#poto fanfiction

[angel-with-paper-wings]

The Magician’s Prelude

This is a gift for @erik-carierre posted with permission! Many thanks for your feedback and support!!

Summary: Erik’s morning routine while working as a magician in Russia prior to his recruitment by Nadir. Based on Kay!Erik.

Cover art and title by @erik-carierre

Content warnings: PTSD-like trauma flashbacks, bloody/gory imagery, slightly graphic descriptions of violence, body negativity (Erik is an angsty teenager)

Blood. There is always blood.

It oozes around the shards of mirror buried in the skin of my hands…it drips in thick crimson blobs onto the bundle of golden fur…it spatters in hot torrents against my chest and sticks to the open buttons of my shirt…

And it is there again that night. In the rooftop garden, I stand paralyzed staring at the gap in the crumbled balustrade. My chest feels hollow—I cannot breathe, I cannot scream—all I can do is watch as the gap yawns before me, pulling me closer. Against my will, I peer over the edge to view the sight I know is there.

I wish I could blink. I long for even the tiniest respite from what lay before me, but all I can do is look. Her body is small amidst the shattered rubble, her thin delicate limbs laying at odd angles, her soft barley hair matted with flecks of blood and gore. And her eyes…her pale eyes snuffed of all fire that had once bubbled inside of her like smoldering lava. They stare blankly up at my unmasked face, looking but not seeing.

All she ever wanted was to look at me…and now all I can do is look. Look at what I have done.

I awakened with a jolt, my eyes flying open and clenching the thin woolen blanket to my chest. One skeletal hand flew up to my face, and only once I felt the smooth hardness of the mask did I relax. After a moment of composure, I opened my aching jaw and heaved out a sigh of annoyance. The nightmares were as persistent as they had always been.

I sat up in bed and fumbled to light the oil lamp on the nightstand. I had no difficulty getting prepared in complete darkness, but I simply preferred not to after a night of haunting visions. A small clock beside the lamp told me it was early in the morning—earlier than I typically rose, but I was already resigned to the fact that I wouldn’t be sleeping any more if I tried.

I flung the woolen blanket to the side and felt the floor creak beneath my bare feet. The inn’s modest wooden room was comfortable enough for my needs: a bed with sheets, a chamber pot, a pitcher and washbasin, and most valuable of all, privacy. There had been a mirror, but I removed it soon after arriving.

I yanked off my nightshirt, letting the room’s warm air graze the scars slashed across my back. Russia had intriguingly hot summers; the books I had read as a boy only bothered to describe the harshness of the winter months, so I confess to being slightly bemused upon my arrival three years ago to a city with a climate only moderately cooler than the one I had left behind in Italy.

Her twisted body flashed before me again, the broken masonry wet and crimson from the split in her skull… I closed my eyes and angrily shoved the image back into the shadows of my mind. No. No more thoughts of that place. I poured water from the pitcher into the washbasin and dunked in a bar of perfumed soap. Once it had worked up a lather, I soaked a clean cloth and derisively began to wash myself.

The dawn of my body’s maturity had proven to be a dismal affair. It took my bones the full extent of my nineteen years to finally cease their growing, leaving me wretchedly gaunt and pitifully covered in pasty yellow skin. I had the strength of a man twice my age and triple my weight, but my frame still refused to resemble anything but a corpse. In my frustration, I scrubbed harder at my own flesh, attempting to cleanse it of its rotten color. But it remained as it always had, pulled tight over my arms to display veins and tendons, with the only thickness found in the old silvery scars adorning my wrists and hands.

Once I had scoured myself raw, I slung the cloth over the rack of the washstand to dry and stared down into the bottom of the basin. Silence screamed in my ears and my stomach twisted with dread. I turned my head to glance at the door behind me; the lock was securely in place, but the familiar prickle of eyes stung my skin all the same.

With trembling fingers, I removed the mask. Warm air rolled across my bare skin like a caress, or what I imagined a caress to feel like. I set the white sculpted shard aside on the stand, and after a heavy sigh, I bent over the basin and scooped handfuls of water over my head, scrubbing the soap’s lather deep into my thick black waves of hair. Droplets ran down the edges of my face, as if even they were afraid to touch the horror that was there. But I forced them to touch it, rubbing the water into the cracks and distorted furrows of my skin, smearing it around the protruding bones and into my eyes’ sunken pits. I braced myself with a grimace before carefully wiping the dried mucus away from the edge of the hole that was my nose.

