ERIK | THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA (multi interaction)
. 𝄞𝄢 *. ˗ˏˋ ♪ ˎˊ˗ *
❝THE ROLL AND REVOLVE❞ (Erik | The Phantom of the Opera x Fem!Reader)
While attending the masquerade ball the Red Death asks for your hand to dance.
SFW, at most canon typical violence is mentioned, dancing - dancer!reader & african!reader
Reader’s 18+ and one of the older girls in the dance line along with Sorelli. (Pic source: left•Juan Navarro/Saulo Vasconcelos’s Phantom from the POTO Mexican production [1999-2000], middle•Emilie Kouatchou’s run as Christine from the POTO Broadway production, right•John Owen-Jones’s Phantom from the POTO West End production [2011].)
3k+ words
Fluttering from group to group at a masquerade ball was apparently not all everyone cracked it up to be.
You stop, standing off to the side of the entirely too unappealing table of food assortments. Some of the food even appeared to have gone bad to you, speckled in powdered sugar only for show; to mask the rotten truths underneath.
You’ve steered clear of dining at all throughout the night for that very reason. The truths they hid were clearly of the stomach pain and extended time on the loo type, and looks always had the chance of stowing deceit.
The opera house was full tonight, the date a prelude to the new year, with its high ceilings and garnished walls host to all manner of primed woman and man dressed in a bid to garner the most envy in their best furs and feathers, masks and fedoras. The only thing consistent amongst you all being your efforts to hide your identities from one another; crowd after crowd of people decked out in masks of all kinds that hid their faces from the world.
Where you stand a voice rises to greet you, managing to be heard even over the echoing sounds of the opera’s orchestra.
“Y/n, y/n! Did you hear the news?”
The bottom of your crisp white gown, a gift from your mother, kisses the floor as you shift your feet to intercept the few girls from the dance line coming to speak with you. To your surprise Christine is amongst them.
“Clearly not,” you respond to Jammes.
The brunette bounces, near manic smile on her face and Sorelli beside her rolls her eyes.
“It’s not nearly as entertaining as she’s making it.”
“More like terrifying,” Meg pipes up.
Your eyebrows raise, “Was there another death?”
It’s Christine who answers your weary inquiry, bright hair bouncing as she shakes her head.
“It’s not nearly as serious,” she shrugs. “More like a ghost story than anything-”
Jammes cuts her off with an excited squeal.
“The Opera Ghost is rumored to show up tonight!”
Oh.
There was a good second there where your eyes were starting to widen but they drop back to half mast behind the white swan-like pantalone mask you’re wearing, the feathers of which tickle your face as you sigh. You wave the girl's excitement away.
“You’re so overdramatic, Jammes, everyone knows the OG is just a rumor the stagehands made up to scare us.”
“And that the police is sustaining so they can get out of properly catching a murderer,” Sorelli scoffs.
You nod at her and your other friend just pouts.
“You all have such little whimsy.”
From where she’s got her arms wrapped around herself Meg laughs, a nearly startled noise of contempt.
“Maybe we just don’t want to make a myth out of an actual killer,” she says.
Now it’s Jammes’s turn to roll her eyes.
“I say it’s just you guys being boring,” she flips her hair over her shoulder. “But whatever, I've got a violinist to dance with so I’ll see you all later.”
She’s gone just like that. Meg frowns after her and you and Sorelli make kissy noises that cause Jammes to giggle as she walks off.
“Which one of them do you think it is?”
“Come on Sorelli, you know it’s Eugène. She misses all her steps during his solos,” you say.
“Actually I think it’s Ahsan, we are getting more Persians lately. He might like to have a change of pace since no one ever really talks to him.”
Your lips purse. You're pretty sure Jammes hasn’t even noticed the Populaire’s newest members.
“Just because you’re interested in Ahsan doesn’t mean she is, Sorelli. What do you think Christine?”
From where she’s just about completely checked out from the conversation making heart eyes at the Vicomte from across the room, Christine startles. You’d joke but the navel man is staring back at her just as intently. Her eyes flutter up to meet yours eventually though.
“Um- I don’t know? I think maybe you’re right about Eugène, Y/n, but would you all mind if I excused myself?”
You all give some manner of affirmation but Christine is already moving anyway so it wouldn’t have mattered much if you hadn’t.
“I wonder what it’s like to hold a man’s attention like that,” Meg sighs.
You shrug, “Well, it’s not always as nice as it seems.”
Her head bobbles as she nods before she’s curtsying and leaving as well, head bowed. Not long after that Sorelli bids you goodbye and goes in search of someone to dance with in front of Madame Giry. She wants lead in the next production since Christine seems set on being Primadonna. You don’t have the heart to tell her that showboating won’t get her any points with the Madame.
