#poem is from 'flowers of passion' by george moore btw

[regrettablewritings]

Hey can I please get a, j and K from the fluff alphabet with the phantom aka Erik aka og aka my recent character crush? Thank you so much!

Okay, but this is the last fluff alphabet. Stuff is under the cut

A = Attractive (What do they find attractive about the other?):

Honestly, Erik is drawn to anyone who won’t treat him horribly. It’s sad, but absolutely true. Given his presumed lot in life, Erik hasn’t really been allowed too many opportunities to be especially picky. But going by his motivations, there are generally two stand-out things he seeks in a person: That they be adequate in looks, and that they don’t treat him like shit.

Before you criticize him on the temerity of the former, let it be known that it ties in to why he does so many of the things he does; why he demands a salary, for example: At the root of it all, what Erik wants is to have a normal life. Sure, he also wants said life to include his works being embraced the world over, but it’s more so on the grounds that he wants to do so as an absurdly talented but otherwise normal man. Particularly in the face.

He only accrues his wealth so that one day, by some grace of miracles, he will be able to join that world above him. And when that day comes, he will be prepared; he can afford a house and fill it with lovely things, including a lovely wife. One whom he can spoil and treasure and whose arm will link with his own as they walk through the park on Sunday evenings and who will love him as dearly as he shows his love for her . . . Really, for all that Erik does, it’s as much for his hypothetical wife as it is for him.

But given how hard he’s fumbled in the past, he really can’t afford to be especially picky. In addition to this, how beautiful he finds someone is also heavily influenced by how they treat him: To Erik, to be shown kindness is to see the kindness of God. However, please note that at this point, he’s almost certainly accepting of even forms of pity; just please do not reject him or treat him as a monster.

Of course, your kindness is what set him off but to Erik’s credit, he had learned to be better since the last time: He learns about the importance of having an ever-patient partner, especially for the likes of him; he learns that for as frustrating as it can be, there’s something good in having a significant other who’s not afraid to put their foot down or call him out on his unintentional moments of arrogance; he learns how to value himself more, to not accept pity as an accepted form of tolerance if it could be helped. But most of all, he realized just how much nicer it was to have someone whom he could actually discuss with, someone who was capable of forcing him to better himself by valuing what they had to say or what they thought.

Given how long he’d only had to think for himself, it’s a bit of a force of habit on the Opera Ghost’s part. But, given the proper guidance and adjustment period, it’s not one he altogether minds letting go of. Over all, what he’s attracted to in you is that you have a hold over him. And given the sort of life he’s led up to this point, it feels nice to be held.

Thankfully, you were much simpler: You liked the enigma that was the Phantom of the Opera. It took you ages to so much as pry out his name despite the fact that he’d been so willing to share with you his music much sooner. Frustrating, yes, but you couldn’t help but find yourself intrigued by it all, intrigued by his world away from worlds you knew. You loved how complex he was, being so dominant yet vulnerable, so competent yet in need of guidance. You loved how in spite of everything, he was incredibly learned for a man of the era, how his library consisted of no shortage of foreign literature and music books filled to the brim with his notes.

You loved how everywhere you looked, even after learning his habits, his interests, his joys and sorrows, there was always something more to learn about your lover. In short, you loved everything that made Erik, (literal) warts and all.

J = Jealousy (Do they get jealous?):

. . . You know damn well that Erik gets jealous. This man’s possessiveness, in fact, is ripe enough to drive the plot of a story – and has! However, it might be proposed that we generally are not completely aware as to why Erik displays territorialism as intensely as he does. And in my honest opinion, it comes down to two main reasons which continuously entwine with one another: That Erik is on the autism spectrum, and that even without that, Erik’s life has made him consequently overprotective.

On the subject of the former, without making a lesson out of this, it’s not uncommon at all to select a person you’ve essentially “invited” into your life and attach yourself to them. A sudden change of that, depending on the person, could prove distressing – like, say, a potential threat suitor taking your attention off of him, getting a bit too close to you for the Phantom’s comfort, and so on. As Erik sees it, you’re his person, and frankly he isn’t fond of sharing. You’re a part of his life now, one he especially doesn’t want to have changed.

Going off this, it also helps to remember that Erik’s life has been incredibly unstable for the most part. Him living on an underground lake located in a labyrinth beneath a Parisian opera house has actually been the most structured his life has ever been! The only thing that has accompanied him all this time has been that monkey-shaped music box, so it’s fair to assume that he’s since developed a bit of . . . avidity. What few things life has given him, he intends to keep by as many means as necessary. Sometimes (at least in his mind), those means can just mean pulling pranks about the opera house so that a single, untalented performer doesn’t ruin the establishment’s reputation. Other times, it means flinging balls of fire at those whom he deems are threats.

He knows that, in the end, you’re far from pleased but he just can’t help himself: You’re one of the only good things that have graced his life, let alone one of the only ones that appears willing to stay -- he’s grown accustomed to having you around and if you were to suddenly, well, not be because some handsome, rich, talentless, impudent child had gained your attention, then he would be devastated! So much so that he might act on his aggressions . . .

