A/N: As per usual, I am SO grateful for all of you; my beautiful lurkers and readers! I love every single thought and comment that you guys leave for me! Keep them coming! Also, for those who are unfamiliar with Tartaros (Tartarus); in Greek Mythology it is the deepest region of the Underworld, where the most evil are punished brutally. I present to you…
PS: To those who have already read this, I added a bit more at the end :)
Tartaros
It was as if a great mirror had splintered in front of his eyes, unlocking the insidious creature that lay sleeping inside of him. The masses of painted dresses and dark tuxedoes began to fade around the edges of his vision; the more they danced between reality and oblivion, the brighter and harsher the lines of his father's face became…the louder his words rang out into complete silence, while Erik shriveled beneath his iron gaze like a small child – still stuck in the world that his father had wanted, had created for him before he had even been born.
Was there no God? Was there no mercy for him, anymore? The words had been spurted out like poison, splashing onto his face, a strangulation of the spirit. He had tried to be the man his father wanted him to be. He had gone in place of Bruce, who at the time was gangly and young, knowing nothing of sin, of blackened hate. So if there had been an exchange of fates, somehow…why did God place a sinister bind upon his heart?
Why had he taken away all sanity, all love, and replaced it with the bitterness of torture; a snake-pit where he was destined to die without dignity, without any form of freedom or music or song…a place where he did not belong, where he had never even wanted to go?
Erik ached to kill him in that very moment – but killing was too short: too simple and easy. It was the quickest escape out of the nightmare that men called 'life'; and he would not be the one to spare another – especially the very man that had destroyed his life with promises of glory, with declarations of pride and love…
But none of it had been real.
So he had given his father a taste of what had been done to him; but truly, it was only a fraction of the cup that had been passed, only a sip from an ocean of blood, sodomy, manipulation, knives, scarring, and pain…
Only a sip.
Bruce had choked him out at the neck; the only way he'd ever been able to best Erik at all, yet still, it had been a smart move. They had fought playfully many times in the past, but it had often turned into something more violent – a need to best one another, to boast dominance within their own mortal aggression. Bruce was the reason his father had not died; Bruce was the protector, as always, of what was pure and good; a childhood filled with magnolias and summer wind, brushing against both of their faces…a mother calling out, a mother kissing, smiling, hugging, loving…
A mother that was now gone.
A flower blown away in the wind.
He could not understand why he should still be punished! He had wrenched the leather mask from his face, wanting to scare the crowd away, dying to control them, to freeze them in cruel panic. He wanted them to feel his pain, to see the raw red and pink crisscrossed patterns of his skin; he was drunk on the power that they gave to him with their shrieks and pallid complexions…he was high on the smell of their fear.
But then he heard her voice, the tender cry of an angel, behind him. Erik had forgotten her for a moment; he had forgotten the smooth feel of her skin, and the elusive role he had boldly bestowed upon himself – a protector of sorts, from the misery she wore all too clumsily, carried within every fretful movement that her body made unknowingly. She was the woman from above, she was the face in the blurry night sky: the melancholy that had sang out a swan song from below, crowned with stars and desolation…
She had been his mirror to the outside world.
Immediately when she had spoken, the high of the crowd vanished in thin air; she tore him apart, leaving him naked underneath the gaze of painted angels upon the ceiling…
And he knew, when he turned to look at her once again, just as he had bent to see her through the skylight – he knew that she wanted to save him.
But he could not allow it, these thoughts of redemption, these dreams of a savior. There was no ancient tree that he could climb, no fortress that would protect him from the flooded waters turning to blood; there was no absolution, no retrieving his dilapidated soul…
So he fled. He turned against the crowd, against Bruce and his unconscious, bleeding father…he turned his back on her, even though her eyes pleaded with his: lilies floating on a serene pond in spring…
She had whispered his name, she had brushed her fingers upon the uncovered flesh of his face, and still…
He could not confront what he had done, what had been done to him…He would not look back into the mirror.
There was no need to push apart the crowd as he bolted for the staircase, for the massive throngs opened up for him; a bizarre parable for Moses crossing the red sea…Only God did not open these walls of ocean for him; no, he had done that himself.
Erik had shown them true fear. And suddenly, he hated himself for it.