All danced and socialized out, but knowing you can’t leave your appearance obligations for the opera house lacking, you content yourself with staying in your tucked away haven by the most unappealing refreshment table at the party.
Your feet tap and you hum along to the orchestra playing as people pass you by. Young couples rushing to someplace private and friends, old and young alike, moving about as they make gossip. Body swaying in place to the music you bask in the fact that you’ve made it, even partially, and soon enough you’d be dancing front on this opera’s stage and stages even beyond it. You’ve seen plenty of other black artists make it, there’s no reason to think that outside of the Americas you couldn’t fight your way to the top too.
You’ve gotten as far as a dance line already.
A poised shadow appears to your left but you do not bother giving anything short of the person’s silhouette a glance. You were in borrowed time at the Palais Garnier. It was best if you didn’t attract any attention and ruin your chances.
Instinctively your hands clasp in front of your body and you rock back onto your heels, humming and tapping ceasing. Stay unheard and you’ll be fine; your dreams of artistry and fame were yet to be dashed.
“Why so solemn?”
You feel your eyes widen, your attention quickly shifting to the shadow. You glance around, but seeing no one else close enough for him to have been talking to instead your gaze fully settles on more than just the man’s silhouette.
The masked man in front of you is completely shadowed in shades of red and fine jewels. The mask masquerading his face, the grimmest sign of the end: an ivory skull. And atop his head bloomed a crown of feathers on a wide brimmed fedora; all the colors of death and decay.
Your heart quickens at his procured visage.
“Me?”
A deep timbre falls past lips you can’t see when he chuckles.
“Who else, Mademoiselle?”
“There is no shortage of beautiful women on the dance floor.”
“By why would Erik bother with them when the most beautiful is over here? Tucked in darkness’s warm embrace?”
Your head ducks and your face warms.
“You’re too kind.”
The wide shouldered shadow seems to shake his head, hard to tell with such an elaborate headpiece.
“Oh no! I fantom I have failed to be kind enough.” He sweeps forward, a cape previously bathed in his shadows trailing out behind him, everything lined with jewels shimmering like blood in moonlight. You find yourself ensnared as you look into the great eyes of death.
“When one such as yourself makes a swan’s grace look lacking with her prowess she should expect nothing less than to be bathed in gifts.” Death holds out his gloved hand, and still looking into those dark depths, still looking for the sign of the man underneath, you take it. “Precious flowers: lilacs and lilies…”
A mimicry of a kiss is pressed into your knuckles and you shiver. The hardness of something you’re becoming convinced may have once been an alive man’s touching ever so softly to your ebony skin.
“…roses.” he murmurs finally. “Painstakingly, devotedly, clipped of their thorns so as to not tarnish perfection.”
Your breath comes short as you finally find it. Only a flash, blink and you miss it, but you couldn’t blink. Citrine eyes; ill colored. It makes something in you want to flee, cause a scene in an effort to not be dragged out of the light by this man’s wrongness. Then his words finally reach you.
Words said in that burning liqueur tone that carry your mind away with their unique melody. You find yourself smiling, mouth stretching wide, alabaster teeth gleaming against the contrast of your dark skin.
“I’m not perfect,” you find the urge to argue.
If only to hear his praise some more.
“My Dear, you are my everything. How could you not be perfect?”
“I’m only a chorus dancer.”
“Which is a shame,” he admits.
His tone is solemn like he feels your own disappointment at never being given the chances of the other girls despite dancing with twice their merit.
“It is a shame,” you nod, spine straightening as you grip his hand tighter. The man before you seems to gasp at your assured touch. “To whom do I owe my thanks for such lovely compliments?”
The shadow appears to shrink in on himself for a moment before his grip in turn strengthens and guides you closer together. As he comes more into the light his onsemble sparkles mesmerizingly.
“The Red Death,” he bows, “at your service.”
You laugh. “I admire your dedication to the ball’s theme.”
He makes a humored sound of his own at your acknowledgment of his dramatics.
“It’s for the best I assure you, my dear. Now,” he runs the soft fabric over his thumbs along your bare knuckles, “would you do me the honor of a dance?”
You incline your head, smiling in appraisal as you nod.
“It would be my pleasure, Monsieur Death.”
He leads you from your not-so-hidden corner with a swish of his cape.
You seem to nearly teleport down the stairs with the way he whisks you away so soundly to the ballroom floor. Marble meets the bottoms of your heels as he finds you a good starting position towards the center of the room and, as is in your nature by now, you stand tall in a dancer's carry. He does not let the conversation end as you begin moving.
