Phantom of the Opera 1. OMG ERIK IS SEXY!

**Disclaimer: I don't own this.**

**A/N**:** This is just to get all my bitterness and Mary-Sue-ish urges out of my system. And for my own sadistic pleasure.**

**Warning:Over-use of the words 'weep' and 'passion/desire'ahead.

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Rose de l'Angelle ran, panting, through the cruel streets of Paris. As night fell around the city, this one lost soul fled a desperate flight from her pursuers. The girl looked to be between the ages of seventeen and twenty, and her figure was slim, with ample, yet perky breasts and fully lush, but not too huge, hips. Her bare feet flew over the cobbled stones, and as she ran, she did not feel the bruising pain of the rocks as they battered her feet. Rose had the happy circumstances of being unable to feel all logical pain, and she would only cry out in distress if it would further her plot by summoning a dark, noble stranger to her rescue.

**Readers: Shwa?**

**Author: Oh like you didn't know it was coming!**

Rose ran on, never daring to look back over her shoulder unless it meant she could strike a wounded, dramatic pose, flinging her long blonde hair over her shoulder while her perfect, blood-red, Cupid's bow lips pouted and her bright violet eyes blinked innocently and fearfully. Since I have mentioned her hair, I will now spend a paragraph describing it.

It was long, (of course,) and blonde, (naturally,) and formed into perfect ringlets (duh.) No matter how the grime of the streets encroached upon Rose, she was so effortlessly lovely that she seemed to automatically repel all dirt. Her visage might have a few well-placed smudges on her high cheekbones and a suggestively racy tear or two strategically arranged in her skirt or bodice. Her hair, however, was ever clean, glossy, free of lice, styled to perfection, and smelling faintly—nay strongly—of flowers, baby powder, fresh-baked cookies and whatever other pleasant smells could seduce a tortured soul whom dwelled beneath the Opera house. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let us return to Mary-S—I mean Rose and her attackers.

Rose cried out to the Heavens, pleading with God, asking why, why was she always chased down by this crowd of dangerous beings? For, in the throng that followed close on her heels, there were: her kidnappers; her evil step mother; her drunken father who had beat her and tried to sell her into prostitution; her stepfather who had tried to rape her, (along with at least a dozen other potential rapists, ranging from the blacksmith's apprentice to the handsome, powerful, yet evil Crown Prince of France, because let's face it, Rose is the Hotness.) +Note that none of her rapists have succeeded, because she needs to protect her chastity for her one True Love, who will be showing up shortly to save her. But again I digress.+ Also in this crowd of dangerous people is her owner, (yay for escaped slave angst!) who also tried to beat, rape, or somehow damage our Beloved Heroine, scary hobos whose intentions have to be considered not honourable, a mime, rabid dogs and a pissed-off raccoon.

Rose ran blindly, not knowing that she approached the Paris Opera House, and yet her heart drew her there like a moth to a flame, as if, subconsciously, she knew where to gravitate. She cowered and yet managed to continue running. She saw a ground-level stained glass window and managed to push her way through it into a small chapel.

**Readers: Aren't stained glass windows made not to open?**

**Author: Hey, if it offers a Rose/Erik rendezvous, the Opera can do whatever the hell I want it to! It can turn into a giant transformer and lay waste to Paris for all I care!**

Rose shivered against the stone floor, weeping now, out of terror and relief. She wept silently, hearing the voices of the mob as it passed. She crept into the shadows and hid, waiting until all was safe. As the raccoon's final hiss faded into the night, Rose did the only thing she knew how to comfort herself. She sang.

If one could have heard her, they would have wept at the beauty of it. It was as though an angel had tried to strangle Rose as a baby, gifting her with these sweet and dulcet vocal chords, surely a gift from the gods! The sound rose, pure and sweet, and echoed off the chapel walls.

**Readers: What song is she singing?**

**Author: Does it matter? The point is she's singing!**

Rose continued her song, a song of such infinite joy and heartache as to make the seraphim weep. Even as she sang, she was cut off mid-aria by the squeaking grate of the stained glass window. She watched with a mixture of horror and mute fascination, as the canary watches a cobra, as the leering face of the mime peered at her.

