Came Home Drunk and Kissed My Phantom | Erik/Fem!Reader
synopsis: In which a night of celebration, too much champagne, and an awkward encounter at the party lead to an unexpected rescue. The Phantom whisks you away from the revelry, only to discover that being your savior comes with its own peril: enduring a hundred tipsy, affectionate kisses he has no idea how to refuse.
notes: Both the title and the latter half of the premise are referencing this particular meme. This fic is super self-indulgent and stems from my feeling of cuteness aggression towards him ❤️
word count: 1.6k words
warnings/tags: fem!reader, opera singer reader, established relationship, fluff, sfw, alcohol consumption, reader is drunk, brief unwanted advance from another character, protective and jealous Erik
The Opera Populaire glittered that night as if Paris itself had bent low to offer up its finest jewels. Crystal chandeliers blazed above the grand foyer, casting rainbows across marble floors already polished to a mirror’s gleam.
Everywhere there was laughter, champagne, and the sound of glasses clinking in triumph. The performance season had ended in resounding success, and tonight was its culmination: a celebration for all who had made it possible.
And at the heart of it all was you.
Your name was on every tongue. Your voice still echoed in the ears of the audience, even though the curtain had long since fallen. Firmin and André hovered like proud uncles, or vultures, at your elbow, alternately praising your talent and congratulating themselves for having “recognized such brilliance from the start.”
“My dear, you must know,” André crowed, his cheeks flushed red from wine, “that Paris has not seen such an ingénue in years! You have given the Opera Populaire new life, new glamour!”
“Indeed, indeed,” Firmin chimed in, bobbing his head as though he himself had been the one giving you midnight vocal lessons, correcting your phrasing, steadying your trembling breath. “A triumph such as this ensures not only your future, my dear, but the future of the Opera itself!”
You smiled, demure yet glowing beneath their words. You accepted their praise graciously, as was expected, but in your heart you knew better. For behind every note you’d sung, behind every daring step onto that stage, there had been a hidden hand. A tutor; a shadow; Erik.
It was his relentless guidance that had carved away your hesitation, his genius that had shaped your voice until it could soar. Every ovation belonged, at least in part, to him. And though you stood now beneath blazing chandeliers, draped in silk and surrounded by admirers, your thoughts strayed to the labyrinth below. To the man who could not stand among them, but without whom you would not be here at all.
But you had no chance to linger on him. The celebration carried you along like a current. Chorus girls swooped in, laughing, tugging you toward the center of the room. The ballet corps, still flushed from their own triumph, pulled you into their circle, pressing a glass of champagne into your hand. Carlotta swept past in an explosion of perfume and satin, her voice dripping condescension even as she muttered a curt “Brava” in acknowledgment.
The orchestra struck up a lively waltz, and soon you were spinning, skirts flaring, the golden light dizzying your eyes. Laughter spilled from your lips more easily than you expected, loosened by the champagne, by the triumph, by the sheer euphoria of survival after so many nights of doubt.
By the time midnight neared, you were flushed and bright, your head swimming with bubbles and music. The chandeliers blurred at the edges, and you leaned against a marble pillar to catch your breath.
That was when he appeared.
“Forgive me,” said a voice at your shoulder. You turned to see a young man, one of the minor tenors, if memory served. His name eluded you; you’d scarcely spoken to him in rehearsals. His smile was too wide, his bow too elaborate. “I realized we have never been properly introduced. Allow me.” He caught your hand, pressing his lips to your knuckles. “An honor, mademoiselle.”
His breath was heavy with wine. His gaze lingered too long. Still, you laughed it off at first. Politeness was second nature. You offered your name, endured his chatter about how dazzling you had been, how envious he was of your success.
But soon his hand brushed yours again. His shoulder leaned too near. His voice dropped lower, coaxing, suggestive.
“You shine brighter than anyone tonight,” he murmured. “Perhaps I could… escort you from all this noise? Find somewhere quieter—”
You swayed, half from the champagne, half from the sudden unease that rippled through you. You stepped back, meaning to excuse yourself, but he followed, still smiling, his hand grazing your arm as though it were all a jest.
When suddenly, the air changed.
A draft swept through the gilded hall, cold as graveyard earth. The laughter around them dimmed as shadows thickened at the edge of the light.
Before you could blink, a figure materialized: a sweep of black cape, the gleam of white mask. Gasps rang out, sharp shattering of glasses on marble, but no one dared interfere.
The Phantom.
His hand shot out, clamping down on the young man’s shoulder with the silent promise of death. The tenor paled, stammering, every trace of arrogance draining away as he felt the iron grip. Erik’s voice, when it came, was a hiss like steel drawn from its sheath.
