“Hello! This is my first time requesting, so I'm not quite sure how things work. I was wondering if I could get a Phantom of the Opera x female reader, where he's touch-starved and they're just cuddling together. Thank you!”
A/N: Thank you for the request darling! This was a very fluffy idea and I hope this lives up to what you had in mind! This one’s just a drabble but I hope y’all still enjoy it!
Also, not sure if I’ve used this GIF before but I don’t care if I have (Gerard Butler is one of my favorite Phantoms!). My French, again, comes from Google Translate.
Dark, thunderous music greets you as you enter the dimly lit cavernous room of the Phantom. You untie your cloak, laying it over the back of one of the chairs near you before making your way over to the organ. You watch quietly as his fingers fly over the ivory keys, a certain unrestrained anger flowing out of him into the music.
“Mon ange (my angel).” You say just loud enough to catch his attention. He plays for a beat or two longer before turning towards you, his gaze meeting yours.
“Ma chérie (my dearest), how was you walk?” He asks, reaching out to gently grab your hand and pull you closer. You let him, a soft smile on your face as you look at him.
“It was lovely. The sunset cast a beautiful, soft orange glow on the buildings as I walked back. It truly was a work of art.” You recall, a lightness settling over you as you thought of the beauty the setting sun had created.
“It sounds refreshing ma chérie. I am glad you were able to enjoy yourself.” He says, still not letting go of your hand as he stands. He wraps his other arm around your lower back, lifting up the hand that was holding yours. You unconsciously bring up your hand to rest on his shoulder as he brings you even closer to him.
“Danse avec moi (dance with me).” His voice is tender as he moves to rest his forehead against yours. You hum in agreement, slowly swaying along with him to the music only the two of you can hear. A long time passes as the two of you dance in front of the organ, alternating between stepping quickly along with some unknown beat and moving slowly as you hold onto each other tightly.
You lift your head from his shoulder to look him in the eyes. “Let’s go to bed, mon amour (my love).” You whisper, fighting back a yawn. He lifts a hand to gently run down the side of your face, his thumb delicately tracing your lips. Then he is lifting you up and carrying you over to the bed. He lowers you onto the red satin sheets, placing a light kiss on your lips before standing up.
“I’ll be back in a moment ma chérie.” His whispers, his voice low and husky. You sit up, pulling the pins from your hair as you watch him walk away. You can’t see him after he passes the wall of the niche the two of you called a bedroom but you knew he was blowing out the candles, as he did every night. A few minutes later he walks back into the room, his cloak and his mask gone, leaving him looking far more casual and relaxed than he had when he’d left.
He puts out the candles on the large, intricate candelabra, leaving the room in near darkness before climbing into bed beside you. You turn on your side so you are facing him, the details of his face barely visible in the low light. You feel, more than see, his hand coming to rest on your hip.
“Can I hold you ma chérie?” His voice is so quiet you almost don’t hear it. You don’t say anything, instead you close the distance between the two of you until you are flush against him, your head tucked in against his chest. You bring a hand to his face, your fingers lightly tracing the deep set scars on his face. You lift your chin enough to press a kiss onto the underside of his jaw. His arms tighten around you and you feel him bury his face in your hair.
“Tu es tout pour moi (you are my everything).” You hear him whisper.
“Et tu es l'amour de ma vie, mon ange de la musique (and you are the love of my life, my angel of music).” You respond, wrapping an arm around his torso, bringing him infinitesimally closer. He presses a kiss into your hair and that is how you fall asleep, in the arms of the man you love.
A Modern Lady - Phantom of the Opera Reader Insert
Pairing: Erik Destler x fem!reader
Warnings: cursing/vulgar language
Word count: 536
Request by: anonymous
“Hello! Can I please request a fic or HCs where erik is in a relationship with the reader but shes really modern and vulgar for someone living in the 19th century and keeps making him blush? But he really loves it?“
A/N: I love this idea (I connected with this reader just a little bit, TBH)! I wanted to write it right away, so I made it a drabble, I hope that’s okay :) Thank you so much for this request! <3 The words in italics are French curses (or at least the internet says so) and any French is translated to English in the parentheses. (Google translate again, so sorry for any mistakes)
P.S. - I also got your thank you message and thought it was so sweet! Thank you anon!
You stomp your way into your small shoebox of a room, spitting out curses as you go. You had barely shut the door behind you before you were removing the multiple layers of the heavy, restricting costume skirt.
“How anyone finds these ridiculous things as anything but oppressive is beyond me.” You mutter as you strip down to your bloomers. You don’t hesitate as you dig through your mess of a chest, looking for the pair of pants you kept for moments just this. You quickly pull on the pants, rummaging through your chest in search of the pageboy cap you had had for years. After a few moments of looking, you find it and tuck your hair in underneath it. You head back out into the hallway as you make your way to the small door you use to get into the underground tunnels.
You pass a few of the dancers, who give you an odd look, as you head to the small, almost concealed door. You slip into the tunnels once the hallway is clear and you practically run through the dimly lit catacombs, following the path you had travelled enough times to have it memorized.