The torture ended when I finally buried my repulsiveness in a towel. I held the soft cloth against my face as my other hand reached for the mask, slipping it back into place with a relieved sigh. I squeezed my dark hair free of water, then picked up a comb and worked it through the curls until they attained sufficient softness. I laid the towel and comb to the side and stepped over to the tiny wardrobe, withdrawing one of many black satin shirts and slipping it on. After dressing myself, I left my room and slinked down the stairs as a soundless shadow.

The empty tavern on the first floor simmered with the savory scent of shchi. This early in the morning, the only other soul awake was the ancient innkeeper preparing the first meal of the day. I scattered a handful of kopecks onto the bar, letting the clattering sound echo into the kitchen. A minute later, the shawled woman doddered forward and set a steaming bowl of cabbage soup and a chunk of crusty bread before me. No words or glances were exchanged, no questions were asked, as was our routine.

I suspected she found me strange—indeed, I have yet to encounter a soul who didn’t—but she seemed to tolerate me well enough. After her defective coal stove found itself repaired the day following my arrival, I was able to convince her to let me use her inn’s far room as a flat for several months. Unlike my fellow tenants, I paid precisely on time, never returned drunk or belligerent, and there was no risk of women being snuck into my bed. After all, what woman would be desperate enough to lay with a corpse, regardless of the payment offered to her?

With this bitterness lingering in my head, I ate my meal quickly and slipped out into the morning’s haze. It was a rare day; the air was pleasantly cool and the clouds had chosen to don a color besides their usual dismal grey. I assured myself that no one was watching before I lifted my head to admire the way the branches of trees cast their dark silhouettes against the paling sky.

The western quarter of Nizhny Novgorod was largely deserted, making it easy to dart through the city’s shadows unseen in my black attire. Once the day hit its sweltering peak, the cobbled streets would resemble the Volga river with rushing currents of wealthy merchants and colorful travelers from Europe and India and Persia. By that time, I would be waiting for them in my magician’s tent, where they would be shown more wonders than their feeble minds could possibly comprehend.

I rounded a corner and walked along the silent boulevard, until the trees bordering the street gave way to a wrought-iron fence. Beyond the fence, majestically imposing against the northwest horizon, stood the blinding white structure of the Spassky Cathedral. Pink wisps of sunrise stretched across the sky and barely kissed the golden spire atop its great dark cupola.

As I so often did on clear mornings like this one, I felt compelled to stop and gaze up at the splendid piece of architecture. My eyes danced over its fine pillars and elegant façade, admiring the expert carving and delighting in the exquisite use of symmetry and proportion. I had snuck inside once in the dead of night to glimpse its interior—what beauty! It lacked the scale of greater cathedrals, but in golden grandeur it did not disappoint.

There was a time when I had imagined building such great works myself. Beneath the creaky bed back at the inn lay several journals filled with sketches of the spectacular monuments I saw when I closed my eyes. The pages overflowed with details of magnificent marble façades and great towering pavilions, gilded figures in copper and bronze, ornate mosaics with details that dazzled the imagination. My architectural creations would be shrines of worship, not to any one god but to all forces that stirred the spirit and awakened man’s deepest emotions—art, geometry, magic, and most of all music. Oh, how I missed music.

Often this fantasy crossed my mind, and with every day and every kopeck in my purse, it seemed less and less like a child’s dream. After all, I was still very much in my youth…perhaps that day was still to come.

Once I had admired all I could bear, I tucked my masked face back down between my narrow shoulders and trudged off through the neighborhood of shops and teahouses. A smattering of humans were beginning to converge on the street that I walked: small groups of traders bickering in foreign tongues and leading wooden carts filled with wares to sell. Like me, they trampled up the soggy road to the shadow of the large red and yellow stone building, beyond which lay a great courtyard overlooking the bank of the Oka. It was here in the summer months that the great Markaryev Fair was held, where tradesmen and entertainers alike earned their gold.

I proceeded underneath the building’s archway and entered the city’s courtyard. Vendors were already busy erecting tents and unloading their goods in designated sections around the square. Past cotton bales and crates of tea and spices, I spotted the oval shape of the familiar black yurt tucked in its corner, untouched as always. I never worried about the tent’s safety during my absence, for a rumor of a deadly curse had found its way amongst the traders that effectively warded off potential burglars.

