A/N: I love reading your responses; thank you for them. And keep in mind that Christine and Erik both have very specific opinions on how they've been wronged by the other, when really they should be realising that some things that have caused a drift between them are their own faults. It's far too complicated a situation to leave one side completely blameless, no matter how much they insist they are the victim.
It goes on for weeks.
Christine spends every waking morning out on the streets, purchasing little trinkets from hunger-crowned stalls and giving half of her lunch to the children who are too thin. Her husband frowns but does not comment, remains silent when the snobbish French elite stick their noses up at her with rude remarks. He is caught, she knows; he understands that she had once lived without luxury, long ago, when her father was still alive. Her father had sheltered her the best he could, but even he could not shield her from the occasional lack of food on their table.
It is simple, so simple to her. They have a fortune kept to themselves—just between the two of them!—and it is so much more than what they need. If they have enough to live, then why not give the rest of it away? Why keep money when they do not need it?
Somehow, her prince doesn't understand. He is a good man, a far better person than she is; an honest partner where she is fickle, a loving husband to her whoring wife. He is her knight in shining armour, braving dangers ranging from a crazed Opera Ghost striving for her love and her own indecisiveness when it comes to love. She should feel guilty for fucking another man when he's away on business trips.
Then why doesn't she?
Lovemaking with her husband never sits well with her. He is gentle, he is kind, and she is a whirlwind of emotions, confused and angry and built-up passion waiting for release. Christine thinks that perhaps her body is not made for gentle, not made for kind. She is a violin string pulled tight, moulded to be the highest pitch of delicate darkness even before she knew her own name.
So she spends her mornings giving to reduce poverty and her nights taking to ease the knots within her soul. Both the charitable saint and wanton lover, neither title able to conform to the demands of the elite. And she knows she can choose to be the wife she was meant to be, the perfect little princess Vicomtesse who wears fancy dresses and keeps her opinions to herself.
She chooses the other.
Perhaps it's Erik her body longs for because he is an outcast to society. Shunned from birth, belonging everywhere and nowhere all at once. She traces the scars on his body, each a map to every land he has ever set foot on, and inhales his intoxicating scent of spice and wine. All too foreign and divergent, and somehow only ever wanting her.
So unlike her docile husband, too tame, too virtuous. She feels suffocated by his light.
All his life, he had only ever wanted to be loved.
As a child, he'd wanted to be held. A kiss on the forehead for sleepless nights, a smile and a caress for a mornng greeting. He has been devoid of touch and sensation, only ever surviving on his own.
In one night, he receives touches, strokes, embraces—all without the incentive of love.
Social connections do not come easily to him. Every action he takes is carefully calculated and previously pondered to ensure no mistakes are made. He was a distrusting child, now a cold-hearted man; love is a foreign distant desire, locked up in the deepest cavern of his indifferent mind.
Still, his body is his own and no one elses. He cannot—will not—become a slave to lust and desire and let his limbs tangle with another's.
Christine Daaé steps into his life and he is suddenly helpless.
It is astounding—laudable, really—that she is able to undo him so thoroughly. An orphan girl with an ethereal voice, hardly special yet so very exceptional. She is the living contradiction of his existence, the angel songbird to his demon seduction.
A disastrous opera and a destroyed theatre later, and he is still waiting for her to walk into the room to meet him.
Weeks have passed, and the Vicomte is still unaware of what his wife does in the darkness. It gives him a primal visceral thrill to know that even now, it is his body that she grows wet for, his touch that makes her fall apart. She is an instrument and he the virtuoso student, ever eager to learn her secrets, draw out the sweetest chords of tantalising pleasure. Once again, it's him whopossess her body even when she is bound to another.
Except that he doesn't.
She wants him for the prospect of release that dangles from his expert fingertips, his studious tongue that has mastered the secrets of her body. She wants him to fill the space her husband has neglected—both literally and metaphorically. The Vicomte gives her gentleness where she wants passion, and Erik secretly desires for both. But he is a silent performer sensing the role she wants him to play, and pushes away any semblance of love for a quick fuck in the shadows of the Chagny guestroom on the rare occasion that her husband is home.