“You will remove yourself.”
The boy’s protest died in his throat. He wrenched free and fled, tripping over his own feet in his haste. A ripple of terror spread throughout the onlookers, but Erik’s attention had already left them. His gaze was fixed only on you—flushed, unsteady, lips parted in drunken astonishment.
You blinked at him then swayed again, whispering, “Please… don’t hurt anyone. Not for me.”
His rage trembled in every line of him. His gloved hands flexed as though still longing to snap a neck. It would be so easy to let the infamous lasso sing, to silence the insolent man who had dared lay claim to you. But your plea, slurred though it was, stilled him. With a furious sweep of his cape, he wrapped you close, drawing you against him.
Gasps followed as he whisked you from the ballroom, through hidden passages only he knew and could command. By the time the revelers dared to breathe again, both Phantom and ingénue had vanished.
His lair was cool, silent, the faint trickle of the underground lake echoing through the chamber. Erik deposited you onto the vast, curtained bed, his movements sharp with restrained violence. He paced at first, cape flaring, hands clenched behind his back. His anger had no outlet; it seared in the air like lightning, though stormless.
You, however, seemed utterly oblivious. You lay sprawled against the dark covers, laughter bubbling faintly from your lips as though the whole world were a dream.
“There you are,” you murmured, eyes half-lidded, “my shining knight. I was just thinking about you…”
Your hand reached, clumsy but firm, catching at his sleeve. You tugged, and when he resisted, you tugged harder, until he stumbled nearer to the bed.
Erik froze as your fingers brushed his glove. You tugged at it, fumbled, and finally slipped it free. His hand, pale, long-fingered, deadly, lay exposed. Before he could snatch it back, you pressed your lips to it.
One kiss. Then another.
“It’s easy,” you whispered, lips brushing his skin, “to forget how adorable you can be. With your terrible reputation. With the mask you chose.”
Another kiss. “But I know better.”
Erik’s body quaked. This was madness. This was a fever-dream conjured by wine. Yet your lips left proof upon his flesh, impossible and deliberate.
Your lipstick smeared faintly against his skin as you trailed upward, along the back of his hand. Each bony knuckle, one by one, felt the warmth of your kiss. Then his wrist, his forearm. Your breath was warm, your laughter soft. “You’re mine,” you whispered. “No one else. Just mine.”
“St— Stop this—” His voice broke, half plea half command. He stood rigid, every nerve ablaze.
But you did not stop. You pressed your mouth to the fabric of his sleeve, to the line of his shoulder, to the hollow of his throat, climbing up and up, scattering kisses like petals. Smudges bloomed scarlet against black. When you tilted your face toward his mask, your eyes shone with intoxicated devotion.
He trembled. Every instinct screamed to flee, to vanish into shadow. And yet he could not move.
Your hands framed his face, mask and all, and kissed the corner of it, lips leaving stains like proof of possession. “My Erik,” you whispered against him. “My music, my heart…”
He went utterly still. A kiss on what was false, on what hid the horror. And it undid him more than if you had simply stripped the mask away.
He gave a strangled sound, alien, something between a groan and a laugh, and at last his resistance broke. With a shuddering breath, he sank down beside you, allowing himself to be pulled into your warmth.
You nestled against him immediately, as though you had been waiting all night for this surrender, and your lips found him yet again. Pressing adoringly along the sharp line of his jaw, trailing soft, clumsy kisses down the column of his throat, brushing reverent against the seam where mask met skin. Your hands were just as insistent, sliding over his shoulders, tugging lightly at his collar as if even fabric were too much of a barrier between you. He tried to still you, to hold you away, but his trembling fingers betrayed him, clutching at your waist instead.
At last, exhaustion tugged at you. You slumped against his chest with a dreamy sigh, lips curved in a sleepy smile, and your drunken devotion softened into little murmurs against his neck.
Erik sat stiffly for a long while, heart hammering, face burning beneath the mask. His gloves were gone, his clothes smeared with lipstick, his very skin tingling from your reckless affection, the ghost of every kiss seared into him.
Slowly, his body yielded. His arm curled around you almost hesitantly, drawing you closer. He lowered his chin until it rested against your hair, breathing you in, letting the unfamiliar, though not unwelcome comfort seep into him.
When he finally dared to look down, he saw himself marked: smudges of crimson blooming across leather and linen, staining him with proof that he had been touched, claimed. He ought to have scrubbed the stains away…
Instead, with a shudder, he gently pulled the covers over your shoulders and let the marks remain: bright as wounds, holy as relics.
