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jellyluchi · 2 months

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Mother Language

A/N: My first selfship fic for POTO... Naveed is my hc name for the Persian, and he (or the Sultana from Persia) is not related by blood to Rose. I can answer how Rose came to be at the Opera house but I could not tell you why or how she came to live with Erik… There's not enough mommy kink fics with Erik so I wanted to change that.

Pairing: Erik x Rose Sultana Genre: NSFW Content warnings: cunnilingus, mommy kink, use of the term little boy Summary: In which Erik struggles with his personal projects and throws a tantrum only to be put into his place by his lover...

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If graves were homes of the dead, every tombstone would shelter beneath it a cold and empty living room, followed by bed chambers and wash closets. But the dead do not need such facilities. Yet, Rose must ask herself how different could it be living five cellars below ground to the unmoving corpses.

For one who detests the shadows, Rose became accustomed to its presence with terrifying quickness. Perhaps it was his influence. Or maybe she dug deep enough into her heart to reveal a desire for complete isolation. With him by her side, it is difficult to tell.

It is no wonder a man such as himself should live like the dead, pin drop silence and darkness ever present in his abode, and the morbid stench that follows him like a shadow permeating from every surface.

But as he likes to speculate, everyone must grow used to eternity. And every step out of India cemented her feet firmer into her personal timeless existence. That, Rose accepted long ago.

Perhaps it is the reason for which she finds herself encased between the dank walls, still warm and protected from whatever creatures lurk the opera’s belly. Fingers curling around her book, Rose enunciates the foreign words with difficulty. Soft light accompanies her solitary presence in the living room, the fire by the hearth her only companion. She used to wonder about the final destination of the rising smoke but now knows better than to question his engineering process.

Speaking of which…

Sudden loud thuds, shrieks, and shattered glass echoes through the wet walls, muffled but still alarming. Quickly setting aside her reading, Rose races to the study. Fear and worry grip her heart in equal measures. But not for her own life as it is for Erik’s, a sentiment that mirrors uncle Naveed’s in the way the Opera Ghost does not enjoy.

But his display of such foolish recklessness was just starting to lessen with every season. Apprehensive of how he could harm himself, Rose throws open the door in a flurry.

“What the devil is wrong?!” Rose has always limited her inappropriate language to a handful of special occasions. And this seems very fitting. From the papers littering the floor to a broken lamp which thankfully did not ignite a fire, the state of disarray could only reflect Erik’s psyche at the moment as he crouches across from her position.

“Erik?” She starts, cautious but collected so as to not alarm him. How such a tall statured man could lower himself nearly flat on the ground and look so small she can never understand.

“Leave me!” Erik blares, hands wrapped around his temple and the yellow glow of his eyes so blazing in the stark darkness, Rose should be shaking under her skirts.

“You do not speak to me that way,” she says, her tone even and her steps getting closer. “Erik, please tell me what's wrong. Please.”

Oh how she wishes she knew his tongue now. If only to break open into his heart that he could not conceal in his mother language.

His mother language…

Sniveling in the corner, Erik makes no indication of having heard her plea, deciding not to answer the question. He can be so secretive whenever he pleases, pushing her out of his sphere with such violent resistance, it gives her whiplash. But that is why she must be this way…

“If you will not tell me,” she counters, moving to the desk for a look, “I will simply have to-”

The black of Erik’s mask conceals his expression, but the low agitation of his voice makes him sound like a predator ready to pounce. “Do not!”

Rose manages to find red inked papers partially torn and annotated, unfamiliar music notes dancing across the pages before a flurry of movement stops her completely. Her lover’s imposing figure stands before her, a strong grip on her arm that forces the papers out of her hands, gliding to the floor in a dramatic flourish.

Gasping, Rose faces the eyes that burn with yellow fire at her miscalculated action. “Ah! You’re hurting me,” she exclaims with pain, her wrist unable to move due to its restraint.

Suddenly, as if released from a trance, the man loosens his fingers. Ashamed, Erik takes away his hand, the worried expression of his face completely masked but his eyes dim their glow considerably when meeting Rose’s deep brown ones.

“I have hurt you,” he says, tone dripping with shame and panic. “Erik has disappointed his little Rose…” His voice trails into a pained whisper and telltale signs of his particular rhetoric threaten his descent into madness.

The once towering form standing nearly two heads above her, falls onto its knees and Rose knows he will beg for her forgiveness before he even utters a single word. While the momentary shock melts from her mind, she takes the opportunity to direct his attention away, knowing these instances are crucial for him.