“Erik!” You call as you move up the slick stone steps of the cavernous room, slipping on your way up. “Putain.” You hiss under your breath as you limp up the last step. You shuffle over to the organ bench, sitting down as you rub the sore spot on your shin. You lift the leg of your pants, another curse flying past your lips as you see a bump growing on leg.
“Mon ange?” Erik’s deep voice sounds from somewhere behind you. Your gaze flies up, your eyes meeting his. You feel your face heat up, embarrassed that he had witnessed you speaking such vulgar words. You notice that Erik was sporting a faint blush himself, meaning he had heard you unladylike words.
“Je m'excuse pour ma manière peu élégante (I apologize for my unladylike manner).” You say quietly, your embarrassment growing as you remember you were dressed like a man. You slowly pull the cap off of your head, turning your gaze to the floor and wishing you hadn’t come dressed as you had, no matter how uncomfortable you had been in your dress.
You hear his footsteps make their way over to where you sat, but you didn’t say anything. You only lift your head when you feel one of his hands trace the line of your jaw. “Mon ange, do not apologize.” His dark eyes are soft as they look into yours. “You are perfect, just as you are.” He slowly takes the cap from your hand, brushing back a lock of hair before putting it back on your head.
“Vous n'avez jamais besoin de changer. Je t'aime comme tu es. (You never need to change. I love you just as you are).” He says as he presses a soft kiss to the corner of your lips and another on your jawline before finally kissing you solidly on the lips. You kiss him back, a smile growing on your lips as you do. “Et je t'aime (And I love you).” You whisper against his lips.
When You Are Hurting - Phantom of the Opera Reader Insert
Pairing: Erik (Phantom) x fem!reader
Warnings: hurt/comfort, I also made Madame Giry a bit of a b*tch in this one (sorry)
Word count: 771 (a short one, sorry y’all)
Requested by: @ofserien
“hi love! ❤️ i was wondering if i could request an erik x reader? just a hurt/comfort with some soft Erik, maybe set in poto?? maybe one where the reader is having a tough day?? please take your time!!! i know you’ve got a busy schedule :)”
A/N: Hey y’all! FINALLY, something for you guys to read! I have a few more POTO one-shots/headcanons on the horizon, as well as my upcoming follower milestone fic (Derek Morgan x reader). I hope y’all enjoy it!! (I know I have him playing the organ, but I liked this GIF for this one) I put the translations of the French in parantheses.
You stare at the rough wooden planks beneath your feet, trying to blink back the tears before it became evident that you were crying. You dig your fingernails into the palms of your hands, looking for something, anything to distract you from Madame Giry’s harsh voice in your ears.
“How can you call yourself a dancer? Le déshonneur (disgrâce)!" She waves her hand wildly, her long braid swinging around over her shoulder as she comes to a stop in front of you. You lower your eyes, not wanting her to see your tears and deem you weak or vulnerable.
“This is an esteemed opera house and your épouvantable (terrible, appalling) dancing is distracting from the singing of the leading soprano. Go practice your steps.” She spits out at you before turning and striding away. “Je ne sais pas ce qu'Erik voit dans cette fille (I do not know what Erik sees in that girl).” You can hear her mutter as she walks away, the words she did not speak to you hurting more than the ones she had.
You furiously wipe away the tears from your face as you move back towards the open area of the back stage, intent on practicing until your feet bleed, if only to keep Madame Giry from ever talking to you like that again. You pull off your wool cardigan, revealing the thin costume you were required to wear in the upcoming opera, and retie your pointe shoes. After a few stretches, you play the music in your mind, letting the steps of the dance take over your body. You dance long past the time the other dancers leave to return to their rooms, long past the time the maids come through and clean. You would have kept dancing had a dark figure not stepped away from the shadows.
“Ma chérie, it is time for you to rest.” His deep voice pulls you from your mind, causing your steps to falter before stopping. “You have been dancing for hours.” A hand comes to rest gently on your shoulder causing a small shiver to run down your spine. He slowly turns you around, using a hand to lift your face to his. You stare into his dark eyes, the faint light bouncing off the sheer white of his mask making his eyes appear softer than normal as you lean into his hand.
You do not see him untie his cloak, but you feel him slip it over your shoulders. “Come along, ma chérie (my dearest). You need rest.” He wraps an arm around your waist, leading you to one of many hidden doors to the catacombs beneath the opera house. His arm stays around you the entire walk back to his cavern of a room, only moving to help you onto the red velvet covered chaise lounge. You wrap his cloak around you tighter, watching as he moved to the organ, only a few steps away.
His eyes meet yours, the darkness in their depths melting away as he gives you a soft smile. He does not say anything, his eyes saying more than his words ever could. The devotion, the affection, the love he felt for you shone through, comforting you. Despite the harsh words of Madame Giry, you knew he saw something in you that no one else did, that something that you kept hidden from everyone else because it was the purest form of who you were.
His music filters through your thoughts, bringing you back to the present. He had chosen the one composition that you never tired of, the one that reminded you of the gentleness and loving nature that you knew he possessed, that he showed no one else. You slowly stand, closing the distance between the two of you as you sit down next to him.