The self-loathing only grew worse as he blew through the front doors of the Opera House and spilled out into the night. He descended the outdoor staircase with a maddening, pulsating rhythm – she should be with him, he should have stayed! Erik turned around to take in the entirety of the Opera House, now panting on the sidewalk. It seemed like an entrance to heaven, with Archangel guardians that peered down at him from the towering golden dome. It was too much, the beauty of the architecture, the memory of Christine seeing it for the first time…seeing him for the first time…
No. He couldn't have her. She was pure, a sweet little dove that had landed upon his shoulder, cooing a lullaby that caused his stitches to stretch painfully as he smiled. She could redeem him, if he could perhaps save her the from the underworld, from the treachery and abuse that rotted and spoiled her life.
No. He could not allow those kind of thoughts. He was not a protector, he was not one to bring balance to the world, anymore. He did not have the power.
He did not have the heart.
Erik turned away from the Opera House, blinking back an onslaught of tears. He let them fall, not wanting to touch a hand to his bare face. He did not want to think about the lost mask, anymore…it was gone, soon to be forgotten and trampled by the elites as they continued mulling about, gossiping about the latest styles and scandals of the Upper East Side. He felt foolish for ever ripping it impulsively from his face, for casting it out into the crowd for mere seconds of sickened authority. Shame washed over him as he continued to run down the crowded street, ducking his head to hide the bright outdoor bar lamps and headlights from lighting up the embarrassment and humiliation that was his face.
Erik knew where he needed to go; it wasn't too far, as long as he kept running. His insides burned with residual alcohol, and his mind begged him for more – soon, he whispered to himself, breathing heavily as he pulled off his jacket, flinging it over his shoulder. Soon you can forget about tonight, about all of it…
He would go on another bender. He would calculate the milligrams again, he would make his sins disappear like his father's consciousness. But not quite yet, not while the night was young, still, and he now possessed an new and enthralling destination – he had not been there in a week, but he needed to talk to her, to be inside of her…
And, he needed a new mask.
Before long, he found himself surrounded by an entirely new world, and only then did he slow his running to a light jog. The roaring castles of the Upper East Side had melted away, leaving jagged black buildings with tiny holes for windows, all lit with a jaundiced yellow light. The streetlights were pink, with stray red lamps and white dots – it was now as if the outside of his world matched the scarred up tissue of his face. Here, he could finally relax – where there were plentiful alleyways filled with the filth that no one wanted; the soiled underside of Manhattan, where lost souls gathered to find some pathetic meaning in their lonely, disgraceful lives.
The streets were crowded with men in dirty work clothes, nursing glass bottles of amber liquid with one hand, and another down the skirt of impetuous, grinning whores. Prostitutes were not gathered on street corners – this was their no man's land, so they roved about like predators in the night, topless and red lipped with the strong scent of wine on their breath. A few girls reached out to Erik as he meandered his way through the crowds, but he shook free of their spindly fingers with ease. They called out after him, calling him by name, screeching like banshees when he paid them no attention. He smiled to himself bitterly, thinking of the Opera House of angels. It held no place for somebody like him, a man with blood spattered all up the front of his white dress shirt. He wiped his hands on the legs of his pants, attempting to clean some of the blood off as he stepped up to a building that towered on a darkened street corner. A cursive lettered sign gleamed neon and crimson, matching his bloodstained hands, filling up shadows in the streets with a curious wine colored glow. "Tartaros," Erik read aloud, admiring the hellish curves of the letters that cast a feeling of belonging within him; he considered the satire of this title each time, right before he entered in through the ebony double doors…
It was competitive to the deepest region upon earth – although he, himself knew of darker places, he still enjoyed the irony of it all…the underworld built here, on a corner of darkness, just for him.
Erik strode inside, letting his jacket slide from the place on his shoulder. It was a large enough space, with a grand purple stage and multiple poles sprouting up from the wooded floors. The walls were covered in mirrors, so that men could watch the dancers from every angle – the curves of their breasts bouncing, and the soundless moaning they gave to the roar of the crowd, throwing their heads back like wild and beautiful beasts.