As I walked, a warm breeze wafted through the market’s open air, carrying a strain of musical notes to my ears. My heart jumped and I whipped my head towards the sound. On the other side of the courtyard sauntered a muzhik fiddler, beard scraggly and legs stumbling as if drunk, the bow screeching as it was dragged across the rusty strings. A couple passing by threw a few coins into the hat that lay at his feet.

Under the mask, my lips pulled back in a snarl. How dare these fools reward such a tuneless, insolent mockery of music! That drunken bastard did not deserve the right to place his filthy hands on an instrument and spoil its sacred beauty for the whole city to hear. My bony form seethed beneath its black clothing, but I successfully fought back my fervid rage and stomped off towards the yurt. I clenched my shaking hands at my sides, imagining the feeling of the man’s throat beneath my fingers; a sharp snap from his neck and those dreadful notes would finally fall silent.

A crunch against the stones. The heavy tumble of rubble against the ground dampens the sound of her skull cracking open…

I entered the dark tent and pulled the fabric flaps closed behind me, blessedly muffling the horrid noises. A deep breath steadied my hands, and with practiced precision I navigated the small space and lit candles tucked in little red lanterns, banishing the darkness and revealing the blood-red of the yurt’s interior. Swooping red curtains hung from the concave ceiling; samples of shyrdak hangings formed the walls, weaving in swirls of black and gold into the otherwise scarlet room. I kicked off my shoes and felt the luxurious softness of the thick Persian rugs buried beneath velvet cushions.

I ignited the small charcoal stove to boil water in the samovar for tea. While it brewed, I reclined back against the cushions and turned my attention to the long wooden box tucked near the back of the tent: the trick casket. My fingers deftly pranced over the mechanism to open the box, and I withdrew the materials for my magician’s performance: decks of cards, stacks of silver coins, hand-carved trick dice. I arranged them all in neat rows upon the central rug with a small grin.

I struck another match and lit a few sticks of incense to flood the space with their heady, sweet fragrance. I had learned over time that it was beneficial for the minds of my audience to be stripped of their defenses—that way, they found my tricks more dazzling and dropped more rubles into my bony hand. Sometimes this state of enchantment would make them too bold, and bring out their insatiable nature that they otherwise hid from their gods during prayer in the temples and cathedrals. They became ravenous, foolishly curious; they would grope for my mask and demand to see what lay beneath…

All she wanted was to see me.

My hands curled upon themselves, extinguishing the match’s flame between my fingertips. The wretched visions played through my mind again and numbed the burn on my skin.

A mirror shard clenched between the tips of tweezers…bloody hands furiously digging at the grassy dirt…the heavy clunk of a knife’s hilt as the belt dropped to the floor… It was difficult to understand why I remembered certain details so clearly, while others merely faded into murky shadows.

Over the course of three years, the girl’s living face had become fuzzy in my memory. Indeed, I had only dared to look at her a handful of times while living with the master stonemason. Every time I did, my chest would fill with an uncomfortable constricting sensation, and I would be forced to look away or else stop breathing altogether. Her eyes had a heat that scorched all the way to my soul. She was fire—bold, passionate, all-consuming—and I knew better than to risk being burned. Or perhaps I was afraid.

But it was the moment I finally gave her what she pleaded for, the moment I ripped off the mask—her expression of pure horror, anguish and primal fear, grief for love she had never truly felt. That image would always remain in my memory perfectly in focus.

I slowly opened my hand, and I stared down at the two spots of black soot left upon the pale skin of my thumb and forefinger. Temporary scars, easily washed away. That’s all these dreams were to me…but still the pain they carried hurt more than the deep wounds left on my body.

With a harsh huff, I flicked the remnants of the match away and reached over to the samovar to pour myself a cup of tea. The earthy liquid seared down my throat and revived my senses, kicking the brooding memories away in favor of my present enterprise. Outside my tent, I heard the growing clamour of the fair coming to life—my audience awaited me.

A familiar pang prodded at my heart. Was this all? Would this pitiful life, shrouded away in a performer’s tent, forever be my purpose? In my heart, I longed to use my skills to create the majesty that filled my mind: grand palaces, ingenious machines, symphonies without equal. If I had to be confined to mindless magic tricks for greedy imbeciles, then they would be the best magic tricks ever conceived. In a way, I thought to myself scornfully, I had not left that traveling fair…perhaps I never would. But at least things were different now. I was my own master, and no one would ever cage me again.