Always on her grounds, her territory. He does not belong there, but then again, neither does she.
The Vicomte is away again and so he waits on the balcony of her bedroom, tall catlike grace stretched into a regal posture. The night is still young; twilight still hints on the horizon, but he does not have to wait long. Christine's voice sounds from the hallway, announcing her desire to retire early. The maids are not to disturb her under any circumstances, for she is tired and would like some uninterrupted rest.
A faint, humourless smirk graces his lips. His diva, ever the little liar.
The door opens and closes, and there she stands. Her dress is a deep burgundy tonight; she must have come from an outing with her elite friends. Curls coiffed up atop her head, making her look like the royalty she was never born to be.
"You look ridiculous," he remarks as he steps into the room, the lie slipping easily through his teeth. She looks positively stunning.
Christine cocks an eyebrow at him. "Do I really?" she asks slyly, her words a taunt. Of course she sees right through him.
He hates his blatant adoration, this selfless devotion. Of all women he could ever love, he chooses the one who uses him.
Still, he masks his hurt and nods curtly. He's a proud, masochistic recluse and it is impractical, but he cannot change.
He has done too much for her, received nothing in return, and still gives into her.
Christine turns and he routinely approaches her, long fingers deftly undoing the ties of her dress. "Philippe wants me to learn to garden," she says conversationally, a slender hand reaching to pull the pins away from her hair. He swats away the curls that tumble down her back, refusing the temptation of caressing them with a studious touch. Stay practical. "He says a woman should know lilies from daffodils."
A scoff leaves his mouth at the absurdity of such a simple statement. "That is ridiculous."
The dress falls away, leaving her shoulders bare, and he moves to work on her corset. The smooth skin is so tempting to touch but he fixes his eyes on the strings of the restrictive garment, a flash of irritation blooming through him at the ridiculously thorough knots. "He says it would make my husband happy to have flowers in his garden," she continues, a gust of air leaving her throat as the corset begins to loosen. "And that it is a woman's duty to please her husband."
A sharp, decisive tug, and the corset finally falls away. The sudden desire to reverently run his lips over her neck is firmly pushed away. Gentleness is not welcome in her bedroom; he understands this.
So instead, he tugs her chemise over her head and steps forwards, circling his arms arouns her torso. A wicked hand moves up to grab at her bare breast, and a cardinal thrill shoots through his spine when her head falls back against his shoulder. "The aristocrats have too many rules," he murmurs, sneaking the other hand down her pantaloons. A gasp leaves her lips and he grins, wild and feral.
All too soon, she pulls his hand away and turns to face him. "They do, but I do think there's some truth to them."
The look in her eyes is a dark, burning flame, and her hands reach out to undo his trousers. This time, it is he who can't help the hitch of his breath. "—What?" he asks stupidly, the word cutting into a deep groan as he feels her hand close around his hot flesh.
"A man should be pleased by his woman."
Then he feels her walk him backwards until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, forcing him to sit. His heart begins to thud wildly at her claim, hope a little thing forcing itself up his throat.
His woman, she's said.
Is that how she truly feels about them?
Christine slithers down his body and his thoughts are cut off; another groan leaves his mouth. "Is that—what you're doing with me?"
A lilting, mocking laugh leaves her lips. She uncovers his throbbing shaft and kneels in front of him, naked and glorious before his eyes. "Oh, Erik, I don't want to please you."
"Then what are you doing?" he gasps as she licks along his length, slow and deliberate.
Christine doesn't answer, but she's taken him into her mouth and Erik cannot think to question her anymore.
She's cruelly sadistic, teasing and taunting the promise of release over and over again. His mind dissolves into itself, dizzy with the feel of tongue and breath, of her sweet, brutal mouth closing over his flesh.
Every lick, every swirl of tongue drives him to the point of insanity. It's maddening to think that she knows exactly how to push him, how to make him beg for her in ways he never would consider before. He feels her fingers reach underneath him, cupping the soft, hot flesh beneath his length, and shudders. She sucks on him and he grasps at her hair, tangling fingers tightly against her scalp, past the point of caring if it hurts her.
