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n1ght0f-nyx · 22 hours ago

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Please bless us with Erik smut. Please, please, please. Please.

needed to write this for forever lol warnings/tags-smut, Soft!Erik, Sub-leaning Switch!Erik, Body Worship, Reverent Sex, Gentle Sex, Praise Kink, First Time (Together), Overstimulation (light), Emotional Sex, Crying During Sex, Use of Romanized Persian with translations (my fav lil headcanon) Slight Angst with Comfort, Vulnerability, Loving Sex, Begging, Gentle Dirty Talk, Mutual Consent

word count-1966

The candles bathed the underground lair in a dim, golden haze, each flicker of flame casting long, trembling shadows across the stone. You stood before him, heart hammering in your chest, and for once, Erik didn’t hide behind the mask.

His face, half-ruined and all beautiful, looked at you like you were salvation incarnate.

"Azizam..." he breathed, voice shaking. -My dear...-

You closed the small distance between you. His breath hitched, visible even in the warm air. His fingers hovered near you — not touching — trembling with the desperate restraint of a man who had convinced himself for too long that he did not deserve gentleness.

You took his hand and guided it to your waist.

His knees almost buckled.

He looked at you with awe, his chest heaving beneath his dark, open shirt. You saw the faint sheen of sweat at his temple, the quick dart of his tongue over his lower lip.

"please..." he whispered brokenly, forehead bowing low toward your shoulder, like he needed permission even now.

"Touch me, Erik," you whispered. "I'm yours."

The sound he made was almost a sob.

At first, he only traced the hem of your dress with the very tips of his fingers, feather-light touches like he thought you might vanish. His hands traveled reverently, memorizing you through cloth, hesitant and breathless.

Slowly, you guided his hand higher. His palm was calloused, his fingers long and skilled from a lifetime of instruments and creation — and they trembled like they held something sacred.

You felt his lips brush your neck, tentative and adoring, his breath hot and uneven.

"Zendegi-ye man..." he murmured against your skin, voice almost breaking. -My life-

You tangled your fingers in his dark hair, pulling him closer. Erik gasped softly, his body pressing against yours — careful, like he thought he might crush you with all the aching love he had no idea how to contain.

When you tugged his shirt open wider, revealing the paleness of his chest, Erik flinched. Shame flickered across his face, but you cupped his cheek, kissing the untouched side first, then — slowly, gently — pressed your lips to the scarred half.

His whole body shuddered.

"the most..beautfiul soul" he choked out.

Your clothes soon joined the scattered silks and music sheets littering the floor, and Erik stood back for a moment — just looking at you.

If worship could take physical form, it would have been his gaze.

He reached for you with both hands now, unafraid, splaying his palms over your bare waist like he was grounding himself to the earth.

His hands skimmed your ribs, reverent, as though he was trying to memorize the very shape of you. He sank to his knees before you, head bowed low in a posture of worship so pure it made your throat tighten.

"Let me..." he whispered, voice ragged.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, and Erik looked up at you with wide, adoring eyes — waiting, asking for a permission he already had.

You nodded.

That was all he needed.

His lips brushed your hipbone, a feather of a kiss. You felt him murmur something against your skin — the words too soft to catch — but the way his hands clutched your thighs spoke louder than anything he could have said.

When his mouth moved between your legs, it was not with hunger — not yet — but with trembling devotion. He kissed you like he was praying. Each brush of his tongue, each open-mouthed kiss against your most sensitive places, was achingly slow, almost unbearably tender.

You gasped, your fingers tightening in his hair.

He whimpered softly at the tug, the sound vibrating against your core.

"Shirinam..." he breathed against you. -my sweet one-

The air was thick with the scent of candle wax and stone and you, and Erik devoured it, nose pressed close, breathing you in like you were air and he had been drowning.

When he finally slid his tongue between your folds, your knees nearly buckled. Erik caught you, strong hands grasping your hips, anchoring you to him.

He worked you open with devastating patience, every movement unhurried, savoring, like he thought he might die if he went too fast and missed even a second of you.

You felt his moan more than you heard it — the vibration sent shudders rippling up your spine.

"Erik," you gasped, grinding your hips against his mouth.

He whimpered, the sound raw and desperate.

"May God strike me dead if you ever flee from me..." he mumbled brokenly in Persian.

The words, heavy with aching devotion, struck something deep in you. You tugged his hair harder, needing more, needing him closer.

Erik groaned, eyes fluttering shut as he abandoned any remaining restraint.

He licked into you with long, broad strokes, moaning softly with every taste. His nose bumped your clit again and again, almost shyly at first, but growing bolder when he felt you shiver and gasp.

Your thighs quivered around his head.

When you felt yourself teetering on the edge, he drew back slightly, resting his forehead against your hip, panting like he had just run a marathon.

"Look at me..." he whispered hoarsely.

You looked down — and nearly wept at the sight.

Erik, disheveled and flushed, his mouth glistening with you, his eyes worshiping you, like you were the only thing in existence that mattered.

"Please... give yourself to me..." he pleaded.

You cradled his face in both hands, pulling him up, and kissed him deeply.

He moaned into your mouth — the sound broken, starved — tasting yourself on his lips.