"Omigawd it's the MIME! The drunken, abusive, rapist MIME!" Rose's exclamation left little to be desired, and as she trembled the mime silently approached. Her mouth formed a perfect O of surprise as a noose—a Punjab lasso, if we're going to get technical—slipped over the mime's head and tightened, choking him or breaking his neck, whichever happens first. Rose covered her eyes in horror, and wasn't sure when to look up, for as silence fell, she well knew that the mime might still be alive. At last, she peeked around her fingers and beheld a tall, dark, handsome—

**Readers: Whoa, whoa, whoa, Erik is disfigured!**

**Author: Shut up. Have some candy. +stuffs the Reader's faces with caramels+ As I was saying…**

…tall, dark, handsome man, wearing a white half mask. This oddity intrigued Rose, and she gazed up at her rescuer, instinctively knowing that this man would never harm her, as opposed to every other man in her life and every man she had ever known. Rose stood, and still neither of them spoke. She raised a tentative hand and her slender, gentle fingers stroked his mask.

The man sighed, a tormented sound, and turned his face into her palm, his eyes drifting half-shut. Rose thrilled at the sound and stood on her tip-toes, turning her face up to him for a kiss. The man leaned forward, and their quivering lips were a breath apart when he reeled backwards.

"I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle, I don't even know your name. I beg you would forgive me."

**Readers: Awww hef nomber foo! Translation: Aw, he's noble too! (with a mouthful of caramel.)**

**Author: Damn straight. They won't be having sex until at LEAST chapter two. Give me time to build the sexual tension.**

Rose shuddered, as much from the husky, sensual sound of his voice as from the abrupt denial of their shared passion.

"My, my name is Rose," she stammered, gazing at him through her thick lashes.

"Rose," he tried the name, and the sound of it on his tongue was as erotic as the withheld kiss. A small smile tilted his lips. "How perfect," did he mean her name or her herself? Did it matter? "My name is Erik," he offered breathlessly. "And now that we are acquainted…" His arms encircled Rose effortlessly, and she gasped, in wonder, desire, and shock.

His kiss shuddered her to her foundations. Rose wove her fingers into his thick dark hair.

**Readers: Um...+cough+wig+cough+**

**Author: Hey+brandishes the caramels+**

Rose felt like liquid fire skittered over her skin, and melted into pools of fluid gold where they touched. She breathed heavily, and her considerable boobs threatened to burst the confines of her low-cut bodice. Erik's lips traveled down the slim column of her neck, and her head fell back, her blond curls brushing the floor behind her. Erik broke the kiss and looked into her starry, passion-hazed eyes.

"I heard you sing, and I knew I must possess you at all costs. Only you can heal the broken heart within me, and in the meantime I will make you a star!"

"Sweet deal!" Rose nodded, and Erik broke away, standing her on her feet as he swirled his cape masterfully.

"To the Moat-Mobile!" He pointed down a passageway to where a gondola waited for them. As Rose followed him, tripping lightly as she caught up her skirts and followed him to his lair. Erik swept her off her feet and into his arms, and after another Christine-defying kiss that seared their souls, he settled her into the boat while he poled them off across the lake.

"Sing for me, my Rose," he murmured, the command no less insistent for its lack of volume or force.

Rose complied, and by the time they reached his lair, Erik was weeping afresh. Rose dried his tears with the hem of her skirt, inadvertently pulling it above her knees, exposing her bare calves. Erik kissed he gently, gratefully, then with more insistent passion. Rose's shoulder straps slipped from her arms, baring her collarbone and shoulders to his fervent adoration. He ended the kiss and stood her next to his organ.

**Readers: Heh. +snerk and titter+**

**Author: His PIPE Organ!**

**Readers: Hee. +titter even more+**

**Author: Oh for crying out loud—just forget it all right.**

Erik broke the kiss and stood Rose beside his Yamaha electronic keyboard, which he quickly switched over to the Organ setting.

"Now," he said. "Your voice is perfect, but for some reason I believe it still needs training. This will involve you spending copious amounts of time down here with me, sexing—I mean singing."

Rose nodded brightly. "Okay," she said, twirling a ringlet around her finger.

