#poto reader insert

You pull Erik along behind you, excitement racing through you as your feet hit the cobblestone streets of Paris. Puddles are starting to form in the dips and depressions in the streets and as you quickly drag Erik behind you, you find yourself gravitating towards the small pools of water. You let out a squeal as the rain starts coming down even harder. You tip your face up towards the sky, letting go of Erik’s hand to spin around, your cloak flaring out around you as you speed up, the world around you becoming a dizzying array of soft, cloud touched colors. 

“Mon amour (my love), you are getting soaked.” Erik’s voice breaks through the sounds of pattering rain on the rooftops and the soft drops of rain hitting the streets below.

A giddy laugh bubbled up in your chest, your spinning circles slowly coming to a stop. You close your eyes, allowing the world to come to a stop as you say, “Why, mon ange de la musique (my angel of music), have you never heard of dancing in the rain?” You open your eyes then, closing the distance between you and Erik in only a few strides. 

You throw your arms around his neck, looping them together softly as your fingers move to find the short hair at the nape of his neck. “Dance with my amour (love)?” You breathe out, a puff of warm air filling the space between you. 

He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer as he begins to slowly sway with you. “Mon amour, we are getting absolutely drenched.” He says, a tone of mirth coloring his words.

You let out an airy laugh as you tip your head up towards the sky, allowing the large drops of water to land softly on your face, causing a light shiver to pass down your spine. “Why, that’s the joy of it mon fantôme (my phantom).” His warm hand comes to cup your face, his thumb tracing soft lines along your cheekbone. 

You turn your face just enough to press a soft kiss to the palm of his hand before you spin out and away from him. “The rain washes it all away, mon amour.” You say softly, savoring the feeling of water dripping down the back of your neck, wetting your eyelashes and soaking your hair. “Everything is fresh and clean after the rain.” 

Erik doesn’t say anything as he walks towards you, lacing a hand with one of yours. “Well then, ma chérie (my dear), we shall stay out here as long as it takes until it all washes away.” His voice is quiet as he leans in to give you a soft kiss. 

You pull your cloak tighter around you as you travel down the dark cobblestone street deep in the heart of Paris. You’d gone out to get some bread and cheese from one of the local bakeries for dinner and had gotten carried away as you strolled through a maze of street vendors on the way back. Night had fallen before you’d realized your mistake, forcing you to walk back alone in the dark.

“Just two blocks to home.” You murmur to yourself, speeding up to close the distance between you and the tunnel that led to the home you shared with Erik. A sharp whistle grabs your attention, slowing you down as you turn around to identify the culprit. 

A group of darkly clothed men linger on the other side of street, watching you as you pass before falling in step behind you. You turn your attention forward, moving even faster, trying to make it to the small, partially hidden door of the tunnel before the group caught up to you. Your foot hits the worn wood base just outside the door when you feel something pull at the back of your cloak. You lurch forward, trying to escape the clutches of their grasp, but another set of hands grabs at you, pulling you back a step.

“No.” You shout, before calling out Erik’s name, hoping that by some chance he’d hear you over the sound of the music he was surely creating in the darkened room below. One of the hands comes out and slaps you hard across the face, silencing you as your ears start to ring and your face pulse with pain. A small whimper passes your lips as you feel your cloak being ripped away from your body.

“Aider (help)!” You yell out again, your voice weaker than before, but you hope someone walking by might hear you. Just as you feel a hand clamp down over your mouth, you sense a presence behind you.

“Partez, monstres (be gone you monsters).” Erik’s voice bellows out front behind you, startling the men enough for you to scramble around behind Erik’s looming figure. The men scatter immediately, rushing to get away from the man in front of you.

He waits until they are out of sight before turning around to face you. You can just make out his eyes in the darkness as they scam the length of your body, looking for any serious injuries. Tears spring to your eyes as you realize just how close you’d been to being attacked or worse, killed.

“Je t'ai, tu es en sécurité (I’ve got you, you’re safe).” He breathes out, his strong voice wrapping around you like a pair of protective arms. You give a small nod and without a second of hesitation, his arms are around you, holding you close. You bury your head in his chest, closing out the world around you and taking comfort in the warmth his hold provides. 