As the incense swirled its sickly-sweet aroma through the air, I slipped further back into my tent and drew a sheer red curtain across my masked form. I laid back in my trick coffin and heard several soft clicks as the mechanism closed the lid and cloaked me in darkness—the one place I have ever truly belonged.

Long ago, I had accepted my place as prince of darkness, and I would reign over my realm with proud finesse. So let them in now, the merchants and peasants from all corners of the world. Let them think they are the kings and I am their fool. Let them believe they know what it is like to be afraid.

Let them in, and let them look.

[elfwoodfae]

I saw your request for Erik writing ideas, and I was wondering if you could do smut headcannons with Erik being a sub for afab!reader? Please and thank you!

NSFW MDNI

This is a long shot, and alas I haven’t written in ages but here we go.

I love the idea of Erik being very submissive when it comes to intimacy, more so in the bedroom.

All that cockiness he portrays is gone when the doors are closed. Always fearing that once you see him unclothed, without his mask that you will everytime regret and realize what a monster he thinks he is.

He doesn’t feel capable of taking control and guiding you through, he is more than willing to give that up, let you show him how it’s done, how touches and kisses can Ignite the hottest of passions in his blood.

He loves being under you, his big hands on your waist, holding you, grounding him, letting you take the pace, letting you push yourself on his chest as his head is throw back. Your lips caressing his neck and telling him how good he is, how much you need him.

He also loves being on top, having your leg over his hip, his face hiding in your neck as his lips open in pants against your skin, one of his hands in your hair and the other on the pillow but your voice is the one guiding him, setting the pace, your nails in his back and your hand on his hair keeping him there. Always letting him know how much you love the mess he becomes, how he melts at your touch, how good he is to you, how good he makes you feel.

[abonnymouse]

Tag your results!

[jadeite-art]

Lately I've been tempted to turn my old poto fanfic into a comicbook which is something I had wanted to do at one point, years ago, before I pretty much quit drawing, turning to other semi-creative outlets like photography and modeling, only to find myself drained by it all within a couple years. After a long transitional period I start to emerge from my own personal dark pit and I feel like drawing again and this just came up, partially due to someone asking me to translate the fanfic for them (which I did and thet even read it). Will I go through with it? Idk - comic-writing is a lenghty process afterall - but I might as well try. For now I just comic-fied the intro sequence as a test.

[smbyt]

My favorite Phantom fanfictions' list

Some Phantom fictions (of course, ít’s Erik x Christine) that always make my day, i want to share them with you guys because i extremely love them!!! I will list the stories by their authors. They’re my favourite author in Phandom!!!

_________________________________________________________

Writer SloaneDestler: she is the first author who made me fall in love with Phantom fanfic, she has a lot of amazing fictions but i just list some of my most favourite (Grrrr, i want to list all of her works!!!)

Second Chances: the first long fic I have read in phandom. Christine was pregnant with Raoul's child but was abandoned, so she returned to find Erik. In this story I really like how Erik reacted and treated Christine so well, especially at the end when Raoul met her again. The love development between the two is amazing, I fall in love with the way Sloane built it. I spent a whole week reading it and it really wasn't a waste of time! I won't spoil anything more, hope everyone will enjoy this story!

All Our Times Have Come, oneshot: Christine and her strange neighbor, it’s a dark fic which provoke some thoughts inside my mind =)))) well, kinda say Sloane did very well at building this Erik’s personality. He’s very mysterious, especially very attractive. I love how Christine reacted to Erik, she was both wary and attracted to him. You should read this fic when you find interested in dark fic, otherwise I hope you will be fine after reading it.

Joyeux Noël, oneshot: LET! GIVE! THIS! FIC! A! HUGE! ROUND! OF! APPLAUSE! This one is when Christine and Erik had their first Christmas together. But! But! But! Erik’s gift for Christine just makes me want to bite his arse!!!! Yo man??? Why???? Let read that fic and bite his ass with me, mate!

Those above fics is my favourite, besides, you can also find some of those fics’ related ones in her dashboard. I recommend you should read all of her fics, they’re just amazing UwU

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Writer MadameDestler: I’m a starving one for her fics, I have read all of hers and I have to tell you that if I can, i’ll list all of her fics. I’LL BARK FOR YOU, MY MATE!!!