**Sigmund Freud: Oh for the love of +face/palm+**


	2. PIRATES!

**Disclaimer: You Don't Own Jack. Nor do I.**

**A/N: I know this next chapter is less descriptive and more action-based and pointless, but I really really really wanted to include the bit about pirates and Rose's auspicious beginnings at the Opera.**

**Now get ready to take a ride on the out-of-chacter side!**

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After a night of romantic but chaste cuddling in Erik's black lace-swathed bed, Rose ventured alone to the stage of the Opera Populaire. Erik had given her a lovely new gown, a white satin dress that clung to her figure, dripping with silver embroidery, seed pearls, and diamonds. She wore a jaunty little tiara to complete the ensemble, and cream satin ballet shoes. She happened upon the manager of the Opera, whose name isn't the least bit important here, and she got his attention. Initially, he believed her to simply be the most beautiful woman alive. Then she proved him wrong by singing for him. Even her untrained voice was enough to make him fall to his knees, begging her to stay on at the Opera as their resident diva, seeing as how La Carlotta had conveniently fallen down some stairs a week earlier, leaving them without a star. Rose simpered prettily, then wowed 'em again with her mad skillz. She cued the orchestral director and danced a perfect ballet routine, rendering little Meg Giry green with envy, for Meg's hair was no where near as long and glossy, nor was her dancing THAT perfect, in comparison to the admirable Mademoiselle Rose. The manager of the Opera nearly had a heart attack at this amazing find. Rose immediately set about learning the routines and songs for that night's opera debut, as well as signing her contract.

**Readers: "Hear the beat of dancing feeeeeet…" +hum the tunes from '42nd Street'+**

**Author: Aw shucks. How could you tell? Gah, now I have a sudden urge to write a 42nd Street and Phantom crossover, in which Julian Marsh kills Billy Lawlor and Dorothy Brock's lover Pat Denning in order to have his obsessive way with Peggy Sawyer while he composes his masterpiece: "Pretty Lady," starring the same Peggy Sawyer. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew!**

That night, Rose gained standing ovation after standing ovation, encore after encore, as she sang and danced her way into the hearts of Paris' shimmering elite. The patrons applauded thunderously, throwing roses upon roses unto the stage, a veritable garden heaping itself at the magnificent diva's feet. Among those patrons was the widower Vicomte Raoul de Chagny. Recently, Christine had died an ultimately forgettable death, and her former husband was now occupied in falling hard for Mademoiselle de l'Angelle. Erik sat alone in Box Five, glorying in his one true love's successes, until his roving eyes swept the audience, coming to rest on the familiar visage of the Vicomte. Too well he recognized the hard glint of lust in the pouty little man's eyes as he gazed at Rose, and Erik felt a momentary clutching at his heart. The freezing sensation of jealousy shot through him, settling in his stomach. Quirking a brow, he steepled his fingers in a suitably evil yet restrained manner, narrowing his gaze at the man.

"So it is STILL to be war between us?" He murmured, no longer caring if Christine was with Raoul or not. Rose was all that mattered to him now, and his love for Christine would only surface as a fleeting remembrance of things past in order to bring angst upon them all, should the plot require it.

Rose, unaware of all the havoc she was creating in the hearts of all these men, returned to her dressing room to swap her costume for something else suitably skimpy and lacy. A knock sounded upon her door, and rising, she went to go answer it. The door swung open slowly to reveal…

PIRATES!

**Readers: Wait, isn't Paris a land-locked city?**

**Author: What? There's the River Seine.**

**Readers: Well, yeah, but…**

**Author: Yeah here +gives them caramels+**

The pirates leered lustfully at her as they pushed into her dressing room, groping her in a way that she would have found pleasant had it been Erik, but from these men whom she did not know, it was horrendously invasive. As she screamed for help, in swooped Indiana Jones…I mean Raoul.

