mods are asleep, post my Degas ballerina cosplay!!
Finished in a horrifying 24 hour period in order to go to a phantom of the opera themed birthday party, this outfit has everything: hand covered buttons, little cotton trim around the neck that took a year off my life, and 5 yards of historically-accurate-but-annoying-to-work with cotton tarlatan for the skirt.
I can go on about the deets if anyone wants them, but I’m proud of this totally handmade and self drafter foray into phantom cosplay!!
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Meg crossed her arms as she considered the scene. Erik stood, sleeves rolled to the elbows, in the kitchen of his modest apartment. There was a considerable amount of flour in the mixing bowl in front of him. There was considerably more on his face and shirt.
“Don’t.” He said, lips pressed together in a thin line below his mask.
“I wasn’t going to,” She said, stifling the laugh and swallowing it. “This looks very...good.”
“Meg Giry, you are a terrible liar.”
“But a wonderful friend,” she piped in, traversing the tile floor in an attempt to see what, exactly, had gone wrong in the kitchen. “So I assume the soufflé was a bust?”
“They can be very touchy, yes,” he said, trying to dust the worst of the flour from his once-black shirt. “The humidity isn’t helping.”
“Erik, it’s February,” Meg reminded him. “And...” She pointed to the oven clock. “Your date will be here in an hour.”
It had been several years since her mother had called her asking for a favor; that her friend’s son needed a place to stay when he was in the city. She had said no, obviously - she wasn’t some pervert who was about to let some random man traipse around in her determinedly feminine space and get beard hair in the sink and God-knew what else. But then Erik had arrived three days later with the proof that her mother had ignored her wishes, and he was soaked through from the rain like some horrifying, sopping wet cat, and she could not leave him out there and the rest was history.
It was not a roommate situation that was without flaws; he was a composer, among many things, and this meant listening to the same three notes be plunked out in varying tempos until she thought her ears would bleed; he did leave the seat up, to her chagrin; and he was horrifyingly, constantly, simply always:
There.
She woke up, he was there, making coffee and beginning the same insipid melody. She got home from work, he was still there, several half-drunk beverages on the coffee table. She fell asleep to the sound of his tinkering at the keys, or typing away on his disturbingly out of date white MacBook, which seemed to have been modified to recreate the sounds of typewriter keys.
It was a day, not unlike this one, where she came home from a particularly challenging day of navigating the donors of the city opera AND her increasingly boundary-less boss, that she came home, soaked in a sheen of sweat from the packed train and bus, to find her kitchen upended, and Erik crouched in an unnatural way in front of her tiny oven. She had opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a hand.
“Silence,” he said. “We need silence.”
She nodded, not bothering to ask why, or for how long, or for what reason. She tiptoed around the counter, only to find her socks soaked through in the dribs and drabs of thick batter, cold and squishing between her toes. She nearly gagged, but did not break her silence until she saw, with horror, every single plate, cup, and kitchen tool in the sink. On top of the soapy water poked out her KitchenAid, the bowl still attached to the mixer now sodden and submerged, the wire cheerfully greeting her from the suds.
“ERIK!”
The soufflé deflated that day, and the KitchenAid got thrown out, and Meg was determined to get Erik a Date™.
“You don’t have to do all this,” she reminded him as the two cake pans were removed from the oven. “She’s very kind, and I don’t know if they even are sweets people.”
“Who?”
“Christine. Erik, focus,” Meg held back the impulse to snap her fingers. “Do you even know if she likes chocolate?”
It seemed he did not consider this. “Who doesn’t like chocolate?”
“I don’t know, Swedish people?” Meg exclaimed. “Look, all I know is she is very sweet, and works in the costume department of the opera, and no one thinks ill of her, which at the opera is a miracle.”
She did not include that most people called Christine Daae, “odd,” or “always with her head in the clouds” or even “strange.” Erik was using a multitool to ice the cake. He could handle a little strange, especially for a girl who said yes to a first date on Valentine’s Day.
She set about straightening the living room, Erik’s compositions into neater piles. “Remember, don’t dominate the conversation.”
“Why would I do such a thing?”
“Erik...” Meg warned. “No composing diatribe. No mansplaining.”