The Phantom's Atonement, long fic: this one is a MASTERPIECE!!!! Christine was kidnapped by Erik (again) after we-all-know that night. The way he was healing by himself and another character can make you cry (and me either, because it recalled some of my memories about my toxic relationship so I don’t dare to read that again. But it really worth reading mate, you will miss a masterpiece if you don’t read it!). Also, the plot is really amazing, I can say this Erik is really stubborn but that makes me love him. Let’s read it to see how Erik apologized Christine and how he tried to do that =))))))))))

A World with No More Night, long fic: You can see some of my sketches about this fic in here, I couldn’t stop smiling when I read it and giggling like a girl in love @@ I'm really at peace while they two ran away from the Opera House. A little spoiler, when Christine miscarried, I cried a lot and Brianna (author's name in case you didn't know) did a great job at this part. She made me burst into tears because of her arrangement of ideas and story scenes.

Speak, oneshot: yo man, this one is really spicy spicy but dark, its plot twist made me cry @@ hm… but you know, I love the idea of Erik bathing Christine =))))))))

Locusts, oneshot: don’t ask me =))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))) it’s damning hilarious, just read it and enjoy the cuteness of Erik =)))))))))))))

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Other author: 

Unsung of wheel_of_fish, long fic: Christine could not speak anymore after that fated night. This fic made I almost transform into a river of tears because I feel so related (i know, I cry with almost fics, sorry for my sensitive mind) because I was unable to speak for a month due to depression too! And the way the author portrays Christine exactly makes me feel very sympathetic and makes the story more real. The context of the story is also expansive and incredibly beautiful. I enjoyed the way Piangi was considered and especially the resolution and plot of this story. The tension between Christine and Erik is also notable, not to mention Christine's character development. Besides the characters (which are very like the original story's), the way the author describes the scene is also incredibly unique and wonderful. I can imagine every single breathtaking scene of it.

Pilgrim Soul of Mertens, long fic: this is modern au where Christine is a nurse and Erik is a fucking rich man. It’s both emotional and funny, the plot and character development amazed me too. I love the way Erik bribes people and love his passion for traveling (and fear of death) too. It made me think Erik was very human (and funny). Christine was very realistic as well as pitiful, I was just a little heartbroken that Christine wasn't decisive from the start but can't blame her either, yeh? Anyway, Mertens has a lot of Phantom fictions, I read several and they’re really amazing for us to read within our starve of fiction. 

Sacred of TryingNotToLoveYou, long fic, alternative uni: LET ME TELL YOU GUYS, THIS CHRISTINE IS REALLY BADASS!!! She dug her nails into the rapist's crotch and squeezed it harshly! =))))))))))))))))) In this fic, Erik is a priest and he had to learn how to swim :')))) I love the plot so much but it hasn't finished yet huhu

Want some extremely spicy fic? Let’s go and find catcorsair! Last Night in Paradise is my favorite of their fics. Urggggg, it’s just soooooo goooddddd. This Erik is a real madman, guy!!!! I don’t know what to say more, it’s just a masterpiece! No, all of catcorsair’s fics are just masterpieces!!!

Be My Guest of pianomanblaine, long fic, Beauty and the Beast AU: I can say this fic makes my heart melt! Christine and her father were still together at the end of this fic and the tension between Erik and Christine is just so amazing!!!!!! asdjfajsdhfakjdsfhajdh!!! I love how Erik from a grumpy man became a super-love-wife husband =)))))))))) His character development was really amazing too, not to mention the scene where Christine had an argument with him and she ran away from him, I! CAN! SAY! THAT! FREAKING! BEAST! WAS! BECOMING! A! PRINCE!

[moe-machine]

Hey everyone, my silly fanfic isn't over YET, and this is definitely NOT a hiatus. I just need to get back to work, you know, pay the bills and all that adulting stuff. I'll have another break in a few weeks, and then I can dive back into crafting the next chapters. Just a heads up, they're already written; I just need to make them, you know, make sense! Haha. Thanks for your patience! ♡( •ॢ◡-ॢ)✧˖° ♡

Another cute pic of my squad! Yes! I added new characters in my fanfic! hehe I like to see their faces.

You can read Phantom: The Bittersweet Reallity . here on AO3

◙▒◙ ♫♩♬ I created a playlist on Spotify with romantic songs that are inspiring me for the story I'm writing. Feel free to give it a listen if you're interested. Phantom Cherik 1990

I work as an illustrator, you can follow my work on ig ʕ♡˙ᴥ˙♡ʔ

[gabriezzu]

Can anyone recommend some E/C multichapter fanfictions? Anything except modern AUs, please🥺🥺🥺? Any poto verse is fine, although Leroux is my fav! But any verse is appreciated ❤️

[night-unfurls-its-splendour]

I know destler and carriere are gonna sweep, but I'm still curious

[ashadeintheshade]

City of Angels, Chapter 19

How I imagine every music lesson.

