Author's Note: Hello, all, and welcome!
This work you're about to read started life as a series of, ah, rather self-indulgent fantasies, to put it politely. While said fantasies were merely shallow fluff meant to capitalize on my (hardly-secret) affinity for massive assets, this drabble came about as a means of elaborating on the concept of a female Phantom in general, all framed around the simple narrative of a (presumed) first date. It's cheesy, it's shameless, and not very deep, but I hope you enjoy it for the fluff that it is.
Whether I'll continue this or not is up to fate (pun intended), but for now, I'll leave it open so that I can continue it if I so choose.
She stepped out of the room, adorned in a form-fitting dress and opera gloves, in harmony with her dark, chin-length hair. Rested upon her bountiful breasts was a ruby gem, strung to an elaborate chain of gold. The ensemble, for all its minimalist detail, only served to accentuate her beauty, which unsettled her.
"I do not deserve all this," she told him.
Before her was a handsome man, lean and fair. His blond hair tied back with a blue ribbon, he was more restrained in comparison to the carefree fighter she knew. Donned in a suit of white, he was a true knight in formal gown.
"On the contrary," he said as he grasped her hand, "you deserve every last bit of it." He leaned over to kiss her fingertips, further flustering her. "Come now, Erik, let us go."
Erik—a name which gave her both joy and sorrow. It was a name given—or found—in a past life, when she disguised herself and hid in shadows, and one which she accepted to live by. "Erik" was her facade and the only name she knew. Without it, she was but a shadow, a phantom.
Growing up, she was told that without a beautiful face, she was nothing of worth. Cursed with a half-scarred face at birth, she ran away from a family that never loved her, and as she aged, so she learned of her many talents. Contrary to common knowledge, she did travel outside of the aqueducts in the French opera house, though she was often reminded of the world's harsh reality. It was in Persia specifically where she honed a new talent: assassination. Through use of this talent, among other details, she was etched into the Throne of Heroes as an Assassin, under her most famous moniker, "Phantom of the Opera".
So why would a being associated with tragedy and monstrosity be deserving of a man so chivalrous and heroic? That is a question she asked herself as they trekked to their destination.
The theater was modest in design compared to the elaborate opera house she was familiar with, but no less spectacular. Modern technology in the hands of an excellent crew had resulted in special effects and stage design that was unthinkable for theatrical visionaries of her time. Even the most classical of tales was given new life, new emotion. By the final curtain call, Erik was applauding with the crowd, face streaming with tears of joy.
Soon after they left the theater, they arrived at a classy restaurant, a suggestion so cliché yet so pleasant. Her date ordered a grilled salmon—his personal favorite—while she asked for a filet mignon, medium rare, both accompanied by tall glasses of wine. In the middle of their meal, Fionn cut up a small piece of his salmon and held it by fork in front of Erik, who devoured it with glee. So caught up in their lovestruck action was she unaware of the glances made in her direction until seconds later. At unease, she bowed her head, embarrassed. "Fionn, I wish to go now."
They left not long after.
In an attempt to soothe her nerves, Fionn took Erik for a walk in a park by a lake, accompanied only by the streetlamps lighting their path. They find a bench to sit down and watch the gentle water. Beneath the cool glimmer of moonlight, her pale countenance lent on an eerily seductive appearance, the profile of true gothic beauty. Taking in the crisp air, she started to hum a calming melody, which then became a full dance with song. Separated from the judgmental watch of onlookers, she wandered off into her own world.
Captivated, the Irish gentleman approached her, holding out his hand. "Shall I have this dance?" Erik was taken aback initially, but observing the sincerity in his blue eyes, she conceded. Immediately, they were lost in ecstasy, waltzing beneath the full moon.
As soon as the energy of the moment subsided, a tear fell down her cheek, which Fionn wiped away. "Erik, tell me what's on your mind," he whispered, his soft voice soothing to her sensitive ears.
"I was reminded of a memory… No, a mere dream. A dream of a dance I never experienced."
As her story went, she lived a lonely life beneath the opera house. Then she met Christine. Christine Daae, naive and a bit too inquisitive, was guided under the belief that an "Angel of Music" would bless her with stardom. Erik, captivated by this young diva-to-be, took on the facade of this "Angel of Music" as a means of gaining her attention. However, she soon craved physical affection, but fearing rejection should her birth sex be discovered, she took on a masculine guise and name.
She recalled an image from a dream she once had, resembling the moment that just passed. Donned in extravagant dress, dancing with Christine under moonlight. Her blood red eyes staring down at Fionn, the line between reality and fantasy blurring. "Christine… My Christine…" Pressing his face against her massive bosom, she sang softly in a deep, syrupy contralto.
"Erik," Fionn tried to call out, his voice muffled. "I… can't… breathe…!"
Snapping out of her delusion, her grip loosens, freeing him. "Sorry."
"It's fine. You're smiling now, that's all that matters." Face flushed red, he lets out a laugh. "I guess we both got a bit carried away, didn't we?"
"Yes, I suppose so." Her voice trailed off as her earlier question arose to the surface. "Though I have to ask: why me? Of all the women in Chaldea, why did you pick me? In a field of flowers, I am but a weed. A hideous, worthless weed."
"Well, I can think of at least two reasons." He could almost feel the dagger-like glare coming from her direction. "Jokes aside, you are beautiful in so many ways. Your graceful step, your soothing voice, your loyalty, your wit, your laugh. There's not a thing that I haven't grown to love about you! Well, there's maybe one small thing, but—"
A frenetic tone in her voice, she cuts in with, "What is it? Tell me!"
"It's… well… Sometimes you get a bit lost in your own world. It becomes a bit hard to tell what you're thinking. But I consider it part of your charm, so it's not anything I cannot cope with."
"I see… In that case…" It was then she realized something. Since they first met, through the time they shared, the battles they fought alongside each other, her attachment to her memories of Christine had gradually faded, becoming less of an intrusion upon her reality. It was a bittersweet notion, having her perception of the world dissipate little by little. "Say you'll share with me, one love, one lifetime." Erik felt her cheeks turn warm, a sense of familiarity in her words as she spoke in a manner more akin to song. "Say the word, and I will follow you. Share each day with me, each night, each morning. Promise me that all you say is true."
She embraced him once more, with greater force as her sharpened nails dug into Fionn's flesh, and whispered, "Love me. That's all I ask of you."