Without breaking the kiss, Erik lifted you effortlessly, carrying you to the velvet-draped bed at the center of the room. He laid you down like you were something fragile, precious.

When he drew back to look at you, his chest heaved with ragged, barely-contained emotion.

"You're perfect," you whispered.

He shook his head, a tear sliding down his ruined cheek.

"You are the perfect one... I only want to worship you..." he said, voice shaking.

Erik’s bare chest pressed flush against yours, his skin hot and trembling. You could feel how hard he was, straining against the last barrier between you — but he made no move to take. Not yet.

He nuzzled your neck, breathing you in, like he was still trying to convince himself you were real.

"Please," you whispered against his ear, "I want you."

He shuddered violently, lifting his head so you could see the desperate, worshipful look in his golden eyes.

"my amour... please..." he rasped.

You guided his hand down, brushing it between your thighs, letting him feel the wetness he had coaxed from you. Erik moaned, the sound raw and guttural.

Carefully, reverently, he pushed down the last of his trousers, freeing himself. You caught only a glimpse of him — thick, flushed, dripping at the tip — before Erik buried his face against your shoulder again, as if ashamed of how much he needed you.

You tilted his face up with gentle fingers under his chin.

"I want all of you," you whispered fiercely. "All of you, Erik."

Tears glazed his eyes, though they did not fall.

Slowly — as if terrified he might hurt you — he positioned himself at your entrance, the blunt head of him nudging against your slick folds.

He was panting raggedly now, whispering under his breath:

"Azizam... zendegi-ye man... ah, lotfan..." -My dear... my life... ah, please...-

You rocked your hips upward in invitation.

Erik cried out softly, a sound like a prayer, and began to push inside.

The stretch was slow, careful — almost agonizingly gentle. He paused after every inch, trembling all over, giving you time to adjust.

You could feel the restraint in every line of his body, every shaking breath. He was desperate to lose himself in you — you could feel it — but he held back with iron control, terrified of hurting you.

His face hovered above yours, eyes screwed shut, teeth gritted, a low, broken moan dragging from his throat as he sank deeper.

"You feel..." He gasped for air. "You feel like heaven."

When he was finally fully seated inside you, Erik's entire body sagged against yours. He clutched you to him, arms shaking, forehead pressed to yours, breathing like he had climbed a mountain.

"Give yourself to me... give me all of you..." he whispered hoarsely.

"You have me," you breathed, cupping his scarred cheek. "Always."

Erik made a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh, overwhelmed beyond words.

At first, he barely moved — just rocked his hips in shallow, trembling thrusts, savoring the feeling of being inside you. Every inch of him screamed with desperate need, but he still treated you like something sacred.

His mouth roamed your skin — kissing, mouthing, murmuring broken little Persian and french nicknames between gasps.

The sounds of him — the soft wet press of his kisses, the choked, reverent moans, the broken little gasps of your name — filled the room.

He moved slowly, dragging himself out nearly to the tip before sinking back in with trembling care.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

He gasped your name, hips stuttering.

"You're so perfect," he whispered, voice thick and breaking. "Made for me... made for me..."

Your hands traced every inch of him you could reach — his back, the strong line of his spine, the tremble in his arms as he fought to keep his thrusts slow, gentle.

You could feel how close he was, how he trembled with the effort to hold back. His whole body was tight as a bowstring.

"Let go," you whispered against his ear. "Please, Erik. I want it. I want you."

He whimpered, desperate.

"Lotfan... be man ejaze bede..." he gasped. (Please... allow me...)

"You have it," you breathed, pulling him even closer. "Let go. Please."

That was all it took.

Erik's hips snapped harder into yours, the control he'd fought so hard to keep finally shattering. His thrusts grew deeper, faster, though he never lost the tenderness — each movement still worshipful, still aching with love.

He kissed you through it — your lips, your jaw, your throat — like he was trying to memorize the taste of your skin, the way you gasped for him.

You tightened around him, the pleasure building fast and unstoppable.

Erik felt it — you saw it in the way his eyes went wide, the way he choked out a desperate, broken:

"Shirinam... zendegi-ye man...!" (My sweet... my life...!)

And then you were falling over the edge, gasping his name, your body clenching around him.

Erik cried out, voice cracking, and followed you, his hips stuttering as he spilled himself deep inside you.

He held you through it — arms wrapped around you, holding you so tightly you could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your chest.

When the aftershocks faded, Erik collapsed against you, utterly spent, breathing hard. He was trembling — not just from exertion, but from the overwhelming emotion that wracked his entire being.

You cradled his head against your shoulder, running gentle fingers through his damp hair.

For a long moment, he said nothing — just breathed you in, arms locked around you like he would never let go.

Then, in a voice so broken and tender it made your heart ache, he whispered:

"Azizam... delam barat tang shode bood..." (My dear... my heart was aching for you...)

You kissed his forehead, his scar, his lips — all of him, every part he had once believed unworthy of love.

"You have me," you said again, fiercely. "You will always have me."

Erik shuddered and pressed closer still, as though trying to meld his body into yours.

In the flickering candlelight, the Phantom of the Opera — the man who had lived so long in darkness, in self-loathing — finally let himself be loved. Finally let himself love.

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