Anyhow, Raoul fought all the pirates single-handedly and won, even after engaging in deadly and expertly choreographed combat with Captain Jack Sparrow. Rose collapses in a dead faint in his arms, and he revives her, revealing his love for her. Rose, in a daze by her rescuer, no matter how feminine his hair, nor how questionable his side burns, mutely accepts his devotion. How could she know of Raoul and Erik's past confrontation over Christine? Either way, she gives Raoul some vague kind of encouragement, and they have a delightful little make-out session, which is interrupted only by the entrance of a furious Erik.

Rose steps back to watch the action, feeling no shame over the way she has led both men on, only fear that they will fight over her and one of them will die, and she doesn't know which one she now loves more and oh WOE IS HER!

**Readers: Bitch.**

**Author: I quite agree.**

The two men circled each other warily, and Rose fled in horror, not wanting to see how it turned out. A few minutes later, she returned to find the dressing room silent and empty. Raoul had fled like a pansy and Erik had disappeared like the angsty man of mystery that he was.

Rose sat to wait and see who would have the balls to return first. Naturally, it was Erik, Punjab lasso in hand. Rose opened her mouth to protest, but Erik cut her off before she spoke a word.

"I know I know, you love him so I can't kill him. I've been through this before. I know the drill. C'mon, we're going back to the lair." They disappeared through the mirror.

**Readers: Wtf?**

**Author: Exactly.**

Raoul came clanking down the hall a minute later clad in a full suit of armor, bearing a sword. As he entered the dressing room, he noted its empty state and took up a note from the table, bearing the red wax seal of a deathshead. Tearing it open with fumbling, metal-encased fingers, he scanned it quickly, half-glancing at the bottle beside it.

_My Dear Vicomte,_

_Thought you might like to know that Rose and I have withdrawn to my lair for a night of sexing up by yours truly. I have left you a bottle of fine champagne, which you may enjoy at your leisure in your complete and utter lonely solitude. Yeah, I thought so. How does it feel when it's YOU for a change?_

_Hahahahahaha! In your FACE, my pansy-assed little friend!_

_Sincerely,_

_O.G._

"Biznitch!" screamed Raoul, crushing the note between his metal gauntlets.

**Readers: Wow.**

**Author: MUHUWHAHAHAHAHAHA! Wait...I can't believe I went a whole chapter without describing Rose's physical attributes in great detail. I knew something was missing. Well, for the record, she's still devastatingly gorgeous, her hair is still long, blonde, glossy, and ringlette-ish. She still got huge boozies, violet eyes and a sensual mouth in a heart-shaped face.**

_Fin. For Now..._


	3. SURPISE TWIST!

**Disclaimer: I hope this isn't mine.**

**A/N: Wow. The reviewer responses have been overwhelming, to say the least. I'm touched and honoured, as this is my first real humour attempt. Trust that I have other funny stuff up my sleeves too, and by stuff, I mean I have a wicked cool idea to screw with King Lear. Mostly based on discussions with Nicki and Caylla during English Lit class. Anyhow, the responses, along with various contributing ideas from my friends who read this site, have spurred me to write a chapter 3! You lucky, lucky people!**

**Note to Lavendar: Honey, there is no easy way to say this…but…the songs? They don't go away. EVER. You might think they will, but they won't. Trust me on this one. I was in the show 2 YEARS ago, and to this very day, all I have to do is hum a couple of bars for "42nd Street" or "Lullaby of Broadway" and half of my acting class bursts into the chorus, with at least 3-4 dancers performing the choreography. This lasts about 15-20 seconds, but is scary nonetheless that we can all remember this. (btw I was Andy Lee. Well, Andrea Lee. My character was a man, but I was a chick…so yeah. It was muchos awkwardos.) Anyway, the songs. Oh the songs. What they do is slip into the stream of your subconscious, then lie in wait until your present yourself in a vulnerable moment of Broadway nostalgia, then they leap from the corners of your mind from whence they'd been banished and rape your ears.**

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Rose awoke slowly, stretching lazily like a cat. She snuggled cozily into the thick, silky covers, and only then did she glance over and see Erik lying asleep beside her. She sat bolt upright, clutching the sexy duvet to her chest, her blonde hair spilling like pale gold over the silk of the sheets, curling endlessly, it seemed, shimmering in the light thrown by the low-burning candles. Rose knew it must be morning, but the lack of natural light was dampening her efforts to appear ethereal and radiant. Stifling a disgruntled sigh, (Mary-Sues do not get disgruntled. They get disappointed. And even then, not for long.) Rose got up, fashioning a sexy toga out of the sheet she still clutched to herself, covering her naked body in a last-ditch attempt to maintain her chaste appearance.

