The underground house seemed to breathe with a deeper stillness than usual, as though the tapestry-laden walls held the memory of the night before. The air was warm and faintly perfumed with the mingled scents of smoke, sweat, and Erik’s usual preferred rosewater. The hearth crackled low, the firewood in the grate cracked black; casting the chamber in a drowsy amber gloom. The silence was not the ordinary hush of the subterranean halls, but denser—an intimacy preserved, a secret laid heavy over stone and velvet alike.

Erik did not stir. He lay sprawled across the tangled sheets in a rare abandon, every long line of his body slack with spent exhaustion. His limbs stretched carelessly, and the angles of his frame were softened by something rare: repose. Sleep. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, his pale ribs shifting beneath his thin skin as he breathed. His mouth, usually pressed into grim lines, had fallen ajar, and in the dim glow he looked less the spectral figure of legend than a man undone, blissful and emptied. Stripped of vigilance, of fury, of genius and dread alike, he seemed so fragile in his sleep—human.

Beside him, (Y/N) woke slowly, rising from a dream that had been full of him—his touch, his devotion, the echo of his love. Her body ached with the residue of passion: her hips sore from his urgency, thighs tender from the weight of him, the faint press of his fingers stamped upon her skin like bruised flowers. Even her lips tingled faintly with the ghost of his desperate kisses. She lay still, cradled in the echo of their coupling, her mind unspooling fragments in a haze—his trembling restraint as he touched her, the way his voice broke in the dark, the savage hunger that had burned through him until it left him shuddering in her arms.

She turned her head, watching him in the hush, the firelight limning the gaunt yet softened angles of his face. She blinked herself fully awake, lashes parting to drink him in more clearly—and then her breath caught.

The mask was gone.

His face lay bare in the glow of the hearth, unguarded in a way she had never seen. Where once the mask had stood between them—boundary, mystery, warning—now there was nothing but him, wholly naked beside her.

Her eyes were drawn first to the absence: the gaping hollow where a nose should have been, nothing but a stark cavity, raw and skeletal, as though some essential piece of him had been carved away before birth. She had imagined it in fragments—echoes of his own words, fleeting glimpses caught by chance—but imagination had not prepared her for the truth. The cleft in his upper lip ran upward into that void, twisting the symmetry of his mouth, dividing his teeth in a way that startled the eye. His lips, thin and taut, had parted gently in sleep, revealing flashes of white around where the cleft cut through, a mouth at once familiar and utterly alien.

Her gaze lingered, unwilling and unable to look away, tracing the fragile terrain of his skin. It stretched too tightly over the bones of his face, as though it scarcely belonged to him, warped and pitted with textures that spoke of suffering etched into flesh. Long, jagged scars furrowed his face from brow to jaw—twin ravages of claws tearing down each side of his face. Even in repose, they bore the violence of their making, ridges that seemed to pulse with a history of pain she could not fathom. His eyes—closed now in rare, untroubled sleep—were sunk deep in their sockets, hollows that sharpened his features into a map of stark planes and haunted angles.

And yet—there was more than ruin.

His brows were thick, dark against the pallor of his scarred skin, still expressive even in slumber, arched faintly as though caught in some fleeting dream. His mouth, though asymmetrical, had softened, slack with exhaustion, the hard lines loosened into a fragile peace. His hair, coarse and shot with silver, lay mussed across the pillow in a disarray that was boyish. Stripped of the perfection of porcelain and veil, stripped of artifice and shadow, he looked older, wearier—yes—but also achingly human. Vulnerable in a way that pierced her, more intimate than even the night before.

A tremor passed through her, half shiver, half ache, as she curled into the sheets and let her gaze linger. Her body still remembered him vividly, as though each nerve held the echo of his body. This was the man who had kissed her, who had trembled beneath her touch, who had given himself with both hunger and abject fear the night before. This was the face he believed unworthy of love, the face he hid from her at every turn. And here he was: lying unguarded beside her, his chest rising and falling in quiet rhythm, his features soft in sleep.

There would be no returning to the world as it was before.

In that silence, listening to the steady cadence of his breath, she wondered what it meant—for him, for her, for the shadowed house that now seemed to guard a secret far more perilous than its labyrinth of traps. He was terrible, yes, but he was also hers. As she lay watching him sleep, her heart swelled with an affection she could not name, quiet and certain.

She reached out. With the lightest touch she brushed the unruly strands of hair back from his brow, her fingertips grazing the warmth of his skin. For a heartbeat she simply lingered there, afraid to wake him, tracing with silent reverence the unfamiliar terrain of him that had always been hidden away. The jut of bone beneath too-tight skin, the furrows left by scars, the soft rise and fall of his temple—it was a map she had longed to see, and now she could learn it without fear.

Her palm drifted down to cradle his cheek, stroking with a gentleness that would have killed him then and there, she was sure. She traced the ridge of scar and bone as though it were sacred; her touch cherishing. Near the hollow where flesh had failed him, she let her thumb linger, in sorrow and tenderness, as if her touch might fill the absence with something of her own. He did not stir. His breathing stayed steady, a soft cadence that reassured her he was lost deep in sleep.

Emboldened, (Y/N) nestled closer, her naked body aligning to his, seeking the solid comfort of him. Her arm slid across his warped chest before slipping around his ribs until her hand found the slope of his back. She let her fingers spread over the lean muscles there, rubbing slow, soothing circles into the slack lines of his body. Her caress was tender and protective, as though through her gentleness she might reach beyond flesh, past scars, and quiet the shadows that haunted him.