“Do other things outside of dancing capture your attention?”
“Should there be anything else?”
He laughs as he spins you around, “I suppose not. Dancing is your craft after all.”
“Yes,” you settle into his lead. “Yes it is, but um, I don’t just do ballroom and ballet dancing.”
“No?”
“No. I also dance things far older than my knowledge of ballet, from my people.”
“Amazing,” he says. “You’ll have to show me some day.”
“I’d be happy to,” you give him a small smile.
So near to him as you elegantly weave in between other couples on the floor you can see his eyes very clearly. They are sick looking but they do not lack awareness. The man takes in your every move so intently it makes you breathless. You notice though that he does not meet anyone else’s eyes and uses the wide brim of his hat to block others from seeing him. But not you.
“Penny for your thoughts, Mademoiselle L/n?”
You glance away from his eyes, instead looking at the way whatever mechanism he created allows the mouth of the skull to move with his speech. He must be very rich and worldly if he can acquire or make something like it.
You tilt your head in interest.
“How do you know so much about me and yet I can’t recall ever having seen you before?”
“Technically you are not seeing me now,” he responds easily.
A quiet scoff escapes you as you nod.
“Well then how come I’ve never heard you? A voice as poignant as yours I’m sure I’d remember.”
He does not answer your question.
“Is that what I sound like to you?”
And you do not notice.
“Yes,” you look back into his eyes as your right foot steps back, his left pushing forward. “You have a strong tone but behind it you sound…weary.”
His eyes narrow. Then your dress and his cape are flowing to a still as he stops moving. You look down at your hand on his shoulder, swallowing.
“I do not mean to offend you Monsieur, I apologize.”
You step away, hands sliding from him as embarrassment buzzes up your spine. He probably thinks you called him weak or something, men hated-
“No, please!”
He moves faster than you’re expecting, barely making a noise despite his extravagant costume, and grasps your right hand with his left. You gasp as he settles his other hand on your waist and tugs you closer with strength that didn’t fit him.
“Don’t leave,” he whispers. Your left hand he still has in his he shifts to settle back onto his right arm, and you try to relax.
There is no bone in your body fit to argue with him, nor a ligament that desires to do so.
“Alright, I won’t.” A soft smile pulls at your lips. “I enjoy dancing with you.”
“Thank you. Just know you did not upset me.” For the first time during the whole time you’ve danced he looks past you, gaze far away. “No, you could never upset Erik.”
You marvel at his soft tone and the glossy shine to his eyes as he urges you in motion. He begins swaying to the new song playing and you do the same.
“So your name is Erik then? I wasn’t sure before.”
You take on an affable tone when you speak this time around, glancing away for reprieve from the emotion in his eyes. How you’ve had that effect on him with one dance is beyond you, but you’re remiss to say it doesn’t feel kind of…nice.
Erik nods and those deceptive hands hold your waist just a little tighter. He looks at you again.
“May I ask you a question?”
You nod and he pulls you even closer, his swaying finally turning into steps, and you intuitively follow his lead. The song playing is one you’ve never heard before but it’s haunting. Erik takes to it even better than the last piece; the way he leads you feels like you’re dancing on clouds.
“Have you ever felt lost?”
“I imagine not in the ways you might’ve. “
His eyes crinkle briefly at your words.
“You said earlier that I sound weary, and never doubt I have reason to be so, but it has long begun to get tiring—”
Horns blare, cutting him off. A gasp falls past your lips and, as if on instinct, Erik pulls you closer. Heart pounding and near threatening to clog your throat, you don’t think before you’re splaying your hands over his chest either.
The way you both glance around mirrors each other, but his voice grumbles illegibly once the most likely reason for the cacophony captures the entire crowd’s attention.
The boisterous new leaders of the opera house stand tall behind the railing nearest the staircase that curls down to the ballroom floor, their paper masks in their hands and dressed in their finest costumes.
“Oh,” you laugh, “It’s just Monsieur Moncharmin and Monsieur Richard. They can be so dramatic sometimes, no?”
Your dance partner glances at you narrowly, his irritation for the opera’s new owners heavy in his tone, “‘Dramatic’ is certainly one way to summarize Armand and Firmin alike. Personally, I’d say they both more resemble wallowing buffoons with clothes on.”
Silently, you blink up at him, mouth dropping open in surprise.
Very quickly Erik’s tune changes and his strong hold on you loosens.
“I apologize. The Opera’s new owners have become a point of…vexation for me recently. I did not mean to take it out on you.”
“It’s alright,” you say softly, “I can see how I’ve touched a nerve.”