**Readers: So she and Erik…**

**Author: Uh-huh.**

**Readers: But that's so…**

**Author: Yeah it is.**

**Readers: But we never…**

**Author: I don't care. Shut up and watch.**

After tripping over the monkey musical box and ripping the sheet as it caught on the edge of the organ's keyboard, Rose dropped the sheet, repressing the urge to swear or break something. (A Mary-Sue always keeps her cool unless she is being kidnapped or raped or something else traumatic.) Taking a random sword she found lying around the lair, she began to poke at the wall and ceiling of the lair.

**Readers: A random sword?**

**Author: Its Erik. Knowing him, he must have SOME kind of pokey weaponry lying around.**

As Rose worked at her task, she finally cut away the wall to reveal a boarded up window. (Because Mary-Sues always know what they're doing and how to go about doing it.) Reaching up, she wrenched away the boards, opening the low-lying window. Sunshine and fresh air streamed in, and the sound of birds…

**Readers: Erik's lair is in a cellar.**

**Author: I SAID the window was low lying!**

**Readers: Guh. +give up+**

**Author: As I was saying…**

The sound of birds singing sweetly entered the dark sexiness of the lair. Rose quickly retrieved her sheet and pulled a small chaise longe over to where the sun fell in a single, wide beam. She arranged herself upon the chaise, tucking in the sheet to cover up her naughty bits. Flinging her hair back, she closed her eyes, pulled her shoulders back, thrust her boobs as high as they would go, and adopted a seductive pose upon the reclining chair.

The first thing Erik saw upon waking was the love of his life basking in a ray of sunshine. As he stirred and sat up, rubbing his eyes, Rose blinked, opening her eyes, and looked over as if she was surprised he was awake.

"Hello," she said, shyly, summoning a little blush. She moved slightly, and the sheet fell back to reveal her legs…again.

"H-hello…" stammered Erik, the masterful man of mystery disappearing as he beheld the most beautiful woman alive.

"So," she purred innocently, standing and slowly swishing over to where he lay, sitting on the bed next to him. "I suppose this means we're forever entwined."

"Excuse me?"

"Our souls. We gave each other all we had last night. And it was amazing. We're bonded for eternity."

"Terrific."

"I mean, it was astounding! It's a given that you were a virgin, and yet you know exactly how to make the most perfect love EVER. And me, well, I'm a Mary-S—I mean I'm perfect, so naturally anything I do would be perfect. And even though I was perfectly chaste and all that, it didn't hurt one bit the first time because you and I are both THAT good and our love erases all pain and then we made sweet, sweet love all night long and it was amazing and lasted until dawn. Or at least I think it was until dawn. What time is it?"

Erik, whose head was reeling a little from Rose's chattiness, glanced around, nothing for the first time the open window. Of course he'd seen the sun shining on Rose's silky tresses and golden skin, but the source had been secondary to the effect. Now he drew back a little.

"When the hell did I get a window? Isn't this the cellar?"

**Readers: EXACTLY!**

**Author: Just wait…**

Rose giggled and ran a hand playfully over Erik's bare chestedness.

"Well, see, I thought, that maybe your lair all the way underground was a teensy little bit too far to go every time we want to sex things up and the author's mildly claustrophobic, so…while you were sleeping we moved your lair up a few floors."

"How far is 'a few floors?'"

"Um…something like we'reontheroofnowokayIgottagotoOperapracticebye!" Rose was gone before Erik could manage a stunned little gasp. Then, remembering how much he loved Rose and how he'd finally gotten some lovin', he lay back on the pillows, smirking.