She pressed her forehead against his shoulder, closing her eyes, and let the heat of him seep into her. The rhythm of his breath became the rhythm of her own. She thought of how long he must have lived without such touch—without hands that sought to comfort rather than claim, without love that cherished rather than feared. The ache of that knowledge swelled inside her, filling her chest until it hurt.

Lying so close, she was consumed by it: not only desire, not pity, not even the fragile joy of triumph over his walls—but something vaster, steadier, and infinitely more dangerous. Love. A love so gentle it ached, so fierce it seemed to rise up and vow, silently, that she would carry all of his impossible burdens with him. That she would not turn away. That she would choose him; even here in the hush of shadow and ruin, with her hand on his scarred skin and his heart, at last, unguarded. She lay there, unaware that her vow, unspoken, was already being answered. For as the silence deepened, he began to wake.

The first thing Erik felt was warmth—not the constant, life-giving heat of his fireplaces or the close air of stone walls, but a softer warmth—human, alive, pressed against him with a weight both delicate and certain. He stirred faintly, the rhythm of his breath breaking as his body registered the unfamiliar sensation: her arm curved across his body, her skin against his, her breath feathering light and steady over his shoulder.

His eyes opened slowly, reluctantly, still heavy with sleep. For an instant, he thought he was still dreaming, still tangled in some impossible fantasy conjured by a starving mind. But the fire’s low glow was real, painting the room in embers. The ache in his body was real, a soreness that spoke of desperate passion spent in truth, not in imagination. God above, the most incredible of all—she was real.

She was here.

(Y/N), lying naked against him, curled as though she belonged there, as though she had always belonged there. Her hand rested over his ribs, warm and tender, her hand rubbing small, soothing circles into his back as she did before. Her face was turned into his shoulder, hair loose and unguarded, strands fallen across the bed. Every rise and fall of her breath brushed against him, steady as a vow.

His throat tightened. It could not be. Last night must have been madness, delirium, some cruel trick of longing that his mind had spun from the depths of hunger and loneliness. He had dreamed of her before—dreamed of her voice, her touch, her love—and always, always, he had woken alone. And yet now—

He dared not move for fear of breaking the spell. His eyes traced her in wonder, lingering on every detail as though to commit her to memory: the curve of her arm where it held him, the soft flush still lingering on her skin, the way her body fit so easily into the shelter of his own.

A sound escaped him, almost a laugh, almost a sob. He pressed his lips together, trembling, not trusting his voice, and not trusting anything at all. He closed his eyes again, turning his face into her hair, and let the truth sink into him like water into parched earth. She was here. She had not left. This was not a dream.

This was love, and it was his.

For a heartbeat she only held him closer, wanting to reassure him as he woke with the simple truth of her presence. Then, with a shy softness, she drew back just enough to see his face more clearly, her hand still resting against him.

Her lips curved into a small, tremulous smile. “Good morning.” she whispered the words gentle as the brush of her breath across his skin. The sound seemed to startle him more than any shout could have, for never in his life had waking begun with such grace.

His throat worked, and then, hoarse and unsteady, he whispered back, “Am I dead?”

Her brows lifted in surprise, and then she laughed. The sound broke from her unguarded and bright, ringing through the dim chamber like music, scattering the shadows into corners. She pressed her hand to her mouth as though to smother it, but the laughter kept tumbling out, effervescent and irrepressible, painting her cheeks with sudden color. “Why on earth would you say that?” she asked, breathless between her laughter, her eyes glittering with mirth.

He blinked at her, wonder stark in his gaze, his expression raw, almost childlike. “Because this—” His hand twitched as though to reach for her, then faltered, curling back against his chest as if the distance were safer. “This cannot be real. I am either trapped in a dream, or I have died and… somehow stumbled into heaven. Into the bed of an angel.” His voice fractured on the last words.

Her laughter faded, leaving behind only the heat that surged into her face. She blushed deeply, her lashes lowering, her smile softening into something shy, almost tremulous. He believed it. He truly believed it—believed that she, tousled and flushed from sleep and sex, could be angelic. The sincerity in his voice, the trembling awe that hollowed it into confession, stole the breath from her chest.

Slowly, she eased back, reclining against the pillows, her hair spilling loose across the sheets like a silken halo. The movement was unhurried, deliberate—an unspoken assurance that she was not retreating but beckoning. Her arms opened wide in quiet welcome, her smile softening into tender resolve. “Come here.” she whispered, her voice low, coaxing, as though the words themselves reached out to gather him in.

For a long moment Erik did not move. He hovered on the cusp of disbelief, his body taut with the fear that if he reached for her the vision would dissolve, leaving him once more alone in the dark. His gaze wandered over her—her open arms, the gentle curve of her bare breasts, the warmth in her eyes that demanded nothing, promised only acceptance. The ache in his chest swelled until he thought it might break him apart.

At last he yielded. Inch by inch, halting as if every movement risked shattering the fragile spell, he drew nearer. Then, he was in her arms. His head bowed into the softness of her breasts, his long frame folding against hers with a careful, trembling hesitation—until at last a deep sigh broke from him, raw and unguarded, as though it had released from the furthest depths of him.