Read on AO3.

[flea-palace]

if anyone out there is looking for a new poto fic and you love a:

▪︎ childhood friend au

▪︎ red string of fate type dynamic between characters

▪︎ religious imagery ft catholic guilt

▪︎ e/c where they knew each other years before the original poto plot

then read this fic i've been marinating in my mind forever and am finally writing teehee

[an-angels-fury]

An Angel's Wrath: A POTO/Carrie AU (Erik as Carrie White)

Jesus watches from the wall

But His face is cold as stone

If He loves me

Why do I feel so all alone?

Erik has never been a normal child. From a very young age, he remembered being forced to tolerate every kind of cruelty, since the bullying from his classmates, who always made fun of him because of his upbringing, appearence and strange behavior, and the abuse from his mother Madalaine, a fanatical religious woman who always believed her son to be a sinful creature cursed by the Devil because of his horrible birth deformity. As a punishment, she sentenced him to wear a mask to cover his scars, reminding him everyday his soul was bounded to Hell for simply being born. However, some days before the long awaited school prom, a mysterious power hold within Erik's soul started to come to surface, a peculiar and fathal gift which would allow him to settle acconts with all the ones who ever humiliated him, leading the whole city to a night they would never forget.

(P.S.: Forgive me for any grammar mistake. English's not my first language.)

[angel-with-paper-wings]

The Siren’s Song

A super quick one-shot I threw together after being inspired by this amazing art done by nipuni!

This takes place while Erik the siren/merman is in Persia and working for the Shah, and Nadir is charged with making sure he is cared for and ready to suit the Shah’s whims. I hope you all enjoy and thanks again to nipuni for the incredible art and idea!

Rating/Warnings: rated T, tiny amount of gore, references to murder

The sun dipped just below the west horizon, painting the Mazenderan sky a bright blood-red. From the window of the great Persian palace overlooking the Caspian Sea, the sunset’s glowing splendor made for a breathtaking view. A single figure stood at the window; Nadir watched the light disappear below the horizon with a heavy sigh. With the end of the day came one of Nadir’s most important duties, one that he either found mildly enjoyable or extremely unpleasant. The probability of either outcome was as unpredictable as the waves in the sea below him. 

Nadir tipped the last of his cup of tea into his mouth, letting the flavors cradle his tongue for a moment before turning away from the window. He then walked through the halls of the fine palace towards the kitchen. The Shah had spared no expense in the construction of the lavish building, which served as His Majesty’s personal home in the region of Mazenderan. Nadir Khan held authority of the property when the Shah was not present, and as such was in charge of the strange rituals that occurred within the building. Or, more accurately, below it.

In the kitchen, Nadir prepared two small baskets of sustenance, then took them and proceeded to the entrance to the palace’s cellars. Down the dark stone steps he treaded, so accustomed to the path by now that he could walk it without the aid of a lantern. He arrived outside a large wooden door with a ruby-encrusted doorknob. Willing his heart to stop beating so fast, he turned the doorknob and opened the door.

Inside was an enormous room, with dark stone walls lit intermittently with torches. The floor of the room was almost entirely missing, replaced instead with a great pool of black water. The surface of the liquid was eerily still and presented no indication of how deep it was. The stillness, coupled with the obtrusive feeling of unknown, gave any who entered it a chill along their spine.

Nadir felt the feeling wash over him again, but let it pass with a practiced air of calm. He stepped forward from the doorway onto the stone platform that formed the edge of the pool. The platform extended forward about three meters, before stopping at the water’s edge. However, a thin stone catwalk, wide enough for a single person to stand on at a time, extended out along the surface of the water, stopping in the center of the great pool. Simply standing on the platform near the door was terrifying enough, but many enemies of the Shah had found themselves being urged out onto the slippery catwalk to meet a ghastly fate. No one in their right mind would step foot on that catwalk, even if they were unaware of what lay beneath the water’s surface; even now, Nadir felt his primal defenses tensing and urging him not to step forward. But he had done this many times before.

He closed the wooden door and let the loud slam echo off of the stone walls. He then stepped forward across the platform with purposefully heavy footsteps: one, two, three, four, five. With a deep breath, Nadir then stepped forward onto the catwalk. He kept his movements slow and scanned the water carefully with his jade-green eyes.