A bouncer stood on the inside of the doors; he was a well built man with a shaved head, dressed in a cheap but shiny red suit. "Erik," the man exclaimed over the thunder of the music. "I haven't seen you in a week! You're here for Gianna, I'm guessing?"
"Is she here?" Erik bent to ask quietly in his ear, not bothering to shroud his face from the flashing lights of the stage. "I need to see her."
"Of course she's here, she's been askin' about you! I just kept telling her I haven't seen you, or that brother of yours…"
"I need the private room…regardless of the cost," Erik pulled a rolled up band of money from his wrinkled jacket that he tugged from his shoulder, pressing the band into the greedy outstretched hand of the bouncer. Erik watched his eyes glitter with excitement at the cash, and he nodded swiftly, grinning at Erik like a child. "Oh yes, I will get it all emptied out for you, don't you worry!" The bouncer hurried away, merging into the crowd of men whose eyes were glued to the golden poles and the stage, where a busty blonde was performing a striptease. Erik watched her from afar, his hunger to take a woman growing painfully inside of him. He took a deep breath, averting his eyes to the surface of his own hands. They were caked in dried blood, but the darkness of the club hid most of the stains – but he knew that in the private room, everything would be seen, everything would be laid bare. He grunted in irritation and leaned against the wall, waiting impatiently for the bouncer to return.
With a few minutes to spare, Erik let his mind wander…he thought of the car ride to the Opera House, when she had frozen under the touch of his forefinger…she seemed so shy, so bashful to even show that she liked it. But her body had betrayed her, because he could feel the goosebumps underneath the callouses of his finger, his hand…she had blushed, hiding herself behind a curtain of chestnut curls. How light and gentle, she was…almost made of glass, almost breakable in the palm of his hand…
He forced himself to stop the thoughts when he became aroused, shaking his head at the lucidity of his mind. Christine, the woman who robed herself in the stars of the night sky…
Little Dove.
The bouncer was weaving his way back through the crowd, and motioned to Erik from halfway across the room. Erik let out an exasperated sigh, confused about the chain of events that were soon to take place. He wanted to do it, he needed to do it…but somehow, it felt wrong. Yet it was the only right choice, the only sacred place where he could be away from the penthouse – from the ruined mess of his own chaotic mind. Here, in Tartaros, he could be a rich and handsome man, just like he used to be…
He could be pleasured without the circular, intrusive thoughts that took control of his mind, he could even, perhaps close his eyes and…
He wove his way through the crowd with ease, letting his thoughts run rampant; the calm before the storm. It felt good to feel, to let things wash over him, and she…Christine, was the repetitive plague that kept singeing his flesh, the scars on his hands, his face, his chest…
He wanted to feel her. But he would not let himself.
Erik brushed aside the curtain that gave way to a painted black door. He entered the room softly, turning to seal the door in the face of complete silence, and a shadow that lounged on a long, scarlet colored loveseat.
"Have you been avoiding me, Erik?" a woman's voice purred from the darkness, and a smile teased at the corners of Erik's lips. He walked to the left side of the room, feeling for the tassel of the floor lamp. It was smooth in his fingers, and he pulled on it gently, illuminating the small, quiet space made just adjacent to the stage.
She lay draped upon the loveseat like a lazy queen, dressed in delicate white lingerie. Lace covered the soft pink nipples of her large, full breasts, and her skin shimmered as if greased. She eyed him from the other side of the room, brushing long locks of red curls away from her face, where green eyes glittered hard and bright – studying him as he stood in his dress shirt, bare-faced without the shadow of the leather mask.
Erik began to undo the buttons of his shirt, averting his eyes from hers that studied him too deeply – making him uncomfortable of the words he had said to her the last time they had fucked…
"I need a new mask," he muttered, pulling his bloodstained dress shirt off and tossing it to the floor. His powerful upper body was covered in scars – there were almost no clean spaces left upon his skin. Gianna noted the swastika that had been carved into his left pectoral, hiding behind crude slashes of other scarring – an attempt to hide the mark that had been made upon him. She bit her lip as she sat up, admiring him in the dim light of the backstage room.
"Why did you come back?" she asked softly, filling the awkward silence that his presence caused in her heart. "Are you even going to apologize to me?"