She gathered him close, cradling him as though he were something precious, breakable, yet wholly hers to protect. One hand threaded through his coarse, unruly hair, smoothing it back in a slow rhythm, tender and steady; the other rested against the scarred expanse of his back, her palm a quiet anchor to hold him in place.

In her arms, he felt the impossible solidity of her warmth, her heartbeat steady beneath his ear. This was no dream, no imagined paradise—no heaven to which he had stumbled by mistake. It was her. Real. Flesh and breath and impossible love. That truth staggered him more than any fantasy he had ever dared to conjure, more than any music or vision he had ever created.

They lay together in the dim hush of the Louis-Philippe room, pressed close, sharing warmth and silence as though the world beyond the tangle of sheets had ceased to exist. His breathing had steadied now, no longer jagged with disbelief, yet still carrying the uneven cadence of a man who could not quite trust peace to endure.

She tilted her head, pressing her lips lightly to the crown of his mussed hair, and breathed him in—the faint trace of rosewater clinging to him, the smoky whisper of the lamps and candles that filled the house, and beneath it all the deeper, indefinable essence that was simply Erik.

After a long, quiet moment, she let a sound slip past her lips—soft, tentative, more breath than voice at first, a hum carried on feeling rather than design. His cheek felt the gentle vibration of her chest as the melody threaded into the stillness like a silken thread. At first, it was nothing but a lull of simple notes, unformed and wandering, but then courage steadied her, and she began to shape them—fragile contours of the piece he had been teaching her. Not careful, not measured as in their lessons, but free, un-tethered from technique or phrasing. She sang for him alone, low and tender, her voice trembling with intimacy more than precision.

Erik’s entire body reacted as though struck. His eyes flew open, molten gold blazing against the hollow shadows of his face. Disbelief cleaved through him so sharply it hurt—she was singing to him. Not for correction, not for study, not under his command, but to soothe, to comfort, to reach him in the only language that had ever been truly his.

The shock faltered, giving way to something heavier. His face tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line as though to dam the torrent rising within. Pain rippled through him—an old, bone-deep ache, the ghost of all the years when he had dreamed of such a gift, only to wake to scorn, to derision, to silence. But this was no mockery, no illusion.

His eyes eventually fluttered shut, and at last the tension bled out of him. The hard edges of his face, so often carved by anger or suspicion, softened by slow degrees. The rigid set of his shoulders eased beneath her hand, his frame yielding as if something long clenched had finally been released. A long, unsteady breath slipped from him, carrying the weight of a lifetime as though pried loose, if only for this fragile moment. Her song enfolded him like balm, soothing and unbinding, until the hurt gave way to something more delicate—release, surrender, the dangerous wonder of being wanted exactly as he was.

She sang on, quietly, her fingers combing through his coarse hair, tracing the uneven ridges of scar across his back, binding touch and melody together in a wordless vow. And he let himself sink—into the song, into her—the music dissolving the walls he had built stone by stone, leaving him bare, defenseless, yet for the first time in memory, unafraid of what such nakedness might mean.

Her delighted giggle escaped before she could stop it, soft and bubbling, scattering through the hush of morning like spilled light. At the sound, he stirred faintly, his golden eyes blinking open in bewilderment. Laughter—gentle, unguarded, and meant for him—was something wholly alien. She only smiled down at him, radiant with tenderness, her arms tightening ever so slightly.

The absurdity of it had struck her: Erik—the master of shadows, the Phantom who ruled the Palais Garnier—lay pliant in her embrace, his body slack with calm, his breath steady, his scars forgotten beneath her touch. The impossibility of it made her want to laugh aloud, to cheer as though she had conquered some wild and terrible beast. Instead, her laughter softened, dwindling into a hum of affection as she pressed her lips to his temple.

She nuzzled into his graying hair, breathing him in again. Her lips brushed the crown of his head as she whispered, her voice low and tender, meant for him alone.

“Last night was… wonderful, Erik,” she breathed, her fingers trailing slowly down the curve of his ragged spine, mapping the faint ridges of old scars with reverence rather than fear. “I’ve never been touched like that before. Never been… adored like that.”

Her voice caught, her breath shivering through his hair as her hand tightened gently at his shoulder. “You worshiped me as though I were something holy. As though I truly mattered that much to you.”

Her voice softened, dropping into something huskier, every syllable weighted with wonder. “No one has ever made me feel the way you did. You were perfect—every moment, every touch.” Her lips brushed his temple and lingered there, a sigh trembling out against his skin. “You felt so good… and I can still feel you in me, even now. It’s as though my body hasn’t let you go. It’s still holding on.”

Then his lips moved, barely parting, his voice no more than a whisper, frayed and aching. “No… not perfect.” The denial trembled out of him, half plea, half protest. His eyes shone with disbelief, with a rawness that betrayed how unaccustomed he was to being cherished.

(Y/N) only continued, her words spilling into the hush between them, breathy and confessional, heavy with awe and longing. “You’re still here—inside me, in every part of me. I don’t want it to fade. I don’t want to lose that.”

Her hand slid tenderly to his hollowed chest, settling over the frantic rhythm of his heart. She pressed another kiss into his hair, letting the warmth of her lips linger there. “I love you, Erik,” she whispered, her breath tremulous but sure. “Last night… it was the most beautiful thing I have ever known. And I would not trade it for anything.”

His eyes lifted to hers, wide and luminous, flickering with a terrified hope. His body remained rigid in her embrace, but inside he was unraveling thread by thread.