Once he was almost at the edge of the walkway, he became aware of a strange sound surrounding him. It was so faint he did not notice it at first, but by each passing second it grew into a low droning note, half-breath and half-music. It seemed to rise from the water itself, the surface of which remained smooth and black as ink. The soft humming wove itself into Nadir’s mind, pulling him closer and closer, but he fought to keep his legs steady on the platform and his eyes fixed on the water. His voice called out into the chill air of the room, breaking through the humming with a single word.

“Erik?”

At once the humming stopped. Nadir looked around for any sign of movement below the murky water.

“You’re late,” a voice called from behind Nadir. The Persian man jumped and almost slipped on the stone catwalk, hissing out a curse. He turned around to see the figure of a man—well, a man’s head and torso—sitting atop the edge of the stone platform. Where his hips would have begun, the pale skin faded into black scales: the beginning of a long black tail that at the moment remained hidden beneath the surface of the dark water. The top half of the siren’s face was covered by a sculpted white mask, and the bottom half was curled up in an unsettling grin, his yellow eyes unblinkingly fixed on Nadir.

“I had to finish my tea,” Nadir muttered. “But I am not one to forget my duties.” He held up the pair of baskets in his hands.

The yellow eyes shifted to rest on the basket. Erik’s eerie grin widened, his thin lips pulling back to reveal two rows of razor-sharp fangs. Without warning the siren plunged himself into the water, barely leaving a ripple in his wake as he disappeared beneath the surface. The room became deathly quiet again, until Nadir saw a shimmering out of the corner of his eye. He turned to look down at the water next to him, and watched the spiny points of fins dragging along just under the surface. The whiplike tail then flipped out of the water, sprinkling Nadir with a spray of droplets. The man grumbled and wiped his face bitterly.

He whipped his head around to the other side and saw the siren’s head poking out of the water a few feet off of the catwalk, the sly grin frozen in place. Nadir knelt down on the stone walkway and said, “You make this quite difficult. Although I’m sure that is the intention.”

Erik scoffed. “You offend me, Daroga. It is always my intention to make guests feel comfortable when they visit my home.” He brought his bony elbows up to rest on the stone catwalk and craned his neck to see what Nadir was rummaging with in the basket. “What have you brought for me to break my fast with today, hmm?”

Nadir let out a huff as he extracted a large fish, freshly caught. He avoided meeting Erik’s eyes as the siren’s tongue poked out from between the thin lips, dragging across the dagger-like teeth. In the other basket, Nadir revealed his own meal: seasoned lamb kebab with rice and flatbread. At the sight of the “human” food, the siren turned up his nose. “You’ll spoil my appetite, Daroga,” he whined, inching himself further away.

Nadir gave Erik an amused glare while he sat and took a bite of the bread. The siren made a face of disgust before turning his attention to his own meal.

The strange pair began to eat together; at one point, Nadir looked up at the siren, but immediately wished he hadn’t. Erik’s mouth was rimmed with blood, and Nadir’s stomach turned as he watched the long tongue swipe hungrily over his fangs, wiping them clean of fish. “How is your new invention coming along?” Nadir asked, attempting to distract himself from the rather frightening image.

Erik’s yellow eyes sparked. “Perhaps you could tell me,” he said mischievously. At Nadir’s questioning look, he added, “I just tried it on you.”

Nadir frowned. “The humming?”

The siren nodded. Behind him, the fins of his long black tail splashed excitedly in the water. “I have found a frequency of sound that most humans find relaxing, even intoxicating. Amplifying this signal allows it to pass through water with relative ease, reaching their ears without them realizing the source…until it is too late.” The fang-filled grin flashed across his face again.

Nadir nodded in understanding. He wouldn’t lie, it made him a bit disappointed inside to know that Erik was capable of such ingenuity and artistry, only for it to be exploited in the name of causing torture and death. He sighed to himself.

“What about you, Daroga? How are things faring in the world above?” Erik asked as he set aside the bones of the fish and began picking at his fangs with one slender finger.

“Well, the Shah is having trouble finding a replacement vizier, one that he finds more trustworthy than the last.” Nadir couldn’t help his eyes from glancing over to where the scaly black tail shimmered and swished beneath the water. The last vizier, after his betrayal to the Shah was discovered, had found his death in this very room not a week prior, his neck snapped within the elastic force of that same strong tail. Nadir inhaled a deep breath to clear his thoughts. “As such, His Majesty has found himself under a lot of stress. He questions the loyalty of almost everyone around him. Because of this, I imagine you’ll be getting more…visitors soon.”