"de Chagny will never think to look for us here!" Rising, he went to go get some pants on…

**Readers: And legions of Phangirls despair!**

**Author: No worries, I have, like, a thousand different ways to get him out of his pants in the future.**

**Phangirls: HOORAY!**

Once Erik was dressed, he sat at his organ, thinking. Then, in a flash of divine inspiration, it came to him. He hadn't written anything since Christine's leaving, and he'd burned everything else to obliterate all memories of her and the time before. Thus he began afresh as he listened to his muse, Rose, singing her heart out on the grand stage at the Opera. Dipping his quill in some ink…

**Readers: A-hem. Talk about your bad euphemisms.**

**Author: …or maybe he's actually going to _write something down?_**

**Readers: Oh.**

**Author: And you guys give ME a hard time for having a dirty mind…geez.**

Erik began to write, the words and music flowing from him almost faster than he could compose them on paper. Erik is SO GOOD at what he does that he finished the entire opera score in the next couple of hours, entitling it "Beauty and the Beast," drawing a small rose at one corner of the title page.

**Readers: Oh geez…you thought it couldn't get any worse…and more cliched…**

**Author: AND THEN IT DOES+laughs with evil maniacal glee+ Guess who he wants to star? Besides Rose? And himself? NO ONE!**

The forgettable manager of the Opera received the opera score on his desk later that afternoon. After reading it over, he took it out to the stage.

"I have just received," he said, "a score for an opera with the strange and unusual title of _Beatty and the Beast._"

"What, like Warren Beatty?" asked Meg Giry.

"Uh, oh, no…" he put his glasses on his nose and read it again. "Ah, excuse me, _BEAUTY and the Beast._ I received this score along with an insistent note that Mademoiselle de l'Angelle play the lead, Beauty. Of course, I don't see how we could pick anyone else to play Beauty, seeing as all of you, including myself, are comparably hideous."

"Why do I get the nagging feeling this has happened before and I should pay attention to all mysterious happenings?" said Raoul, half to himself. Rose batted her eyes at him, innocently alluring him now that she knew the gloriousness of the sexing up. Why burn her bridges? She hiked up her skirt a little and waggled her ankle in Raoul's direction. Raoul began to pant. Rose pulled the neckline of her dress as far down as it would go and began to randomly drizzle honey all over her lips, neck, and rack.

**Readers: Where'd she get the honey? And why is she doing that?**

**Author: If she's being sexy and alluring and needs any props whatsoever, those props shall instantly appear for use at her discretion. Now hush.**

Raoul took a step in her direction, only to slip in the puddle of his own drool. He clambered back up and ran over to Rose, catching her in his arms. He licked the honey off her skin and began humping her right on stage.

"Awwwwwww," chorused the chorus, smiling at the cute little PDA between their diva and their patron. Little Meg Giry burst into tears and ran from the stage, going to throw herself off a bridge into the River Seine because life was just so friggin' unfair and that Rose got everything.

And although Meg's death was tragic, let us remind ourselves that this story is about ROSE, first and foremost, and ERIK after that, and Meg's death is just an espresso-shot of angst to give the story the darker kick it needs. This can't all be sweetness and light, people. We need death.

**Author: But I can't kill Rose. It's harder than it looks. Plus she's, like, immortal, or something.**

Rose immediately began rehearsals for the show, and for the sake of collapsing a week into a sentence or two, we'll say that we zipped ahead to the opening night of the Opera a week or so later.

**Readers: Didn't she learn the other Opera in a day?**

**Author: Yeah, but since when is consistency a goal of mine? Besides, I need some time to pass.**

**Readers: Can't you just describe Rose's mundane activities for the next few days?**

**Author: Oh my dears, I haven't the strength. And Rose, you should know by now, never does anything mundane. She's always exquisite.**

As Rose prepared to go out on stage on opening night, she felt cool, poised, and ready in her glorious costume made of bright blue silk with gold tassle-y trim. As she whirled out on stage and began her first aria, she noticed that the man in the Beast mask looked familiar. As he lifted her in his arms to begin their passionate dance of passion, she realized that it was none other than Erik who held her.

**Readers: This never happened in the movie Beauty and the Beast. There dance was chaste as the Mother Abbess in the Sound of Music if nothing else.**

**Author: Cartoons ain't got nothin' on opera.**

**Walt Disney: GAH+spins in his grave+**

Rose gasped, although she had no reason to be surprised, really. Erik had been the one running through her lines with her without having to once look at the script. She'd been sexed up by him countless times in the past 24 hours alone. But…he was afraid of crowds…!