She kissed him again—his temple, the corner of his jaw, the mussed hair above his ear. Each brush of her lips was a vow. Her voice threaded through the silence, soft and steady now, weaving devotion into every word. “Your body…” she murmured, her lips grazing his skin, “your body was perfect to me. The way you held me, the way you… took me. I have never been touched like that, Erik. Never been loved like that.”

Her hand drifted across the scars of his back, caressing them with reverence where others would recoil. “You needed me,” she breathed, her voice faltering into a small, trembling laugh, “and I loved how desperately you needed me. Every moment… every kiss… you made me feel as though nothing else in the world existed but us.”

The words seared through him, sparking warmth low in his belly, dangerous in its sweetness. His stomach knotted, his breath hitched, his chest constricted around the unbearable ache. He closed his eyes against it, retreating inward as though the darkness there might shield him—but her voice was relentless, tender and merciless all at once, each syllable carving through him.

“You’re brilliant,” she whispered, her lips brushing his brow as though in benediction. “Everything you’ve ever taught me—every note, every word—you make me better, Erik. You make me shine.”

Her thighs shifted faintly against his hip as she leaned closer, her breath warm and unsteady against his ear. “You made me yours last night. Completely. And I have never wanted anything more.”

He drew in a ragged breath, his shoulders tensing beneath her touch. A greater heat stirred now, low in his abdomen, restless and wickedly alive, twisting through him until his hands curled hard into the sheets for anchor. His mouth opened once, twice, but no words followed—only the faint tremor of a sound, a half-caught breath that betrayed how thoroughly undone he was.

The silence stretched, heavy and charged, her praise sinking deeper with every heartbeat. It left him trembling—torn between want and fear, drowning in a devotion he could neither bear nor resist. At last, after what felt like an eternity, he forced words past the knot in his throat. His voice came hoarse, stripped of its usual authority, torn raw from the depths of him.

“Stop…” His golden eyes flickered open, searching hers with a helpless, pleading intensity. “You must stop before I…” His throat worked around the words, trembling, fragile. “Before I need you all over again.”

She smiled sweetly, knowingly, brushing her bare thigh against the sharp jut of his hipbone with deliberate grace. The contact jolted him, a tremor shooting down his spine, leaving his chest heaving in uneven pulls of air.

Her brows arched just so, her lips curving into a playful, tender line. But it was her eyes—bright, shining, and alight with mischief—that unraveled him more completely than cruelty ever could. She leaned closer, her mouth hovering at his ear, her breath hot against his skin. “Do you want me again, Erik?” she whispered, low and coaxing. A pause, a delicate torture, before she added with hushed, aching insistence, “Please… please say you do.”

The plea struck him like fire and thorns, tangling in his chest until he could hardly breathe. His first instinct was to recoil, to bury himself in shadow, to protest that he was too monstrous, too ruined for such beauty to want him, especially twice. But her words—gentle, needy, reverent—cut through his defenses, leaving him trembling, undone. His golden eyes widened, wild and luminous, then squeezed shut as though bracing against a blow he longed for and dreaded all at once.

He felt it rising again—the warmth, the pulse of hunger no denial could smother. Memory surged back with merciless force: her body pliant beneath his, her breath hot against his throat, her hands clutching at him, the way she had welcomed his ruin as though it were a gift rather than a curse. To hear her ask for more, to plead with that soft, sweet voice, was unbearable. His hands twitched against the sheet, curling into fists as if he could trap the storm inside himself.

His throat worked, desperate for words, but when they came they were fractured, stripped of their usual command. “I—” His voice broke; he swallowed hard, tried again, softer now, hoarse and raw. “I want you always. More than I should. More than I can….” He opened his eyes, locking onto hers, terror and reverence colliding in their depths.

His trembling hand lifted of its own accord, hovering inches from her thigh where she had pressed herself so boldly against him—as though his body was answering before his words dared to.

When he spoke again, the sound was halting, each word splintering under the weight of awe. “You… you cannot know what you’ve given me,” he whispered, his hand trembling as it ghosted over her skin. His eyes, fever-bright and wide, fixed on her. “I have lived in darkness. In silence. In the cold stone of my own ruin. No one has ever… no one could ever…” His throat closed, the confession choking him, too vast for language.

She only smiled at him—warm, luminous, certain. She brushed her lips to his temple, her thigh sliding closer against his hip. “Then let me give it again.” she breathed, her voice soft but unshakable. Taking his hand, she guided it to her waist, pressing his palm flat against the curve of her warmth. “If you think this is heaven, then stay here with me. If you believe I am an angel, then let me love you as one.”

For a long moment he only stared. His lips trembled, parted on a breath that sounded like a sob. “Then…I must be dead already,” he murmured, his voice breaking low and reverent. “I must have tricked my way into heaven—into the bed of an angel who does not cast me out.”

Her hand rose to cup his jaw, her thumb grazing the warped edge of scarred skin. He leaned helplessly into her touch, as her fingers alone kept him tethered to this fragile paradise. Shame gnawed at him, whispering that he should turn away, shield her from the ruin of his body and the hunger of his soul. Oh, but her nearness was fire, and his body betrayed him.