At Nadir’s last statement, Erik’s eyes darkened. “Visitors,” he spat the word with disdain. He pushed himself off of the stone catwalk and sunk lower into the water. He began to effortlessly swim in a circle before Nadir as he spoke impatiently. “There is no need for petty euphemisms, Daroga. I know what my role is to the Shah. I am his royal executioner; he sends me those he hates the most, the ones he wishes to see die the most agonizing deaths. And much like you, I am not one to forget the duties assigned to me.”

Nadir met the siren’s burning yellow gaze. “That is not the only role you fulfill, Erik,” he assured firmly. “You are an architect, the greatest Persia has ever seen. Your creations have brought wonder and beauty to many, not just terror and destruction. Trust me, you are valued much more than as a simple executioner.”

Erik’s tail lashed through the water, and he practically leapt forward until he was in front of Nadir. “Then why does the Shah keep me in a shallow tank and feed me like an exotic pet? Do not dare lie to me, Daroga, for I know my true worth in this country.” He slowly slid back into the water, turning his black-spined back to Nadir. His hand drifted up to touch the edge of the porcelain mask that hid half of his face. “I know my true worth…in this world.”

Nadir watched Erik with great pity within his noble and generous heart. After a quiet moment, he reached a hand into the inner pocket of his coat. “I believe you requested this a few days ago,” he said softly.

Erik turned his head around, and his eyes widened as he looked upon the object in Nadir’s hands. It was a large book, leather-bound with gold letters forming a title across the cover. He eagerly swam closer to find out what it said. “Italian Architecture of the 16th Century,” he read. His fingers reached up and snatched it from Nadir’s offering hands; he opened it up and began looking through it quickly, paying little attention to the small drops of water from his wet hands soaking through the pages. “Fascinating.”

Nadir smiled at his eagerness. “I suppose I’ll leave you to it, then. Enjoy your evening.” He have a small bow before standing and waking back along the catwalk to the stone platform.

Just as he reached for the door handle, he heard the voice behind him again say, “Daroga.” Nadir paused, before turning back around.

Erik slowly swam forward, cutting through the water like glass without leaving a single ripple. He reached the edge of the pool and pushed himself out with his wiry arms, resting the base of his tail on the stone platform. In the torchlight, Nadir could see the scars that slashed across his chest and shoulders, the way his ribs and joints protruded plainly from under his greyish pale skin. Despite the nocturnal darkness that rimmed his golden pupils, Erik’s eyes appeared soft as they focused on Nadir. “You have my thanks,” he whispered timidly.

A warmth erupted in Nadir’s chest as he took in Erik’s quiet words. With the corners of his lips turned up in a smile, Nadir gave Erik one final nod before opening the door and climbing back up to the world above.

[flora-gray]

Update! The Better Man: Ch 35

(X)

I’m back! And so is Erik, and he’s just as grounded and humble as always 🥰

Read it on AO3!

[abonnymouse]

Things I think would fix Erik Phantom of the Opera

A non-exhaustive list

Listening to Lizard Boy the musical

Playing minecraft

Making friends with a butch lesbian

Playing DnD (Ideally with the butch lesbian)

Ketamine assisted therapy

Surfing during the height of 90's surf culture Point Break AU

Probably like, a really really comfortable pair of sweatpants

[jadeite-art]

I finally created something akin to a cover art for the one and only poto fanfic I have ever written. It took me six years to do it xd

The layout is heavily inspired by the painting "Dracula" by Arantzazu Martinez.

[dervampireprince]

ASMR | Phantom of the Opera - Erik x Listener SFW Being Freed by a Yandere Phantom

[M4A] [Yandere] [Kidnapping] [Emotional manipulation] [Shouting] [First kiss] [Some reverse comfort?]

Finally a sequel to my Phantom audio! I... didn't mean for it to get this long. Thank you to everyone who's commissioned Erik audios from me, it's given me a lot of practise at his voice, I didn't realise that the previous audio was posted in September. Don't worry, part three will be along shortly. .

Custom audio commissions are open! Full spicy audios on sound gasm and Patreon. Downloadable versions, exclusive  spicy audios and Discord on Patreon. I also stream on Twitch 3 times a week @ dervampireprince . [minors + ageless blogs dni. this blog is for 18+ only.] [do not repost/reupload/edit my audios/videos]