He continues to play, not turning to look at you as his hands fly across the keys. You lean your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes and letting the music wash over you. You are unsure of how long he plays for, but you are almost asleep on his shoulder when he stops.
“Her words are outrageant (insulting) Y/N.” His voice is soft, making you blink open your eyes and look at him. “There is no end to what I see in you.” His words bring a warmth to your heart as you place a soft hand on his forearm.
“Thank you Erik. Your words mean more that you know.” You whisper, stretching up to press a kiss to his cheek before you lean back against his shoulder and listen as he plays.
“Hello, I just want to say first of all that I adore your writing! I haven't been able to find a story with this particular idea, so I thought I'd make a request. It's completely your choice whether you want to write a fic of headcanons, but what do you think Erik's relationship with a blind reader would be like?”
A/N: Thank you for the sweet compliment darling and thank you for the request! I hope you enjoy this drabble! I literally smashed it out in an afternoon (this includes the few hours I procrastinated and looked up obscure things on the web). Stay tuned for a NCIS one-shot next!
P.S. - Sorry for the more specific image. You can imagine yourself in the woman’s place. I simply liked the intimacy of their position for this piece.
You had lived in darkness almost your whole life, both physically and figuratively. Having lost your eyesight at the young age of six due to an infection, and subsequent fever, you had grown accustomed to living your life without one of the senses you had, at one point, depended on most. Being a woman, and blind, in Paris during the late 1800’s meant that you were on the fringes of society. Because of this, you spent much, if not all, of your time alone. During the past few years, the weight of that loneliness had settled over you like a heavy cloud. That darkness proceeded to drain out any beauty in your life, leaving you in a world that had no color to speak of.
It wasn’t until you met him, the infamous Phantom of the Opera, that you experienced a change. It wasn’t something that happened overnight, this change in your life, rather it happened over the weeks following that first interaction you had had with the Phantom. Regardless of how quickly it happened, his presence in your life brought you out of that darkness and into the light.
---
You walk slowly down the hall, your hand feeling along the wall as you go. Your mind is preoccupied with the new piece you had been composing for one of the upcoming operas when suddenly, you bump right into a hard and oddly warm object.
You realize hands are not resting on a lifeless object in front of you, but rather, a solid chest. You can feel a faint thumping underneath the palm of your right hand. “Ma chérie, tu dois regarder où tu vas (My dearest, you must watch where you are going).” A deep, almost musical voice says. His French is flawless, sounding almost as if it is dancing away from his lips, a rhythmic pattern to the tone he uses.
“Oh, pardonne-moi (Oh, pardon me).” You say, feeling quite embarrassed that you had just run into this stranger with a mellifluous voice.
“Is it the music that occupies your mind?” His seamless switch from French to English, as well as a question that he seems to already have an answer to, leaves you reeling as you try to keep up.
“W-W-Why would you ask me that?” You stammer out the question, not thinking about how forward your question may come across.
“I can sense it, the music running through you.” He says and you can feel him get closer to you. “I have seen you play, ange de la musique (angel of music), and I know it courses through you, consumes you, just as it does me.” His voice is raspy as it drops in volume. You can feel his warm breath fanning across your face, causing your heart to flutter. All you can do is nod, his astute observation leaving you speechless.
“Come with me, ma chérie (my dearest), and I will help you bring the music to life.” He said cryptically and something in you has you nodding your head before you can even think about it.
You lift your hand from where it was still resting against his chest, trailing it down his shoulder to the crook of his arm. “Mène le chemin mon fantôme (Lead the way my phantom).”
---
You are pulled out of your memory of the past when a heavy hand comes to rest on your shoulder.
“Ma chérie?” He questions quietly, his hand slowly moving from your shoulder to your face. His large hand cups your cheek and his thumb, warm and rough, moves back and forth over your cheekbone. You hum softly in response, getting lost in the feeling of his hand on your face. He doesn’t say anything more as he brings another hand to your face, this one catching a strand of hair and rubbing it delicately between his fingers.
“Play with me?” You finally say, tracing a hand up his arm and using it to balance as you stand. He tucks your hand into the bend of his arm as he leads you over to the organ. Shortly after you had come to his domain, he had taught you to play the organ, seemingly his instrument of choice. The two of you often spent hours in the evening, playing together. Sometimes it was compositions solely of his making, other times they were pieces you had made, but most of the time, the two of you played something new entirely. Your notes flowed together, creating an intricate weaving of music, so elaborate you couldn’t tell where your ideas ended and his began.
He helps you get set on the right side of the organ, or what had become your ‘side’, before taking a seat himself. “What would you like to play, ma chérie?” He questions, waiting for your response to place his fingers on the keys. You don’t answer, instead, giving him a soft smile before allowing your fingers to fly across the keys. He quickly follows suit, allowing you to lead with the melody you were creating.
You knew that the man you had come to love wasn’t perfect. He, like you, had his own darkness, darkness that he hid behind the beautiful compositions he created. You knew he harbored deep loathing, and even self-loathing, but that only made you love him more. You chose to drive out the darkness in him, just as he chased away the blackness weighing down on you.