He bent toward her slowly, hesitantly, as though afraid she might vanish if he dared too much. His lips hovered above hers, trembling, uncertain. Then she shifted, closing the distance with quiet certainty, and their mouths met—soft at first, reverent, a promise in the gentleness. With each stolen breath the kiss deepened; the very act of touching her stripped away fear.

The last of his restraint gave way. His hands, tentative no longer, pulled her against him with sudden need, fingers threading through her hair, pressing into the small of her back. Every nerve in him seemed to blaze awake, alive with the miracle of her nearness. Shame dissolved into raw, urgent desire, until there was nothing left in his mind but her—her breath, her skin, her warmth enveloping him, the unbearable truth that she wanted him still.

He kissed her as though drowning, as though her lips alone might grant him air. His chest pressed to hers, their bodies fitting together with a desperate inevitability, as if they had been made to lock into this one, singular shape. All thought of restraint—of walls and caution—dissolved into the hush of this. There was only her—his angel, his salvation—and the unbearable sweetness of surrender.

The surrender broke over him like a dam giving way, a flood that tore him out of himself and into her. Erik’s mouth claimed hers hungrily, yet reverently, every kiss a vow he could not speak aloud. His thin frame trembled against her, strung taut with the ache of need and awe. He still could not believe she truly lay open to him again.

Her hands coaxed him over her, guiding him with the patience of someone tending something fragile, sacred. She welcomed his weight as he folded over her, his breath ragged against her ear, his lips feverish as they traced her cheek, her jaw, the hollow of her throat. His returning shame warred with his desire in every shudder, every halting pause—but the longer she held him, the more those walls crumbled again. Her whispered reassurances, the catch of her breath, the warmth of her thighs parting to guide him in—these banished the last of his restraint.

When he entered her, it was not with the violence of hunger, but with the aching care of a man terrified he might break what he adored. The sweetness of her body surrounding him dragged a groan from his chest—raw, strangled—as though he confessed some unholy truth in the sound. His hands braced at her sides, trembling, reverent, while hers clung to his back, her fingers mapping each scar as though they were scripture, as though every broken line of him was worthy of devotion.

They moved together in a rhythm unpracticed, clumsy at first—like music discovered by instinct rather than study. Every brush of skin against skin was a new note, every gasp a chord struck deep between them. She sang for him without words now, only breath and soft, broken moans that unraveled him more surely than any aria.

His eyes, fever-bright and unblinking, devoured her: the flush of her cheeks, the parting of her lips, and the shimmer of returning sweat tracing her skin. Each sound she made pierced him, driving him harder, until his body surged against hers with reckless abandon, shame drowned beneath the undeniable proof of her desire. His kisses turned frantic, wild—scattering along her collarbone, across the swell of her breast—each one a desperate act of worship, a vow pressed into flesh.

Her thighs locked tighter around his waist, urging him deeper, faster, until he was lost completely, undone in her. The world beyond their bodies ceased to exist—no shadows, no stone, no cruel history—only this: the fevered slickness of sex, the ragged breaths stolen from one another’s lips, the consuming fire of being devoured and devouring in the same trembling instant.

When a sudden release overtook him, it tore from him in a cry raw as marrow, his body bowing hard against hers as though struck through with fire. He buried his face against her throat, gasping his raw cries. Tears mingled with sweat and fevered kisses there; his voice a trembling prayer breathed into her skin.

When the storm ebbed, he did not flee. Shame did not drive him back into silence. He collapsed in her arms, limbs tangled with hers, his body still shuddering with the aftershocks of something too vast to name. His lips moved against her damp skin, words barely formed, ragged with devotion.

“My angel,” he whispered hoarsely, broken and worshipful. “Mine.”

She felt the trembling of him—caught between ecstasy and exhaustion—and a tender ache swelled in her chest. Her hands pressed gently to his shoulders, her voice soft, coaxing. “Erik.” With careful insistence she guided him back, urging him down onto the mattress.

He resisted for a heartbeat, eyes wide with alarm at the thought of relinquishing control. But her steady touch, her quiet smile, disarmed him.

“Let me,” she breathed, brushing her lips across his temple. Her palms slid down the fragile planes of his chest, over the jut of ribs, the frail cage of him. She pressed with steady insistence until at last his back yielded to the sheets. He lay stiff at first, unaccustomed to such surrender, his golden eyes fixed on her every movement—wide, trembling, caught between awe and fear.

She moved over him slowly, deliberately, the sheet slipping from her legs; the candlelight painting her bare form in molten warmth. Her hair spilled forward as she straddled him, brushing across the ruined skin of his chest like a benediction. Erik’s breath hitched audibly, his hands twitching against the sheets as though to seize her, yet he held them still, terrified of breaking the vision above him.

She bent low, her lips ghosting across the hollow of his throat, then lower still over the jagged, malformed muscle that cut across his chest. Each kiss was deliberate, reverent, a consecration of what he loathed most in himself. “You are beautiful to me.” she whispered against his skin, her voice breaking with conviction.

His throat worked, his mouth parting as if to protest—but the words withered beneath the weight of her folds pressing to his shaft. A raw sound broke from him instead, half-groan, half-plea, as she shifted deliberately, guiding him into her once more. His eyes clamped shut, his jaw taut as the sensation overwhelmed him. A whimper escaped before he could strangle it back, trembling from him like confession.

“Look at me,” she coaxed, her voice soft but insistent, as her hand cupped his cheek, thumb stroking along the hard ridge of scarred skin. Reluctantly, his eyes lifted—and the sight wrenched the breath from his chest: her, riding him with tender devotion, her gaze fixed on his as though no shadow in the world could dim her.