“Are you quite sorry, Erik?” She probes gently. “Come here.”

Sitting on his desk chair, she gestures him forward, finding it amusing the way he crawls to her like a kicked puppy looking for food. She allows him to rest his head on her skirts, caressing the few locks of hair that remain atop his head.

Patience has always brought the best results with one such as her lover. She imagines not many have afforded Erik the luxury of their time or care. The most she can do would be to let him speak on his own terms.

“Erik is sorry,” he says, his words wet with tears and no doubt snot under his mask. Heaving at the realization of his mistake, Erik’s mind threatens to spiral into melancholy. At the thought of having to be alone within the walls, at the thought of his little painter leaving him for good. “You will leave your Erik…”

The silk of his mask which covers his mouth moves from the pressure of air passing through the fabric, a new style that facilitates more kisses among other things. At his declaration, Rose can only shake her head no.

“I know you are sorry,” she replies. “Do you want to fix it?” Sometimes she gathers he is much too exhausted with himself to even right his wrongs.

“Yes,” comes his response after a brief pause. Erik always sounds uncertain of himself during moments such as these, looking for her guidance like a dying light in a storm.

“Good.” Her lips curve into a soft smile, voice still controlled by its volume. “Why don’t you start with setting the lamp?” Rose suggests. And her words do not fall on deaf ears as Erik scrambles to fulfill her request, looking to Rose for approval.

“Very good. And your music notes?”

It is the wrong suggestion, because as soon as the papers are within his grasp, Erik makes the mistake of looking upon his failures, and the frustration starts to eat at him once more, growling and tearing them to shreds.

“Erik!” Rose calls. “Look at what you’ve done…” Disappointment palpable in her voice, she does her best to regain his attention. Immediately regretful, Erik’s mood pendulums to the other extreme, begging for her forgiveness.

“Erik is sorry!” He says, tears of frustration now wetting the silk as he crawls about. Finding the hems of her dress he clutches them for dear life. “Please let Erik fix it!”

“Do you promise to do better?”

“Erik promises!” His desperation heightens, voice sounding distressed, and Rose realizes perhaps a different approach is required.

“Why don’t we give you a reward,” she says, guiding his hands. Cold, long fingers send little shocks to the skin of her calves as she uses his digits to push her skirts higher. The chill of the study permeates within her and she feels a gentle shiver.

Speechless at the revelation of her legs, Erik watches with rapt attention, hands shaking in her grip yet hungry for more contact. She forgoes any stockings while at home and Erik’s heart threatens to give out at the sight of her plump thighs, the skin soft to the touch. Even in the darkness, her warm brown skin manages to possess an ethereal quality.

When the little tufts of intimate hair peeks from beneath her open drawers, Erik’s breath hitches, his music forgotten. In fact his brain matter is nothing but mush. His anger now simmering and turning into desire makes him dizzy. “Rose…” he says, breathless, and the longing in his voice nearly breaks her.

“Use your mouth, Erik,” she says, and this time it is not a question but a command which she knows he will obey.

From the gentle nudge of his hands to her thighs, Erik lowers himself to her, allowing her hands to pull the silk out of the way. It’s a strange sensation feeling his icy, rigid skull on her skin. Rose squeaks, feeling his inexperienced tongue dance around her entrance. Despite the times they have shared this exact activity, he still hasn’t found his footing quite clearly.

Breathing little moans of pleasure, Rose does not shy away from her praises. “Good boy,” she whispers, feeling the ice of his thin lips turn cool from the heat of her folds. “Very good boy.”

Her words have their intended effect as Erik groans into her, the glow of his eyes never leaving her form. “Maman…” he says between licks getting lost in the pleasure that is not even his own. “Maman, please…”

“Here,” she guides, moving her hips to his mouth with more force, enjoying the lewd groans that seem to escape him with every minute passed. After several tries, Rose finds her climax, panting for breath only to cry out from the overstimulation.

“That’s enough! Erik has made maman proud,” she tells him, stopping his movements to a gentle halt. Erik’s stare boars into her and she knows what he wants.

“Do you want to know what maman will let you do if you clean the glass?”

Smiling at his enthusiastic nod, Rose utilizes her silver tongue once more. And thinks of every little thing that makes this dreary, lonely tombstone home feel every bit less solitary.

#poto oc #phantom of the opera oc #phantom of the opera #erik the phantom #Erik #Erik x oc #not jojo #oc stuff #selfship stuff #rose #n sfw #fics #sid writes #phantom of the opera x oc #erik/oc #phantom/oc

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