And when he thinks she's finally going to give it to him, to let him find the release only she can provide, she lets his flesh slip from her mouth. A frustrated growl escapes his lips but she has climbed on top of him, rubbing her wetness against him, and again he's become her slave.
Christine pushes him and he falls against the bed, driving fingers roughly into her hips when she finally takes him into her body. She fucks him in herself and he gladly allows it, high on the feel of her grasping core tight around him, hot and wet and delicious. It's hard and fast and rough, just as she likes it—just as he prefers it.
Although, it is difficult to judge what he prefers when all he's ever had his hard and rough.
The little sliver of hope at her words is a dangerous, threatening thing. One wrong move and he could lose her like he did once before, never allowed another touch. She's wild and heady and thrumming on power—both over him and over herself—and she will not let him take it from her.
She is and isn't the Christine Daaé he had fallen in love with. He adored her softness, desired her innocent naivety. She had been gentle and kind and loving, the very opposite of everything he was. Still is.
Except now, she's changed.
Her sexuality gives her control, and it's clear that she recognises it. It's frustrating to know that in this aspect of their relationship, she is the maestro and he the attentive student. Her body is his weakness, and she exploits it until he becomes her willing slave.
Christine Daaé is no more, except when she is.
He sees it in her daily escapades, in the way she donates her clothing to the maids and their daughters. She complains about the snobbish society of the elite while he undresses her, her concerns not about how they behave towards her, but about how they behave towards their servants. He knows she is uncomfortable living in wealth when he sees her dropping coins into the hand of a starving little boy that loiters in the streets.
There is still kindness, still softness in his Christine. Underneath her façade of dominating dominatrix, she is still the same girl—now evolved into a woman. More mature, more level-headed, slowly realising reality from fantasy.
And—damn him, for he is still irreversibly, ardently in love with her.
It lights a flicker of hope within his chest, tiny and traitorous. Usually, he pushes it away, but tonight, after her declaration, knowing her desire for his body—and seeing her now moving above him, fingers fisting at his chest, lips parted and eyes closed…
She doesn't belong in this society of aristocrats and ballgowns.
She belongs with him.
His orgasm is a tangible thing, thrumming quick and rising in his groin. Feeling recklessly bold, Erik slithers his fingers across her hand, linking small fingers with his own across his chest. He watches through heavy eyes as she blinks, staring down at him. Cobalt irises are hazy and thrumming with desire, too far gone to dwell over her confusion.
Good.
In one swift move he has lifted himself up so his torso is pressed flush against hers. It's dizzying to feel her so close, her nipples brushing his chest, hard and electric. He's close, he's so close, and the gasp that leaves her throat as he slips deeper into her from the new position almost makes him come right then and there.
Instead, he lowers his mouth to her neck, one hand tangled in her curls, and tastes her skin. His knowing tongue flicks and works at her, emboldened by the tight grip of her fingers against his back, the loose cry of his name leaving her mouth. Experience has taught him that she's almost there, a short gap away from spiralling into the sinful void of heaven their bodies create.
"Christine," he groans, egged on by her breathy cries. Wrenching his mouth from her neck, he presses their foreheads together, tasting her breath in his mouth.
A sharp twist of his hips—up and in—and she's gone, crying out and sobbing his name, her lips an inch away from his. Everything is hot and tight and she's squeezing him so deliciously that he follows right after. His release leaves him in hot, desperate spurts, filling her core with himself, and he comes so hard that he feels stars in the backs of his eyes.
A ringing silence is all he hears, sharp and distant. Slowly, awareness fills his mind—her nails lightly scratching his back, chest heaving against his, their breaths mingling in the minute space between their lips. And it is one rash, impulsive move that drives him to close the gap between them, to catch her lips with his.
It is soft and slow, languid with the haziness of a rapturous release. A drag of mouth against mouth, a linger of breath trapped between. He inhales, swallowing her sigh into his throat, and feels her fingers drag up to tangle in his hair.
And he thinks that this cannot be victory; it is far too sweet.