Shirtless, Erik closed the space between them with a couple of strides, seating himself beside her on the velvet loveseat. He let out a long sigh, running a hand through the tousled black curls on his head, slicking the length of them back.
"I show up with no mask, my shirt soaked in blood," he replied, reaching toward a small table filled with assorted bottles of iced wine, "and you ask me about an apology?"
Gianna couldn't help but laugh at the playful tone in his voice. She watched as he filled two glasses of wine, handing one to her brusquely. He did not turn his body to offer it to her – instead, he shoved it in her direction without looking, keeping his eyes straight ahead, staring vacantly at the far wall. He emptied the entire glass of wine down his throat.
"I need you to make me another mask," he spoke softly, filling his empty glass once more. This time, he sipped it gently, and set it back down onto the tiny mirrored table.
"I always keep a spare for you, just in case…" she countered, reaching out to run a hand down the side of his neck. He moaned softly at her touch, letting his head fall back onto the ridge of the loveseat.
"What happened to it? The mask…" she asked, continuing to stroke his neck, his cheek, his lips with the back of her hand. Erik rolled his eyes at the question, pulling back his lips to bare his teeth, biting down lightly on the edge of her palm.
"I didn't come here to talk. Not this time." His eyes glowed golden in the dim lamplight, raking up and down her half-naked form. It pleased her to have him stare at her, especially without his mask. She could see all of his expressions clearly – the creases of his eyelids, the arches in his eyebrows when he spoke. He was ruggedly handsome, even with the vein-like patterns of scarring that filled the skin of his face.
"Maybe I want to talk…" Gianna pressed, her anxiety mounting instantly at the recklessly spoken words.
"No," he growled, narrowing his eyes. "Touch me, goddamn it," Erik commanded,
closing his eyes, his voice almost a snarl. He relaxed his thighs, letting them fall apart, inviting her to straddle him. Gianna sighed, her heart perplexed at his urgent demand. She felt she could not move, for a moment – and although her body begged to obey him, she almost protested...she so very badly wanted to talk. She needed to know if he meant what he had said…the words that had been replaying in her mind for the past week…
But she could not turn him down – she needed him, just as he needed her.
He wants me, she thought to herself.
He needs me.
"I'm waiting," he drawled, his eyes still closed, rubbing himself between the legs at his stubborn arousal. Erik let himself go back, for a moment, to the darkness in the car, the gloss of the black leather…the hidden desire that glimmered in Christine's eyes when he touched her, only softly and ever so slightly, with his forefinger…
Gianna pushed away the memories of the last time she had seen him. She could not think of them, now…not when he demanded to be inside of her…
I care about you…
She unzipped his trousers, pulling his briefs down so that his cock sprung forth, already wet with bits of dew on the tip. Gianna straddled him, rubbing the thin material of lace against his bare prick, feeling the warm juices of her pussy wetting the length of him. Erik groaned loudly against his own insatiable hunger, and he gripped her waist tightly, forcing aside the lace and lowering her down onto his hardened erection. Gianna moaned as she felt the entirety of him filling her up…the wetness between her legs becoming uncontrollable…undeniable…
"Oh, God…yes…"
I care about you, Gianna…
Erik breathed heavily as he moved her on top of him, bouncing her up and down, saturating his groin with her juices, satisfying the powerful, ardent ache between his legs, rearing all the way up the wake of his spine…he cupped her supple, milky breasts in his hands as he controlled her, tantalizing her with his rough touch, rubbing his thumbs in circles on the tips of her hardened nipples…
He closed his eyes.
Christine held him tightly around his neck, her breasts pressed up against him, with sweat permeating through the sensitive skin of her nipples, burning the thick flesh of his scars…she explored every crevice and line of his face with her fingertips, riding him harder and faster with every moan that escaped from the deep of her throat…he could feel the tightness of her cunt pushing against his cock, and she whined his name, over and over…spurring him on, pushing him to an overwhelming summit…he continued to move rhythmically inside of her, occasionally pulling his prick out to rub the warm wet tip against her inner lips, causing her hips to buck forward uncontrollably…
"Oh, Erik…Erik…
Erik!"
A/N: Any comments, feedback, or thoughts ALWAYS make my day. Thank you my loves…