He holds you like that for a long time, his arms only loosening when he bends to pick you up before carrying you through the tunnels and to the bed the two of you shared. “I’m here. I always will be.” His gentle words are the last you hear before you fall asleep that night in the comfort of his arms.

You watch as his fingers fly across ivory keys, lithely dancing across the sharps and flats as a wonderous sound pours out of the organ. His white mask lay forgotten, cast aside on the floor, while his dark hair lay tousled atop his head. As he continues to play, a large, contagious smile grows on his face and the longer you stare at it, the harder it becomes to not smile yourself. 

“That smile could light up a room.” You say, moving to stand behind him, your hands wandering to his shoulders. “In fact, it does. I haven’t the faintest idea how you’ve managed to stay hidden in the shadows for so long.” You drag a hand through his hair, your fingers lightly massaging as you go. 

His fingers still almost immediately, his shoulder going tense underneath your hand. You step back, unsure of what you’d done to cause him to freeze as he did. “Mon amour (my love)?” You question softly, stepping to his side so you can see his face clearly.

His dark eyes shine with unshed tears as he shifts his body to face you. The angry red scars crisscrossing the side of his face contort his stony expression into something of a grimace. “Do you mean that?” His voice is thick with emotion as he looks at you.

You quirk an eyebrow at him in confusion. “Yes, mon amour, I do. Why wouldn’t I?” 

He stands then, his strong body stretching out in front of you. “I have never had someone say something like that and mean it.” He whispers brokenly, his dejected tone causing your heart to break even more than his words alone. 

“Of course I do, mon amour.” You say quietly, your hand coming to rest softly on the scarred side of his face. “I mean it, I always do. And I’ll never waste a day not letting you know that.” He allows your fingers to trace the scars as he stands there, his eyes searching yours for any signs of dishonesty. 

“Je t'aime ma chérie. Il n'y a tout simplement pas de mots pour vous dire combien (I love you my dearest. There simply are not words to tell you how much).” He murmurs, leaning into your touch before leaning forward to place a gentle kiss on your lips.

“Je t'aime.” You say softly, your fingers trailing over the scattered music sheets as your eyes find Erik’s in the semi-darkness.

“You still love me?” He questions, a tone of brokenness and pain in his voice.

“Of course I still love you, why would you even ask me that?” Your voice cracks, the hurt at his words bleeding through into your voice. You take a calming breath, wanting nothing more than for him to understand just how deep your feelings for him went.

“Pourquoi (why)? J'ai vu la façon dont il te regarde Y/N (I’ve seen the way he looks at you Y/N). Pourquoi serais-tu amoureux de moi alors que tu pourrais l'avoir (Why would you be in love with me when you could have him)?” You could tell he was getting upset because he hadn’t said anything in English, his words ringing out passionately in his heart language.

“Erik,” you place a hand on the covered side of his face, tracing the lines of the mask with your thumb. “I love only you and I always will.” Your voice is soft as you reach up to press a delicate kiss to his lips.

More Than You Know

You hurry down the damp, cold underground tunnels, the excitement of seeing Erik and telling him the news causing speeding you up even further until you were almost running down the tunnels.

You finally reach the large, lowly lit cavernous room that Erik called his own. A quiet melody greets you as quickly make your way up the few, uneven stone steps. 

He is hunched over the organ, his velvety black cloak flowing out behind him and his hands flying across the ivory keys.

You are so excited that you squeal out “Erik” before wrapping your arms around his neck and shoulders. You press your face into his back, a wide smile growing on your face. 

In your exhilaration, you had forgotten about how Erik disliked having someone else in his ‘personal space’. You could feel how tense he was, his shoulders tight with tension, his fingers frozen in place on the keys. 

You take a quick step back, letting go of Erik as you did. “Je suis désolé mon ange (I am sorry my angel).” You move away from him, giving him as much space as he needed to feel comfortable. 

He slowly turns around and you expect to see his dark eyes filled with anger, but instead, they softly glisten in the candlelight, tears beginning to collect on his bottom lashes.

“Erik?” You ask softly, worried you had done far more harm than good with that hug. You reach out a tentative hand, unsure of how to help.