"I'm making a point," he whispered as they danced, as though he could read her mind. "I did it all for you…all to seduce you…"

"Uh. Been there. Done that," hissed Rose, a little nonplused.

"A-hem. Right. Well then to make your other lover there jealous."

"Who?" Rose looked into the audience. "No! Not Raoul! He's just a fuck buddy!"

"Hey! I'M your squeeze toy! And if that isn't good enough for you, I can just blow up the Opera house and take half of Paris down with me!"

"Um…no…no I wouldn't do that," said Rose.

**Readers: How they are managing to conduct this conversation in a clandestine manner while dancing and singing on stage is amazing.**

**Author: I just love artistic license.**

"Then what?" asked Erik, tilting the Sexiest Left Eyebrow In Movie History.

_Quick, _thought Rose. _A distraction._

"I'm pregnant!" She whispered.

"Huh-buh-wha?" said Erik, collapsing in a swoon.

**Author: OMG READ THE CONCLUDING CHAPTER OR DIE!**


	4. IT'S A MIRACLE!

**A/N: THE END IS NEAR!**

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"You're WHAT?" asked Erik as he woke in Rose's arms. 

"My womb bursts forth with new life as a result of our shared passion."

"But…it's been, like, a week! How is this even possible?"

**Readers: Just what we were wondering. How does Rose know?**

**Author: Rose +knows+ these things. I've imbued her with mild psychic powers, like any self-respecting Mary-Sue...+realizes that the phrase 'self-respecting Mary-Sue is an oxymoron.+ My point still stands.**

"Oh, Erik!" pouted Rose. "Aren't you even happy that you and I are going to have a baby?"

"How do I know it isn't a bastard of that Raoul—your lover?" Erik loved this woman and would give anything to have children with her, but we need some angst and he needs some justification in his Raoul vendetta.

"Erik, my love, Raoul and I only had sex, like, 3 times, not including him dry-humping my leg! Everyone knows you can only get pregnant after, like, ten thousand unprotected times! Or from a toilet seat!"

**Author: Oh geez. She's turning into a 13 year old ho-bag who forgot to pay attention in Sex Ed.**

**Readers: Eeeeeee +are afraid to use the toilet+**

"And besides, the only baby I could ever have in this story is the baby of my True Love, which is you, and it was conceived on our first night together, because that's just so PERFECT and we're PERFECT, but most of all, I'M perfect!" Erik nodded at this.

"You make a good point."

"Of course I do, silly! I'm so witty!"

"You dazzle me, my love," beamed Erik, amazed at the brilliance of his true love.

"Hey, shouldn't we get, like, married or something?"

"My goodness, you're right! What a PERFECT way to end our day!"

Erik took Rose to a small chapel, and there they were married in the most beautiful, simplest ceremony ever seen. As they repeated their deathless vows, they held hands and stood in front of a beautiful stained glass window and sang a duet that made the nuns cry and the priest hang himself out of pure bliss.

Erik hired a cab to drive them back to the Opera house, and he and Rose were so engrossed in each other (read: sexing it up in the carriage,) that they didn't hear the horses neighing in terror until they felt the carriage take off like a bullet, careening madly through the streets of Paris. With a sickening crunch and splintering wood and glass, the carriage overturned and tumbled into a conveniently placed ravine. Erik leapt out of the twisting carriage and landed on his feet, quick like a cat.

**Readers: Ohhhh sexy!**

**Author: And how!**

As Erik stood on the edge of the ravine, he watched his new wife and true love plummet towards the sharp rocks below.

"Nooooooooooooooooooooo!" he cried out in solemn, echoing slo-mo while the camera panned around his desperate face in an extreme close-up shot to reveal his horror and terror. Lighting flashed, thunder boomed, and rain began to fall in sleeting, cold, silvery sheets as Erik stood at the edge of the ravine, his cape billowing behind him with the Utter Angstyness to End All Angstyness. He began to run masterfully, heroically, but most of all, sexily, down the steep ravine, towards the broken mass of carriage. He slipped and tumbled the rest of the way, head over heels, his mask tearing away in the process.

