Juniper

Erik’s hands were the first part of him you truly knew.

The gentle curve of his long fingers on the keys of his organ, the quiet strength they showed as he adjusted his scores, the rhythmic flex of his knuckles when frustration gnawed at him—all of it fascinated you. His hands were, in many ways, the truest representation of him: deft, expressive, and disciplined, yet trembling with the undercurrent of a deeper, more turbulent self.

You often found yourself watching them from across the dim room as Erik lost himself in music. Tonight, however, was different. Tonight, you let your admiration slip through the walls you carefully built to keep your thoughts concealed from his sharp, all-seeing eyes.

The candlelight barely reached where you sat on the edge of the divan, but it illuminated Erik clearly at his organ. His hands, ever graceful, moved like water over the keys, coaxing out a melody that was equal parts melancholy and tender. You didn’t know the piece, but you felt it—the notes wrapped around you, luring you into his world.

Your gaze lingered on the pale stretch of his fingers. They danced with precision, pressing and lifting as though the keys were extensions of himself. You’d often admired his hands in silence, but tonight, the sight pulled at something deeper within you. Those hands had given life to the beauty in the room: the music, the carefully inked compositions scattered on his desk, the delicate carvings on the furniture he’d restored.

They were hands of creation. Hands that bore the evidence of their toil, calloused but precise, and you couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to feel them against your own skin.

You barely realized you were staring until Erik stilled. The final chord hung in the air before vanishing into the heavy quiet of the underground lair. Slowly, he turned toward you, his movements deliberate, and you realized with a flash of embarrassment that he’d caught you watching.

His dark eyes narrowed, suspicion clouding them. “What is it?” he asked, his voice low and clipped. “Are you displeased with the music?”

You shook your head quickly. “No. The music is beautiful, Erik.”

He tilted his head, his disfigured lips pressing into a thin line. “Then why do you look at me as though you pity me?”

Your breath caught. “I don’t pity you,” you said softly, leaning forward. “I was admiring your hands.”

For a moment, Erik froze. His eyes flicked to his own hands as though seeing them for the first time. He flexed his fingers once, and a soft scoff escaped his throat. “My hands,” he repeated, almost mockingly. “They are as grotesque as the rest of me. What is there to admire?”

You moved before you could think better of it, slipping off the divan to kneel before him. His sharp intake of breath made you pause, but you pressed forward, gently lifting one of his hands between yours. “They’re not grotesque,” you murmured, running your fingertips over the calloused pads of his fingers. “They’re beautiful.”

Erik’s breath hitched, and you glanced up to see him staring at you, his face unreadable. You pressed on, letting your thumb brush over his knuckles. “Your hands create so much, Erik. Music that moves people, pieces that live beyond this place. Even this lair—it’s you. Everything you’ve built is because of these hands.”

His fingers twitched under your touch, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away. But he didn’t. Instead, he watched you, something like vulnerability flickering in his gaze.

“You… you think so highly of them?” he whispered, as though the words were foreign to him.

“I do,” you said, your voice steady. “I’ve always thought so. I’ve just never told you.”

He swallowed hard, his free hand gripping the edge of the organ bench. His breathing grew uneven, and you realized how much weight your words carried. Erik, who was so accustomed to rejection and fear, was staring at you as though you’d spoken something sacred.

Carefully, you placed his hand against your cheek, closing your eyes for a moment. His touch was hesitant, but warm, his thumb brushing your skin in the lightest of caresses.

“Why?” he rasped, his voice breaking. “Why would you say this?”

You opened your eyes, meeting his. “Because it’s true. And because I want you to know how much I see in you.”

Something inside him seemed to shatter at that. His hand cupped your cheek more firmly, and before you knew it, he was pulling you closer, his other hand lifting to cradle the back of your neck.

“Do you know what you do to me?” he murmured, his voice trembling. “To speak of beauty in something I’ve always loathed… You undo me.”

You barely managed to reply before he leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. His breath ghosted over your lips, his hands anchoring you to him as though you might vanish. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Erik’s forehead rested against yours, his breath shallow and uneven. His hands trembled slightly where they held you, one against your cheek and the other cradling the nape of your neck. His eyes searched yours, filled with an unspoken question, as if he were waiting for you to push him away.

But you didn’t. Instead, you reached up to trace the back of his hand, marveling at the strength beneath his pale skin. “Erik,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the stillness.

“Yes?” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, his thumb brushing your jaw in an almost reverent motion.

“I want you to choke me.”

The words hung between you, heavy and electric. Erik froze, his breath catching as if you had struck him. His hand stilled against your neck, the tension in his fingers palpable.

“What… did you say?” His voice was low, laced with disbelief and something darker—a flicker of curiosity.

You shifted closer, your hands resting lightly on his chest, feeling the erratic beat of his heart beneath your palms. “I want you to choke me,” you repeated, softer but no less certain. “I trust you, Erik. Completely. I want to feel your strength—your control. I’m not afraid of you.”

Erik’s expression twisted, his lips parting as though to protest, but no words came. Instead, he stared at you, his brows furrowed, his hands twitching as though he were waging a silent war with himself.

“You… you don’t understand what you’re asking,” he finally said, his voice strained. “I could hurt you. I’ve spent my life as a monster, wielding my hands for harm, not… not this.”

“You’re not a monster,” you said firmly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “And I trust you not to hurt me. I’m asking because I want this—not because I see you as dangerous, but because I see you as powerful.”

His breathing grew heavier, and he closed his eyes, his grip on your neck tightening just enough for you to feel the weight of his hand. When he opened his eyes again, they were filled with something raw and unguarded. “If I do this,” he said slowly, his voice shaking, “you must promise to tell me if it’s too much. I cannot bear to harm you.”

“I promise,” you said, your voice steady.

Erik let out a shuddering breath, and his fingers flexed against your skin. Slowly, he brought his other hand up to join the first, his long fingers curling gently around your throat. The pressure was light at first, almost hesitant, as though he feared breaking you.

“Like this?” he murmured, his eyes locked on yours.

You nodded, your breath hitching at the sensation. “A little more,” you whispered.

His fingers tightened incrementally, and you felt the strength in his hands, the undeniable control he held over you. The sensation was intoxicating, not because it left you breathless but because it was Erik—vulnerable, conflicted, and utterly present with you in this moment.

“You’re trembling,” you said softly, your hands moving to rest over his.

“I—” He cut himself off, his voice breaking. “I’m terrified. I don’t understand how you could want this from me.”

“Because I trust you,” you said again, your voice steady despite the weight of his hands. “Because I want you to see that you don’t have to hold yourself back with me.”

Something inside him snapped then, a low growl escaping his lips as his grip tightened just enough to make your pulse quicken. He leaned closer, his face mere inches from yours, his breath hot against your cheek.

“You undo me,” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. “Do you know what you’re doing to me?”

Before you could answer, his lips were on yours—fierce, desperate, and unyielding. His hands remained steady on your throat, a perfect balance of control and care, grounding you in his presence. The kiss deepened, his body pressing against yours as though he couldn’t bear to leave any space between you.

When he finally pulled back, his chest heaved, his hands slipping from your throat to cradle your face. His eyes were wild, dark with desire and something deeper—a fragile kind of devotion.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You shook your head, your lips curling into a soft smile. “No, Erik. You were perfect.”

He let out a shaky breath, his forehead falling against yours once more. “You are either the most reckless creature I’ve ever met,” he murmured, “or the only one who’s ever truly understood me.”

“Maybe I’m both,” you said, your voice light but full of affection.