(Though, let it be clarified that it is not your job to better Erik. Voice your disagreement about his desires, as these are not meant to justify his antics; only explain them. He’s thankfully since learned to be somewhat more agreeable than before, so it isn’t impossible to make him yield.)

K = Kiss (How do they kiss? Who initiated the first kiss?):

If you were expecting the world’s most secluded man to be a naturally-gifted kisser, than you are sadly and extraordinarily mistaken. Erik’s kisses are wobbly and uncertain, as though he were unsure of where to put his lips (which he is). It was like that the first time you’d kissed, and it’s safe to assume they’ll continue to be of similar nature for a while with some dosage of insecurity in them or another.

However, you couldn’t have wanted for anything more. You see, the first time the two of you shared a kiss, it had been a bit of an effort of both parts. It’s honestly hard to determine whom the proper initiator had been: One might say it was Erik, as he had been the one to hover so closely to you; all you had been doing at the moment was leafing through one of his books on poetry whilst taking up residency on his lounge. However, another might argue that you were silently yet intentionally ensorcelling him when you glanced behind to find him staring at you: You did, after all, grace him with a shy yet warm smile. But then again, Erik’s eyes bore into you with the same hunger and pleading as a pup demanding attention (and perhaps a snack) from its master -- there was simply no way to misinterpret his longing!

But then you invited him over, voicing how “standing over there looks far lonelier than sitting right here” might’ve been. But then, perhaps, Erik was too eager in his footsteps, too brisk in spite of his thundering heart? Or were you well aware when you insisted he scoot closer to you so that he could read along with you? Whatever the case, his figure remained stiff as it sat next to you, leaving a painfully thin but painfully there wall of silence between the two of you. You could just barely feel the faintest brush of the very fiber of his clothes against you. But what you swore you felt much more vibrantly was . . . this sense of need.

“Erik,” you spoke, shattering the quiet, “I’m afraid I’m having trouble deciphering this . . . Would you mind . . .?” Your voice trailed as you lifted the book only enough for him to see. However, it would only be enough for him to see if he made an effort to move even closer to you. He parted his lips; you could hear the beginnings of an effort to deny you, only for him to rescind. It was not in his nature, as Erik was coming to find, to deny you the sound of his voice or his attention.

The threat of a shudder racked your body as the fine threads of his jacket scratched against your arm, the slightest hint of Erik’s nerves trickling through them. He was just close enough for you to register his warmth, what little he tended to give off anyway. It was perfect.

Craning his neck as far as he would allow himself to, Erik obliged you:

“Till, ho,” his voice recited, low but clear. Warm yet distant.

“Astarte bright Rose o’er the shadowy vale And filled the whole deep night With crystalline low light, White, tremulous, and pale.”

Tremulous, you noted. Much like himself. Much like the endless night he so dominated . . .

“Then on the star-lit bank,” he continued, “Dreaming of what love’s bliss is, we --” He paused. He furrowed his brow before releasing it once more. You dared to believe that the Opera Ghost was blushing!

Tremulous indeed, he tried to start once more, “W. . . we . . .”

“’Trembled,’” you assisted, a hint of a smile playing on your lips.

“Mm,” he hummed, far too flustered to consider making it tuned. “W-we . . . trembled . . . and we sank . . .” He sighed heavily, the end in sight.

“And thro’ her lips I drank Her soul in rapturous kisses . . .”

Once more, the Phantom exhaled heavily, albeit more so from embarrassment than before. He didn’t recall adding that piece to his library, not that it wasn’t something he wouldn’t normally own. Still, the thought that he had exposed himself in such a manner, much less to you . . . It was inappropriate to say the least! Against his already buzzing nerves, he spared you a glance to determine the amount of damage he might have caused your relationship.

To his surprise, you didn’t appear to be very flustered, if at all! In fact, you appeared to be intrigued. Very intrigued, if one were to gain evidence in how you appeared to be leaning in ever so slightly. If Erik had ever questioned what the flames of Hell might have felt like, he would have dared theorize they felt as his burning face did in that moment.

“‘In a rapturous kiss’,” you repeated. He wasn’t certain how to reply; he only offered a curt nod. You blinked, almost sheepishly.

“Erik . . .” you breathed, “would you . . .?”

“. . . Y. . .” The word never came out. Not because it had been sudden, but because the man was simply unable to even process even a one-worded sentence. It was all, in fact, very slow in movement: From how he inched in closer; to how you leaned in further; to the way your eyes fluttered shut; to how Erik, almost childishly, struggled to determine the proper angle at which to make the connection.

It felt like an eternity and yet fleeting all at once. And yet, the kiss did happen. Messily, awkwardly, and not nearly anything like the poets in Erik’s book might have written.

But, oh, was it nonetheless tremulous and tender, yet burning.

Rapturous.

Thank you for being patient!