kay so i made something for my fellow eriks. and i’m not sorry.

@showednocompassion, @vxntriloquist, @cetangexnenfer, @whcseface 

The Faust Finale from “The Phantom of the Opera” (1990)

Christine is sung by Michèle Lagrange//The Phantom is sung by Gérard Garino

THIS WILL NEVER BE OK

“in an established relationship” aus

au-inspo:

I want you. (via

kristenstrewart

)

F. Scott Fitzgerald

,

Tender is the Night

(via

thelovejournals

)

Nadir leaned back, showed with no restraints how comfortable he felt in that odd, rich home. The bitterness of black tea still lingering on his tongue he observed the other putting the alcohol away and a part of him was glad that Erik was done wrecking himself with that sinful stuff. He had always felt that wish to be enough distraction somehow… that a proper conversation shared with him could be enough to make Erik’s life a tad more bright and worth living.

What a foolish desire. He was way too humble, way too insignificant to distract another. And yet Erik was observing him time and time again, as if curious about his every movement, no matter how little it seemed.

Nadir lowered his glance, his teeth grazing across his bottom lip in a pensive manner. Perhaps it was better to bring the hookah here. Reza was not long gone and the persian had a feeling that his masked friend mourned about him far more deeply than Nadir could. He wanted to forget, to move on, his days in sadness were gone where Erik seemed still silently suffering. 

“You know what, I shall bring the hookah here. Tomorrow, if you will?”

Oh how well he remembered that sight from the fateful day in Nizh Novgorod where he had seen him in his black tent on the colourful pillows for the very first time… he would never forget that scenery, the scents, every detail about that moment.

Every bone within his body screamed at him to refuse, to retreat back into the familiar solitude in which he’d led his entire life. It was not comfortable or desirable, but solitude had kept his heart sealed and mind intact, even if every other inch of his body had been broken by God and man. 

And yet with Nadir, he did not wish to. Golden eyes held the other man’s gaze for a long moment, studying, searching. What was it that he wanted from a murderous, deformed man? What could Erik possibly have to offer other than a biting remark, a scalding tone? 

And the Persian’s son — dead, by his hands. Nadir should have left him to rot in this vibrant hell. 

Slowly, the masked man nodded, finishing the last of his drink. “Yes — that would be appropriate. Although I must say I will not indulge in it too much.” Wryly, he brought a thin hand up to his neck, a skeletal finger flexing to tap at his throat. “It is bad for the voice, you see.”

Nadir smiled an insecure smile, somehow hoping it could ease Erik’s mind. He was used to the way the amber eyes would stare right into his soul and he was just mildly awaiting some sort of reply until he got it.

“Oh.” he said in sincere understanding, nodding at the other. “Of course, I understand.” He wondered whether Erik was still fond of Morphine. Injected into the veins it had no influence on one’s voice but it could still manage to make reality a bit more bearable and appealing. It wasn’t too long ago when he had seen a syringe in one of Erik’s drawers but so far he had not dared to speak of it, mainly because it wasn’t his business and he knew how ugly Erik’s anger felt and he didn’t want to draw that upon him. 

He stood up because it was getting rather late and moved closer to the man who had just finished his drink. “I will see you tomorrow.” He touched Erik’s back, granting it the lightest sort of caress before he turned away with a smile, attempting to leave the place. The urge to do more than that - more than fleeting touches was big inside of him and it seemed so easy since Erik was under the mild influece of alcohol but he would not dare abuse that matter.

The Persian’s agreement sat well with him, and he silently mused at the benefits of smoking with Nadir. There were many reasons why he shouldn’t --- that he had abandoned the hookah in favour of morphine because it could damage his throat and lungs, that he had abhorred social company because such relations could only ever end poorly. And yet he was making arrangements to meet with Nadir to smoke, if only for the pleasure of his company. 

Of course, he did not breathe a word of this to the other man. He gave a faint nod as the other moved to leave, but was caught off-guard by the light brush of fingers along his back, faint and gentle. Nothing like those hard whips of his past, nothing like the rough handling of his body by others. Instinct told him to grab at the Persian’s hand and growl at him to NEVER touch him in that way again, but it seemed wrong, somehow. 

And it would certainly keep Nadir from giving him more of those faint touches, which he realised he did NOT want. Somehow, feeling the contact of another’s fingers seemed to keep him rooted to reality. 

“Until tomorrow, then, Daroga,” he nodded once more, setting the glass he had been nursing aside. With that, he rose from the divan and smoothened his shirt down, giving the Persian a parting glance, needing to assert some sort of distance again. Distance was safe.

“I trust you can see yourself out. I do have some affairs to settle.”

He shuddered at the feeling of her hand running down his chest, eyes closing momentarily. Years of solitude made every touch of hers a sacrament, every brush of lips divine. He adored her, he desired her, he wished to worship every inch of her body.

Perhaps she would forget about his imperfections if he distracted her with his touch. Perhaps he could be a better lover than partner to her — perhaps that would make her forget. 

A faint growl sounded from his throat as she asked him to take control, and he did so by leaning down and pressing his lips firmly against hers. He did not let her indulge in the kiss, however, and began pressing kisses to her jaw, lingering at the column of her neck. 

Her eyes quickly shut as his lips pressed against hers, her hands gripping at his shoulders as he slid his kisses down along the expanse of her jaw and her neck. His lips were so soft, so surprisingly warm against her pale flesh, and they sent a soft tremble through her, shocking her spine.

She bit down timidly on her bottom lip, opening her eyes and glancing down to his. “You know how much I adore it when you kiss me…” she murmured, a soft smile creeping upon her lips.

Soon enough, Christine’s hands were upon his cheeks, guiding him back up to her lips, meeting his once again with a growing passion.

Her kisses were drugging his mind, her touch intoxicating and fervent. Secretly, he was thrilled that she had pulled him back up to meet her lips --- it was proof that she WANTED him, something that still perplexed his mind. He kissed her, tasting her rising passion and wanting more. 

Christine did always seem to make him go weak. She was always, always, on his mind, and he could never get enough of her. With an affirmative sound --- somewhere between a groan and a hum --- he pulled back to look at her, framing her delicate face between thin fingers. “You are beautiful, Christine Daaé,” was all he could say, and then he was kissing her again, a tentative hand moving down her body to rest by the bone of her hip, stroking her skin softly.