Her rhythm began slow, almost hesitant, then steadied as she felt him beneath her—his thin body straining, trembling, surrendering with each movement. His hands rose at last, uncertain, then gripped her hips with desperate strength, clutching as though he might lose her if he did not hold fast. Every time she pressed down, a ragged moan tore from him, his head tipping back against the pillow in helpless abandon.

She leaned forward, bracing her palms on either side of his head, her breasts brushing his chest as she kissed him deeply; swallowing the broken sounds he could not contain. Her whispers poured into his mouth between kisses—praise, devotion, the fevered promise that he was perfect, that she wanted him, needed him, adored him.

And Erik, unraveling beneath her, began to believe. His hips surged helplessly to meet hers, his grip trembling on her body, his golden eyes flooding with tears that blurred the sight of her above him, radiant and unrelenting in her love.

Another release tore through him, sudden and brutal, wracking his thin frame with a cry ripped from the depths of his chest—a sound that was equal parts surrender and salvation. Afterward he lay spent, chest heaving; his bare face slick with sweat and streaked with tears. She collapsed against him, cheek pressed to his hammering heart, and his arms closed around her without thought, clutching her to him firmly.

“You…” he rasped, voice hoarse and broken, “…you are killing me.” Yet the way he said it—his lips pressing into her hair, breath shivering over her crown—made it sound less like despair, more like prayer.

(Y/N)’s body trembled with aftershocks, thighs still quivering against his narrow hips as she lay draped over him. His chest rose and fell in ragged pulls, the thin skin of him glistening in the low firelight. She pressed her cheek harder against him, listening to the wild, uneven cadence of his heart, and a sound escaped her—half moan, half sigh—borne of relief, and of the lingering ache from the way he had filled her, claimed her, and moved within her.

The sound startled him. His hand—long-fingered, trembling—rose at once to her face, cupping her cheek with frantic gentleness. His golden eyes widened, scouring hers with desperate urgency, searching for the faintest flicker of hurt.

“Are you—?” His voice cracked, hoarse and terrified.

She only smiled, lips curving slow and mischievous, her eyes warm as she leaned into his palm. “You’ve undone me so completely.” she murmured, breathless still, teasing though tender.

His chest lurched beneath her, her words striking through him with unbearable force. For an instant he could only stare, his hand still cradling her as though she might dissolve if he let go. Then she lifted her own hand, light and reverent, and stroked the hollow of his cheek. Her touch was feather-soft, her gaze unflinching.

And in that moment, the world shifted.

Erik’s breath faltered. Her warmth seared into a place he had long believed untouchable. Slowly, terribly, it dawned on him—he could feel her. The curve of her fingers, the tender press of her palm. Not dulled against porcelain. Not through the cold barrier of his mask. But here, on his own ruined flesh.

His eyes—soft only moments ago, drowning in adoration so fierce it ached—flickered with sudden panic. Horror swept across his features, stark and merciless. His mouth parted, but no sound followed—only a shuddering inhale, a rasp of disbelief so sharp it bordered on dread.

The mask was gone.

His expression collapsed as though struck by an unseen blow, his whole body locking tense beneath her weight. His mind grasped wildly; should he surge for the sheets, the pillow, what was there that might cover him, shield him, bury what she had seen—what she still touched. His hand trembled violently against her face, torn between clinging to her warmth and shoving her violently away from the shame that howled through him.

When his voice came, it was broken, strangled. “No…” he whispered, barely audible. His eyes darted away, then back again, frantic and stricken, searching her face as though waiting—dreading—for revulsion to finally claim her.

Her smile, so bright only a heartbeat before, faltered, chased away by the terror overtaking his own. His body, which had moments ago trembled in release, had gone rigid, every line drawn taut as though braced for a blow.

Her brows knit in alarm, her breath catching at the sight of him unraveling. She pressed her palm more firmly to his cheek, refusing to let him hide, her thumb tracing slow, gentle circles over the ruined skin. “Erik?” she whispered, her voice thin but urgent. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

His eyes darted away and back again, frantic—golden irises gleaming in the firelight like those of a hunted animal. His lips moved soundlessly, words strangled before they could form, his chest heaving as though he could not get enough air.

Her free hand slid to his shoulder, then down his scarred chest, rubbing in slow, steady circles, coaxing him to breathe, to speak. “You’re frightening me,” she admitted, her tone breaking. “Don’t shut me out now. Don’t vanish into yourself. Talk to me, Erik. Whatever it is—whatever you’re afraid of—I can bear it.”

His mouth opened, but no sound emerged—it was only the shape of a scream, torn out in silence. His vision blurred; his pulse thundered in his ears, and still her hand lingered on his cheek, warm, unbearably gentle.

Now—now must come the punishment. His mind spun with certainty, each thought cutting sharper than a blade. She would laugh, that bright, cruel laugh of mockery. Or worse—she would scream, the sound splitting through the stone halls like a death knell, tearing apart the fragile sanctuary he had begun to build with her. Perhaps she would strike him, those soft hands—those hands that had soothed, guided, adored—turned suddenly violent as they shoved him away, spitting her disgust across his face.

It was inevitable. It had always been inevitable. What else could await a monster but to be unmasked and scorned? He had dared to believe—dared to drink from a chalice never meant for him—and now the dregs of it burned bitter in his throat.