"Aaaaaaaas yooooooooouu wiiiiiiiiiish…!" he called out for no apparent reason.

**Readers: Oh that was _really_ bad.**

**Author: Heh. I know.**

As he regained his footing and replaced his mask, however, he continued down to rescue his love. Tearing the door off its hinges…

**Phangirls: He's so strong! Do the shirt next! Do the shirt next!**

**Author: Okay, fine!**

Erik then tore off his sopping wet billowy white shirt, proceeding to haul Rose out of the carriage and into his arms. She lay, white and unconscious in his arms, as if dead.

**Author: But y'all know she's _not…_**

**Readers: Damn.**

**Author: Yeah.**

As Erik sobbed over her body, he gathered her into his arms as though she weighed nothing (which she does, as a matter of fact,) carrying her all the way back to the Opera house.

"Call for a doctor!" he bellowed magisterially, laying Rose on the bed where so recently their passion had made a child. The doctor rushed in to examine Rose, who lay as though sleeping, gorgeous in spite of the thin scratch across her cheek.

**Readers: What if it scars?**

**Author: Scars are sexy.**

**Readers: Only on bad-ass men!**

**Author: True. +heals the cut+**

The doctor looked grim and rose, turning to Erik.

"How bad is it, Doctor? I can take it," insisted Erik, though tears of fatigued worry slipped down his face.

"Well, I'm afraid she's miscarried…"

**Readers: Isn't there usually pain and blood with that?**

**Author: Technically yes. But Mary-Sues don't feel any unnecessary pain and blood is just gross. We'll say the baby got vaporized during the carriage wreck.**

**Readers: Awww! Baby!**

**Author: No, see, this is a good thing. You get all the emotional/angsty attachments to the baby, and yet there IS no baby anymore, so nothing can interfere with out virile couple's incessant sexing-up. She'll probably conceive again the moment they kiss or something. These two are like rabbits. We don't want Rose to turn into a Sloaney milk-sack right out of the starting gate. To quote the Princess Bride (again!): "Inconceivable!"**

"And?" wavered Erik, mourning but a moment for the baby before moving on.

"She'll never walk again!"

"I DON'T BELIEVE YOU!" cried Erik, wrenching himself away from the doctor, running to Rose's side. "I'll help you through this, sweetheart. We'll make it…together. Our love will see us through!"

"Whatev. You people are nuts. Fuck y'all and this popsicle stand! Peace, out!" As the Doctor turned to leave, Erik shot him in the head with his pistol.

"No one," he panted, "calls ME insane!"

A week later, Rose was up and walking, in spite of the Doctor's educated opinion.

"What do doctors know anyway?" she said brightly. "I'm a genius!"

"It's a miracle!" they said.

"No," said Erik. "It's true love!"

"Erik," said Rose happily, as they starred together in the first of many outrageously successful operas, "I'm pregnant again!"

**Author: Now, in the manner of most Mary-Sue stories, I'll just let the Raoul side of the love-triangle fade into the woodwork, because after writing this drivel, I feel no obligation whatsoever to tie up the loose ends and fill in the plot holes. He can always come back in the future to create more angst by impregnating Rose while she and Erik are on a "break."**

**Narrator: "And off they went, riding into the sunset, to spawn a horrid brood of gorgeous children with magnetic animal-lust charisma and genius talents. From thence would spring a series of equally disturbing sequels and seizure-inducing spin-offs. Rose and Erik themselves would eventually retire to a villa in the south of France, or a yacht in the Mediterranean, and although they had massive hoards of children (a side effect inherent to perpetual sexing-up,) neither of them grew older. Eventually, reconstructive surgery gave Erik the face of a hard-bodied Greek god. Raoul popped in to visit and sex up Erik's wife from time to time. Between the various episodes of angst (often induced by the swarming droves of Rose's would-be rapists, including mimes, rabid dogs, scary hobos, and a pissed-off raccoon seeking vengeance for past wrongs,) they were blissfully, blissfully happy."**

The End (for real.)


End file.

Phantom of the Opera, Drama, Humor