“I must say you are wrong there, my Dear, you have done no such thing, ” he croons, reaching up to hover a gloved hand over the subtle plump of your cheek. “You have managed to truly make my night, do not discount that.”
He keeps his hand near your face, outlines the side of it with hardly a whisper of a touch while his gaze roves over you as if he’s starved for your very image.
Looking him over you feel much the same, the absence of his touch molding to your dark skin hitting like an unfitting taunt.
“Won’t you touch me?” you whisper, watching the way Erik’s eyes drop to your two-toned lips and take on a sheen of agony all their own.
Fingers ghost feather-light over the plush of them, more of that unfitting mockery. It is a pale substitute for a kiss.
“No,” he answers, voice just as unsteady as his gaze would have you assume. “I fear what might happen if I indulge myself anymore of this…illusion.”
“If you are so tortured as you claim, why not allow yourself a seconds reprieve when it is being offered?” you rush out. Your voice is far firmer than it ought to be around anyone above your stature, but no hint of a reminder to not forget yourself leaves Erik’s mouth. Nor any scoff or harsh glance.
You bring your hand up, desperate to urge him into action. Press your fingers lightly into the back of his hand in a barren plea, and wish for his palm cradling your cheek and for his arm around you to tighten once more.
Wish for his skin against yours. This stranger who has been kinder to you than any Frenchmen before him.
Though you do not push, Erik’s hand freezes beneath your touch and a harsh noise climbs up the back of his throat.
“Erik—”
He jerks his hand from you. Knocks yours aside with a low, pained sound.
In quick succession he steps back too, releasing you from his grip near entirely, the hand you kept on his arm dropping to your side. He fumbles to grasp it as you pull away, however, holding scarcely the hand he’d grasped. After a moment’s consideration you make a point to squeeze at his hold before stepping back yourself and finally breaking your contact as a whole, struggling to keep the set of your shoulders high.
Erik startles more surely than a horse and you are not sure you’re equipped to handle it.
“I- I must be leaving now,” he rushes out, his pupils are smaller now. His back straighter in compensation.
“Of course,” you reassure him, no small amount of disappointment lingering in your voice despite your best efforts. “Thank you for such a wonderful dance, Erik.”
He nods his agreement, lowering his head as his hand comes up to tamper to some unseen degree at the jaw of his skull. “And I you, Y/n,” he says softly. Your name curling so delicately on his tongue your mind immediately starts running his delivery on repeat.
“In the meantime you will stay on my mind, my dear, and I hope that you will keep me on yours,” he begins once more, swooping into a bow after swinging his cape behind him.
This time when he raises your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles it’s lips that meet your skin. You shiver, gaze snapping downward. He pulls away and when you glance up he’s just slipping the skull mask back over his mouth. Your wide inquiring eyes only catch the barest glimmer of pale skin with just the hint of gaunt features and thin lips.
“Until we meet again, my dear Y/n. Just know that I will be enjoying your dazzling performances from afar as I lay in wait,” Death says, sickly eyes glowing with satisfaction.
In turn you take the time to send him off with a curtsey; legs crossed, crisp white of your dress bloomed, but when you bow your head you take care not to lose eye contact with him. His swallow after that is audible, and your answering smile might as well be with how clearly it sings of your appraisal. Then there goes your morose Death disappearing into the shadows; a specter bathed in mystique.
He makes a grande spectacle later that night. Reappears in a plume of smoke making an impassioned demand for an opera. His Opera. And you live everyday more convinced than the other that Death personified had truly visited the Populare that night.
Gaunt pale skin and sickly eyes drawn to the murders in your corner of France in a flash of winsome words and red and feathers.
Death had showered you with praise, looked you in the eyes and taken you hand in glorious hand across the ballroom floor, had decried the gall of the upper caste’s frivolous celebrating over the graves of those lost, and Death’s name was Erik.
NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!!! I don’t…apologize for the melodrama, but I do understand if it wasn’t for you.
The reader-insert is ambiguously African here since it seemed fitting, but I didn’t want to overemphasize anything and shoot myself in the foot. Just imagine the reader-insert is from one of the countries France still takes exuberant colonial taxes from in order for those countries to stay independent from them.
Now, as far as canon influences go for this story: there’s some og book canon, some ALW musical canon, and a not insignificant amount of MazM canon for good measure. Also, by all means the last name ‘Destler’ is only canon to Poto 1989, but I’m really in love with that specific Erik so I tend to add the last name to my more generalized depictions of The Phantom; at least beside the fic title.
I had a wonderful time writing this and cannot wait for what the new year has to offer for my writing endeavors in the future. Happy New Year (except kind of not really, but we’ll deal)! 🥳🎉
btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it!