His golden eyes flooded, not with the gentle weight of tears, but with the raw sting of despair. No anger rose to shield him, no fury to mask the ruin—only terror, only the suffocating certainty that he had trespassed into something holy and fragile, and now it must be torn from him.

This was hell. He knew it. Somewhere between her arms and the ecstasy of her body, his heart had failed, and he had slipped into the abyss. And here was the punishment: to wake in the illusion of heaven only to watch it collapse, to see the angel he had worshiped recoil in horror at last.

Her breath caught in despair at the sight of him. Erik’s mouth parted on a soundless cry, his whole body trembling beneath her, his chest heaving as though every breath tore him apart. A single tear welled and slid down the sharp plane of his cheek, catching the flicker of the lamp before vanishing into the hollow of his ruined skin. The sight pierced her more deeply than any blade could.

“Erik,” she whispered, horror and anguish twined in her voice. She cradled his face between both her hands, steadying him as though he might shatter without her. Her thumbs smoothed the wetness from his cheek, brushing it away with such tenderness that her own eyes stung. “Please—please, tell me what’s wrong.”

Her gaze searched his fever-bright eyes, desperate for an answer he could not speak. His terror stared back at her—wild, fractured—and it made her chest seize with pain. She leaned closer, pressing her brow to his, her lips brushing against his damp skin as though she could breathe steadiness into him. “Don’t shut me out,” she begged, her voice breaking. “Don’t bear this alone. Whatever it is—whatever is hurting you—I can take it. Let me help you.”

He shuddered beneath her words, his hands clutching the sheets as though they were the only anchor holding him to the world. His silence terrified her, but she refused to recoil. Instead, she pressed soft kisses to his temple, his damp hair, the jagged scars along his brow—each touch an unspoken vow that she would not flee.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” she murmured against his skin, her tears mingling with his. “I love you. I love you, Erik. Nothing you say—nothing you show me—could change that.”

Her fingers stroked the ruined planes of his cheek as though they were no different from any other part of him. Her gaze never wavered, willing him to see it, to feel it—that she would not flinch, she would not turn away. That she was his, not only in moments of passion, but here, in the raw aftermath, when he was most laid bare and afraid.

Her words struck him like a pistol shot, tearing through the fragile shell he had wrapped around himself. She loved him? The thought was so impossible, so violently opposed to every truth he had ever known about himself, that for a heartbeat he could only stare, mute and trembling, waiting for the illusion to dissolve.

Still, she held his face—his ruined, shameful face—gently in her hands, her thumbs stroking the hollow contours he had spent a lifetime hiding. She had seen all of him: every scar, every hollow, and every jagged edge. Instead of recoiling, she whispered love into the very skin he despised. Instead of casting him from her arms, she vowed herself to him, promising not just to stay but to shield him from the ghosts that haunted his every breath.

His breath came in shallow bursts, his thin chest heaving beneath her weight. His face slackened, struck by a deeper kind of shock. He had braced for torment, for the lash of scorn, for abandonment to come crashing down like the ceiling of a collapsing cavern. And instead—she gave him mercy.

His golden eyes flickered wildly, searching her face, tracing the earnest knit of her brow, the wet shimmer of tears caught in her lashes. They darted to her lips, trembling yet steady in devotion. To her body, pressed unflinching against his own, warm and unafraid. Even to the room itself, as though the stone walls might whisper the truth of the cruel trick that surely lurked within this miracle.

There was nothing. No laughter. No scream. No blow. Only her—her warmth, her nearness, her impossible tenderness.

His throat convulsed around a sound that would not form, caught between sob, laugh, and prayer. His hands lifted, hesitant, shaking as though they might tear themselves apart, before clutching at her wrists tightly. His gaze found hers again, and in it lay the hollow awe of a condemned man who had glimpsed paradise on the gallows.

“She…” he rasped, barely able to shape the word. “…you…” His jaw trembled; his eyes spilled with tears he no longer had the strength to hide. “You love me?” The question broke from him naked, childlike in its disbelief, edged with wonder and terror alike.

The realization shattered him. His head fell back against the pillow, eyes squeezing shut as tears slipped freely down the ravaged hollows of his face. His lips moved soundlessly, shaping fragments of thought—disjointed prayers, broken apologies, desperate thanks—but only a low, shuddering breath escaped.

It was too much. Too immense. He had braced his whole life for mockery, for hatred, for damnation. Never this. Never love.

She settled against him without hesitation, draping herself over him as though to shield him from the storm raging inside. Her arms wrapped tight around him, her cheek pressed to his damp chest where his heart hammered like a wild thing. He lay paralyzed beneath her embrace, every part of him exposed—his body bare, his soul undone—and the tears would not stop. They coursed hot and unrelenting down his scarred cheeks as thin snot gathered at the pit of his nose, spilling into the cleft of his upper lip.

Shame seared through him at the familiar, wretched betrayal of his body. The humiliating warmth of it trickled down, and with a strangled sob his hand shot up, trembling, desperate to shield it from her—to wipe away the evidence of his deformity before she could recoil.

(Y/N) caught his hand gently, pressing it down against his chest, answering his panic only with the softest shushing sounds—a lullaby of comfort breathed against his ear. Her fingers threaded into his coarse, silvering hair, stroking tenderly, soothing each quiver of shame as if her touch alone could cool the fever of his despair. Her lips sought him again and again—his temple, his wet cheek, the jagged scar along his brow. She kissed each mark as though it were precious, unafraid of his ruin, meeting his anguish with endless devotion.