He slowly grabs your hand, wrapping a hesitant arm around your waist and another around your shoulder. You wrap your arms around him in response, unable to stop the smile that was spreading across your face. Erik never was one to initiate physical contact so this was a pleasant surprise.

You were going to do it, no more putting it off or questioning your decision. You were going to tell Erik just how you felt about him. You suck in a deep breath, steeling your nerves, before marching straight towards the bench Erik was sitting on at the organ.

“Erik?” You say just loud enough to catch his attention.

He turns towards you, setting down the utensil he’d been using to write his musical notations on his newest composition. “Ah, mon ange (my angel).” His voice is low and rough as if those have been the first words he’d spoken all day.

You give him a shy smile. “Erik, I have something to tell you, if you have a minute to spare.” You say tentatively.

“Yes, what is it mon ange?” He asks, his eyes already straying back to his music.

“S'il vous plaît écoutez (please listen). I need your full attention.” Your voice is firmer now, less tentative than it had been moment before.

“Ah, yes mon ange. If you’d simply give me but a moment. This melody is not quite right.” His fingers glide over the keys as he plays the melody in question, his brow furrowed in concentration. “C'est de la merde (this is crap)!” Erik mutters under his breath before crumpling the paper and tossing it away from him.

“Depuis le début (From the beginning)…” He sighs, pulling out a fresh piece of paper.

“Erik!” You call out somewhat firmly, in an attempt to pull his attention from his music.

He turns back to you. “Mes excuses (my apologies). You may continue.”

“I wanted to talk about our relationship.” You take a step towards him before sitting next to him on the bench.

“Yes, we are friends mon ange. What is there to talk about?” You can tell his mind is still in the music, as he hands start to flutter over the keys, fingers yearning to play the melody his mind continues to create.

“Yes, we are. But that is what I want to talk to you about.” Your finger delicately traces the edge of an ivory white key as you try to keep from looking at him.

“Well, then what is there to talk about mon ange?” He questions, apparently believing the conversation is over with as he returns to his composition sheet.

“Ah Erik, écoute. Ce que j'essaie de dire, c'est d'être amis. (Ah Erik, listen. What I'm trying to say is fuck being friends).” You pause, oddly grateful that you finally had his attention. “Je veux être plus que ton ami Erik. Je veux être ton partenaire, ton amant, ton autre moitié. (I want to be more than your friend Erik. I want to be your partner, your lover, your other half).”

His eyes widen and his fingers go slack around the writing utensil. “Pourquoi mon ange, tu es tout cela et plus pour moi (Why, my angel, you are all that and more to me).”

You'd known most of your adult life that you were short. And for the most part, you were okay with that.

There always was the occasional person who poked fun at you for your height or looked down at you (figuratively and physically). For the most part, you tuned those people out.

With your shortened stature can a sort of timidness, though, that you could never shake. And when those two were combined together, people tended to see you as someone who couldn't, or wouldn't, stand up for yourself.

Including, on occasion, Erik.

You'd been with him for three years and he had yet to see you truly hold your own.

Until now.

All it had taken was one small-minded opera patron to comment about how the recent operas, which just so happened to be Erik's original works, were bringing down the reputation of the Opera Populaire.

That comment alone was enough to set you off, but when they added that the music in said operas lacked any sort of creativity, depth, or emotion - you'd let them have it.

You hadn't cared that almost the entirety of the Opera Populaire's musical staff had been watching. You hadn't cared that Erik was somewhere in the shadows observing.

You'd only cared that this person knew exactly what you had to say about their negative comments.

In fact, you'd told them, "You are uncultured swine if you believe any of what you just said. These operas are by far the most sophisticated, creative, emotional works that I have seen on this stage. And the music? That alone is exquisite, but when you consider the emotion these pieces are portraying? They become ethereal."

And then you had proceeded to curse them out in French, using profane words you'd only heard in the dark depths of the Paris streets.

It's fair to say that everyone, patron or musician alike, thought twice about testing you, or even worse, saying something about the Phantom.

And to Erik?

That moment became the time he realized that he had someone who truly loved him.

As well as someone who he now knew better than to mess with.