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.

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+