Her tenderness only unraveled him further. The sobs wrenched out of him with greater force, great heaving cries that rattled his frail chest beneath her. His mouth opened against her shoulder in wordless grief, his breath catching, choking, as if every sorrow he had ever silenced now clawed its way free. He clung to her against his chest like a lifeline, his cries growing louder, harsher, until he no longer cared about the sound, the wetness, the collapse of his pride.

With a hoarse, desperate cry he pulled her tight, crushing her soft frame against him as though she were his only salvation. His fingers dug into her back, trembling. He buried his face in her hair, pressing into her as though he would die without it, his sobs wracking him until he thought his body might splinter apart.

His body heaved beneath her with every sob until at last the sound gave way to silence—ragged, uneven at first, then hollow. The storm had left him spent, his strength drained, his chest rising and falling in shallow, weary pulls. His face pressed into her shoulder, damp with tears and sweat and shame, but no sound remained. Only emptiness. A numb quiet, like the aftermath of a battlefield.

With a sudden, broken urgency, he shoved her off of him—not to cast her aside, but to clutch at her more tightly, to bury himself deeper in her embrace. His long arms wrapped around her, dragging her down against him until his face pressed hard into the soft rise of her breasts. He clung there, trembling, gasping, as though her body alone could shield him from the abyss yawning beneath his grief.

Her arms stayed firm, enfolding him, cradling his head to her chest as if she could hold him together by sheer will. Her fingers moved ceaselessly, tender and slow: smoothing back his mussed hair, brushing the ruined lines of his cheek as though they were marble worn by time, tracing the ridges of his chest where his heart still pounded faintly beneath her touch. Each caress whispered permanence—that she would not leave, no matter what storms tore through him.

Her lips sought him again and again: a kiss to his temple, his brow, the salt-streaked hollow beneath his eye. Between each kiss came a murmur, soft as prayer. “I love you.” Her voice trembled but never faltered, the words repeating like a litany. “I love you, Erik… I love you.”

He lay limp against her, weak, his thin arms still locked around her though their grip had lost all strength. He had nothing left to give—no mask, no music, no words, not even his pride. He was bare and undone, an empty vessel held together only by the warmth of her body and the unrelenting tide of her devotion.

He closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling at him like a tide, and—for the first time in memory—allowed himself to be held. To be loved, even in his ruin.

Her words wrapped around him like a balm, each “I love you” soft as a feather yet weighted with meaning. He lay trembling in her arms, chest still hitching faintly as the tide of grief ebbed away, leaving him hollow, emptied, stunned. Her lips found his brow, his temple, the jagged scars that had once made children scream and priests curse God—yet she kissed them as though they were holy.

At first Erik could not grasp what she was saying. Her whispers ricocheted inside his skull like echoes in a cavern, distant and unreal. His mind fumbled with them, disbelieving, his heart hammering in confusion. She loves me? The thought was absurd. Love was something other men received—handsome men, whole men. Love was a luxury denied him from birth; a flame glimpsed through glass but never allowed to touch. And yet here she was, pressing the words into his skin again and again until it burned deeper than any scar.

His lips shaped fragments of thought before his voice could rise. “You… love Erik?” he whispered at last, brokenly, as though the words themselves might crumble in the air. His golden eyes searched hers with a desperate intensity, wide and wet, hunting for the cruelty he knew must lurk behind her tenderness. But there was nothing—only her gaze, steady and luminous, unwavering in its truth.

The disbelief tore through him, shaking his frail body beneath hers. “No… no, you cannot… not Erik…” His hand lifted as though to shield her from himself, but she caught it, pressed it to her heart, and whispered the words again, silencing his protest with devotion.

And then—like a fissure opening in the walls of his despair—an idea surged in, brutal and unstoppable.

She loves me.

The thought struck him like lightning to the chest, jolting his body until his breath seized. And then, more violent still, more terrifying in its clarity: She will be my wife. His wife. The words did not soothe—they consumed, burning through him with a ferocity that left him trembling. His stomach knotted, his vision swam, and he gripped her as if she might vanish if he did not crush her to him.

Not a dream. Not a fleeting mercy. She would be bound to him, sealed to him in name and law as well as body and soul. His bride. The word echoed in him like a commandment, inexorable, undeniable. She would never escape him now. He already had the proof—the ring hidden in its little black box, heavy with promise, waiting in his coat pocket for this very moment.

His arms locked around her with sudden, crushing force, clutching her as though she were the axis of his universe. Possession and terror twisted together, shaking him until his body gave out, collapsing against her with the weight of the revelation. No longer did he brace for rejection. No longer did he fight her touch. He yielded wholly, feverishly, as though surrender itself was the only way to survive the enormity of it.

She was his. At last. His salvation, his prison, his wife-to-be.

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I've wanted to draw them for a long time, but my biggest stumbling block was illustrating their faces. I'm basing it on Leroux's novel, so illustrating characters who are only described in words is an exercise that scares me. ( ´-ω-)

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Well! I'm very happy for Christine, but much less so for the poor Erik. I'll have other opportunities to focus on him.

As you've probably guessed, the center of the painting is the young girl. ＼(^-^)／

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