“I don’t mansplain.”
“You are a man, and you ‘plain,” she retorted. “And she works at the opera. She doesn’t need to hear you explain Puccini, she knows things.”
She stood, the living room straightened, the candles less...scattered, to see Erik, covered in flour and now icing, standing in the decimated kitchen. She sighed.
A shower, a brisk cleaning of a kitchen that would not hold up to her mother’s scrutiny, and one intercom buzz later, Meg was smuggling her take-out to her room with a blown kiss to a very startled, very rigid Erik. Every candle and then some illuminated the area around the piano, and Meg prayed to any God that would listen that he wouldn’t come on too strong. She crossed her fingers for good measure, and retreated.
That night, the tinkling of piano keys woke her to the most beautiful music. She fell back asleep to it, her dreams colored by the placid joy of the new composition.
She found him alone in the kitchen, standing over the espresso machine.
“So...it went well?” She asked, wriggling her shoulders.
Erik looked up at her, as though startled out of a reverie. “Yes, very well, in fact. We are getting married!”
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i think i may hate erik apologists the most out of the toxic man fan trifecta sorry u guys literally suck if u read the book u would understand why he’s a bad person but since ur only conception of erik is gerard butler in the 2006 movie i guess i can’t really blame u
I would love to know who this Superwholock of toxic men is; one is not accustomed to seeing Mr. Opera Phantom lumped in with anyone else.
Having read the book and considered that the character of Erik could be, from a certain angle, summed up as "draw a monster: why is it a monster? what kind of person would any of us be in a set of circumstances utterly devoid of compassion",
I would hand him a baby. No question. Love that guy.
To my phandom stalker: I'm being told by several people that you've decided to create a Google doc outing myself and friends of mine as "abusers", and have been trying to recruit people to participate in creating it - by spying in the server I run and sharing personal DMs. This is harassment. Your behavior is very disturbing and your claims are ridiculous.
A disagreement about canon is not "abuse." Writing the subject matter that I do is not "abuse." Not liking you as a person is not "abuse." Your marked history of doxxing others and call-out posts, however, is harassment. Not respecting my boundaries when I block you and stop interacting with you in any capacity is harassment. Because you engage in these behaviors is why people don't want to interact with you. I'm sick of your constant attempts to gain my attention. Nobody cares. Leave me alone. Leave my friends alone.
I've ignored you for as long as I could, but be warned - if you or your group of obsessed haters release any personal information about me, private DMs, or screenshots from my private server, I will take action against you to the fullest possible extent of the law. If you attempt to doxx or defame me, you will be sued.
To my fabulous phandom community - while I would never reveal this person (and their cohort's) names unless they followed through on their threats, please share this post so that if they do, people are already aware of the situation and can simply ignore them. Thank you all and sorry about the drama! You know I can't stand engaging in it 🫠
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I am very happy to announce the Second Annual PotO Crack Week! From August 14-20, you can submit your fic and art for everyone to enjoy, vote on your favorites, win fun prizes (details below*) and come together to celebrate the absurd side of Phantom. Hope to see you then, and don’t forget to follow #poto crack week 2023 for updates, and please reblog to spread the word!
* Any “crack” or absurdly humorous Phantom fic as well as art & memes created from Sept 2022 through the end of the event is eligible to be entered in a contest, with prizes for Best Fic & Best Art/Meme, as voted by fans, plus a special Jury of One prize awarded to my personal favorite. This year’s prizes are TBD, but last year’s included merch from Paperback Paradise and custom fanart. Anyone can participate, with up to 5 entries per category. Can’t wait to see your creations!
It's that time of the year again! Remember to leave out bread and absinthe for Victor Hugo and he will leave you 50 pages on a subject that is off-topic but that he is vaguely interested in. Be safe out there!
The final performance ended as all the preceding ones had: a single character, Meg Giry, kneels alone on the darkened stage. Lit by a spotlight, she holds the Phantom’s mask, gazing out in fear and wonder. The last person alone on the stage for the final performance of this legendary musical was Sara Esty (GHS ’04).
Sara recalled, “That final moment in Broadway history was transcendent. How this fell to me, I will never know. But life led me there.”
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