A/N—I blame my Tumblr friends for this one, my very first LND-verse story. Rated M, be warned.

The Mannequin

2019 Riene

.

On the surface Phantasma was exactly what it appeared to be—a glittering spectacle of light, amusement rides, carnival games, and candy floss, a safe but exciting day of family fun. Yet there were layers to Phantasma, a less advertised series of shows that catered to a more mature and less family-oriented audience—the Burlesque, the Freak Show, the Hall of Mirrors. And below that, another layer of barely-legal and definitely not advertised rooms where gambling took place and alcohol was consumed. More than one politician in the city owed a significant amount of money, and others, perhaps, had been compromised. Layers, for Mr. Y preferred nothing in the open and a certain measure of, as he thought of it, insurance.

Below the surface there were more layers, the tunnels through which the great park functioned. The miles of piping, the heavy copper cables wrapped against the damp, maintenance shafts and shortcuts, ones the staff knew and used to avoid the weather, to aid in their arrival at any emergency, to remain hidden from the public gaze. Tunnels for privacy and security for his staff and employees.

Erik used them often enough himself to avoid any suspicion.

Layers upon layers.

But below that, his own passages, hidden chambers, built into the very bones and foundations of the park, for his exclusive use.

Layers upon layers upon layers.

His kingdom, but a lonely one.

In the privacy of his suite, past the outside room and into the back, sealed against sounds of music, of rage and despair, lay the the pipe organ. There were places in the tunnels where the music echoed, carried through bedrock and metal, stone and steel. Tales of a haunted passage had circulated amongst the staff.

No one suspected the true origins, that their enigmatic and feared employer might be truly mad.

With even the inner doors secured and lights dimmed he discarded the mask and strode across the room and slowed, respectfully, to open the doors of the Shrine. The shrine were she waited.

Or as close to her as he could have.

With a reverence offered to nothing and no one else he pulled open the doors, and guided by the hidden levers, she turned to him, blue eyes looking up into his face, the glossy curls falling over her shoulder just so against the pristine white of her gown, her small feet in their slippers just visible, and her lips, those soft rosy lips, curving just for him.

Erik took a moment to admire his handiwork. The ivory skin glowed with a flush of pleasure on her cheeks, and her hands...the hands he remembered so well...lay folded demurely in her lap.

Not that they had always been so demure.

He remembered with a sudden clenching of his vitals the feel of those hands on his hated body, the rush of pleasure at her touch, gentle and timid at first then more bold, how he'd shuddered at that first caress, and then she'd touched his face, trailing her hand once more down his hideous, deformed flesh, and not shrunken away in loathing. Those hands had been tender, and the lips had followed.

This time he'd not stood paralyzed in shock but responded greedily, as a man, touching her face, tangling fingers in her soft and lustrous curls, cradling her head in his broad hands. She'd pressed against him, wanting more, and he'd been more than willing to give it.

The familiar tightness pulled at his groin, and he brushed a hand against the straining bulge, hissing between clenched teeth. Not for the first time he regarded his creation with rapacious eyes and then the intellectual took over. He could make for himself a new model. Warmed, perhaps by heated water circulated by small pumps. As she had been so heated as he'd sunk into her, her cries in his ears.

The pressure of fabric against his groin was intolerable and he freed himself, shuddering as the cool air touched his heated flesh.

He could add weight to her body, could soften the hard material into something more closely resembling the curve of breasts he'd caressed, the small tight rosy nipples he tasted and then suckled, flicking the hardened nubs with his tongue as she'd gasped at the unexpected sensation, the chill of the air leaving them crinkled as he'd held their weight, tracing and circling those peaks with the calloused pads of his thumbs as she'd moaned, the sounds driving him mad.

A pearl of fluid leaked from the swollen tip, trailing down his painful erection, and Erik grasped himself to wipe it away. One stroke, just one, to pump out the liquid, that was all. He had control.

She'd been so warm and wet, her slickness not unlike his. Experimentally he swirled his finger against himself, around and under the head, feeling the leaking moisture. There would need to be a lubricant, something that would not harm the material, or himself. His hand moved of its own accord, firmly, a slight twist at the end.

He could add more hinged joints to the body, alter the weight distribution, so that she could be positioned more realistically. His hands remembered cupping her buttocks as he pulled her against his body, the surge of his hips against hers, how at first she'd pulled back, blushing at her own temerity, how he'd lifted her chin and kissed her again, her hands against his chest and fingers trailing down to his waist. Erik pulled open his shirt, brushing bare skin, eyes shut now, swaying, his hips moving in time with the motions of his hand.

There should be new clothing for her, the softness of a robe he could pull apart, revealing secrets no man but he had known. Lace and fine lawn undergarments fragile against his eagerness as he had removed them, her shyness as she'd hidden her face against his shoulder. His tentative brush against her curls as she'd gasped, parting trembling thighs to grant him greater access. Neither had known before the pleasures of the flesh, and now they would learn together.

He would need to add the curls, curls to be brushed with fingertips, breath heightening sensation, his tongue dipping and swirling as she'd cried out, as he'd tasted a woman for the first time, seeing to her pleasure, panting his name in her glorious voice.

The hand moved faster.

And when she'd cried out, arching beneath him he'd risen, unable to control his desire any longer as she'd opened to him and he'd surged forward, sinking into her tight heat and wet, willing body.

Not my hand

He hadn't lasted long, to his shame, but there had been stars, the electrical surge down his spine, shattering in its intensity, his head thrown back, shaking

Not my hand

Perhaps there could be a slight vibration added, a thrumming like her heartbeat as he'd felt it flutter under his lips on her throat, fingers exploring, caressing, circling

Not my hand

Her legs over his shoulders, driving into her, her hands on his back

Her mouth on his

Erik sank to his knees, bucking and shuddering with the force of his release, muffling the name that tore from his throat, strangling the sounds of his cry biting down on his sleeve, the tremors shaking his body, falling forward, fist beating the expensive carpet as the cries wrenched from his chest, tears streaking and stinging his horrible face, shame and yearning and despising and weakness and wanting and rage and despair...he'd failed again but he was just a man...just a man.

A broken, lonely, desperate man, longing for that which he could not have.

The one thing he could not purchase.

Erik staggered to his feet, putting clothing to rights, leaning against the doorway of the shrine, chest heaving.

Her blue eyes looked into his.

Ten years.

He buttoned himself up.

Ten lost, desolate years.

He threw the handkerchief aside.

Music that wouldn't come.

Wretched, he collapsed at his desk.

She could not be bought.

But perhaps…

He reached for a pen.

.

Thanks for reading, and please review.