're tricky." she advised, "You have to slide the needle parallel into the vein, not too sharp of an angle or you'll push through the vein."
A spasm of anxiety slid through your abdomen, coiling like a snake as you considered her words. The needle in between your fingers felt so flimsy, and you wiggled it between them until it was secure.
"Which vein should I use?"
"The big one, sitting on top of the bone connected to my middle finger."
Lining the needle up, you carefully practiced the angle in the air, visualizing how you would slip it in.
"Even more horizontal than that." Ilsa instructed.
Nodding once, you wordlessly placed the needle against her skin.
"Exhale, and press."
Slowly, as carefully and considerately as you could, you slid the needle in, watching in amazement as fluid from the bag began to move.
"I did it."
"Tape the needle to my skin." Ilsa sighed, face relaxing in relief.
Her bag was packed in a terribly appalling manner, but the bright red cross on the first aid kit was your indicator. By the time you returned to Ilsa's side with medical tape, her eyes were closed, face the closest to being relaxed you'd seen it.
"Let's get some fluids in you too." you murmured, grabbing a packet of electrolyte powder from a drawer as you milled about in the kitchen.
Cup, powder, water, mix. Each step of the procedure you found yourself anxiously turning your head, checking that she was still there, still breathing, still real. Her skin was still cool under your fingers as you gently fed her sips of the water, watching the tilt of her jaw, the flutter of pale lashes. Your eyes traveled down, memorizing every detail anew, ignoring the smell of BO to pick up on the strawberry of her shampoo.
The thin tank top she wore did little to conceal her cleavage, but it wasn't what drew your eyes. Sitting between her breasts, cut jagged and hard into her sternum was a wound.
"No." you whispered, holding her a little tighter, setting the cup down to examine closer, even as she tried to shoulder you away.
The scar was deep, two inches long and straight. From the stitches you could tell that she'd done it herself, hand shaking enough that they were uneven. But that wasn't what worried you. It was so fresh, so puffy. It didn't smell right, a sour odor coming off of the wound. Infection.
"Ilsa…"
She winced, staring to the side as you took in the state of her body. Bruises, cuts, the fever that you'd clocked earlier. She needed medical attention, and not the kind she could manage for herself.
"I didn't want you to worry. Please don't worry, I'll be fine." she pleaded, turning away from you as best as she could in the bed.
"No, hey, hey." you whispered, reaching for her face and cupping it in between your sweaty palms. "You let me worry. Let me take care of you,"
She stared up at you, guilty eyes slowly filling with exhausted tears. This wasn't Ilsa at her best, in fact it would be the closest thing to her worst you'd ever see. And you knew that it wasn't in her nature to feel comfortable being vulnerable, to feel anything other than shame and anxiety. She'd push away, pull away and fight. But there wasn't anywhere for her to go.
"N…" she whimpered, pleading your name.
"Shh, let me take care of you, honey." you repeated, stroking her sweaty face as her face crumpled.
←:→
Night slowly bled into dawn, birds chirping merrily as you watched careful hands attend to Ilsa's wound. She'd fought against you in the beginning, threatening to tie you down as you left to find your host, but she was too tired, to weary to try anything when her savior arrived, a retired nurse toddling towards the bed with warm cloths and a sweet voice.
You sat beside her, holding her hand as her eyes slipped closed, unable to fight the medication of the IV any longer. Little freckles dotted her nose, eyebrows soft and relaxed. Your gentle hand in hers, a pink nose poking out from black and white fur two feet away.
On the topic of the last of us... Abby kinda looking a little familiar
I actually don't give a shit if y'all don't see it but I do!! And it's very very very interesting that my mind just pictures Kate Winslet, but I'm not complaining.
Every time someone brings up Abby Anderson my mind goes straight to Kate...
So, you know, for the sake of my safety, I don't think I am old enough to compete with people who are, you know, paying bills and shit, so I'm gonna stay in my little recently legal bubble, no matter how old I am currently I'm not gonna start jumping at women until I believe I'm ready, because last time I checked, I still look like a 7th grader... Not tryna look like a clown😭✋
So all my tags are dead... Is that a sign? I'm not on here as much, and I'm having this odd feeling to just delete the app but, I don't want to. Is tumblr dying? Every time I hop on this app, I just look for something to read- find nothing and leave
Please don't make me leave 😭 I've been on here since I was at least 13. It's almost as if I'm growing- (that sounds wrong) -up? Not in a bad way... It just feels weird breaking routine. cause all I do I read, not only on here but it's still weird 👩🏽🦯
Always getting sick on my birthday... At this point, I've started telling myself it's just all the bad energy that I've collected throughout the year leaving my body.
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