A/N: I'm baack! So sorry for the long delay between updates—life has been hectic and I've been so swept up in everything. For those of you following ATS: I hope to update within the week, though this isn't set in stone. I've also set up an RP blog for Erik on tumblr, though, so if you'd like to please do come write with me!

Your reviews and thoughts are delightful to read, thank you. Please let me know what you think!


This is wrong, this is all wrong.

Light steps across the hard panel of wooden floor, little thuds imprinted into the ground. The moonlight shimmers through her balcony doors, still treacherously flung wide open as she paces the empty room. Inviting, expecting a masked man clothed in dark robes and cloak, so terrifyingly striking. Her husband is not here, but for once she wishes he was.

Erik kissed her.

He had run his misshapen mouth against her lips, sinful and dangerously addictive, and kissed her. Pressed their bodies together while she rode him and held her while she was in the haze of an impending climax, her mind a flutter of intoxicated need. She hadn't even noticed his deranged face pressing against hers—or was he wearing his mask? She didn't remember. It never does seem to matter, when it comes to them.

Her day dress is draped over the chair by her dresser, her dressing gown tied sharply around her waist. There is no need for him to help her undress tonight.

Alarmed thoughts whirl and dizzy her mind as she paces, pink lip caught between teeth. Surely he knows that he's broken the rules—they are not to kiss, they are not to make love. Every moment between them is for use and gain, for mutual pleasure unobtainable from anyone other than each other. She does not want gentle from him—he knows that!

Doesn't he?

A frustrated exhale rips from her throat, loud and agitated. Her strides are angry and purposeful as she marches up and down the room. The vile, conniving man—was he trying to trick her? To seduce her with his lips and tongue the way she had seduced him with her body, leave her craving, begging for more? Didn't he know that of course she wouldn't have rejected his kiss, not when she was so lost within herself to realise what he had been doing?

The memory of his kiss is burned into her mind, fierce and poignant. She cannot forget it, cannot seem to understand why.

A flutter of a cape behind her and Christine freezes mid-stride. Her treacherous heart lurches in her chest and begs—begs her to turn around and look at him.

Instead, she forces control and stays still in her spot. His presence is an overpowering, suffocating toxic she greedily breaths into her lungs, takes into her veins. It is with great effort that she forces her body not to react to his heady, tantalising demeanour.

"You've changed," he says, voice a smooth dulcet tone of demon seduction that rips through the air, sharp and precise. It wraps itself around her, coveting her very soul with his velvet timbre.

She suppresses a shudder, feels the betrayal of her toes curling in sinful delight. "Yes," she answers, and it is with a triumphant thrill to hear that her words are clear and strong. "I'm tired. I think I'll retire early tonight."

A chuckle sounds from his mouth and her eyes slip shut against her will, a shaky exhale leaving her lips. He is so intoxicating, so present. And damn him, because she feels him moving into the room, his bearing imposing and unmistakable. Slender fingers clench into fists by her side, tense and tight.

"That is… unexpected." His breath fans her neck, hot and moist, and she thinks about his mouth; misshapen and wet, so deliciously capable and skilled—and his tongue, slick and firm at the same time, mapping her body in ways that draw wanton moans from her throat…

No! She wrenches herself away from those thoughts, her breaths heavy and miscalculated. "Go home, Erik," she speaks, head tilted halfway to face him, eyes trained downward. Looking at him is not an option, not when her chest feels hollow, her mind numb. "You are not needed here tonight."

The air becomes still and thick and Christine swallows against her will. Oh, he is angry; she can feel the thrumming, trembling hurt, the shattering offence. Somehow, it doesn't feel victorious to make him suffer.

"Is that what I am to you, Christine?" he says softly, and the shudder that ripples through her frame is unconfined, now. "A tool, only to be used when needed? Your plaything—your toy?"

"I am married, Erik." Her words are meant to be firm but come out as a gasp.

"You don't seem to be overly concerned by that."

Indignation floods her bones. Her mouth opens to contradict him, but damn the cunning man because he's right.

She's married, and it doesn't stop her from wanting him. From thinking about lips and tongue and hands that do not belong to her husband, pale and long and so, so different. Erik's name on her lips, Erik's body between her legs, Erik's mouth against hers.

But anger clouds her sentiments and she whirls around to face him, glaring spitefully. "What I choose to do in my marriage is not your business."

"My involvement in your marriage makes it my business," he retorts, golden eyes flashing dangerously.

A frustrated sound leaves her lips. "You—you've done this! Nothing was complicated before last night—"

"You begged me to fuck you every night, Christine," he snaps. "A kiss hardly complicates matters."

"—it complicates everything!" she hisses. "Boundaries were supposed to be set. Married women take lovers all the time without any consequences, without any sentiments involved."

"I have no recollection of ever having a conversation regarding the nature of our relationship," he snarls.

"Relationship?" She laughs, and it feels gloriously wrong and spiteful but she's past the point of caring. Hurt is a useless thing tossed out of the shattered remnants of her sanity. No, he will not control her by making her want him any more than she already does—she will not allow it.

So she hisses and jeers, mocks without feeling. The words ripped out of her mouth are almost foreign, as if she's watching another woman shout at another man, another Christine breaking another Erik. "We do not have a relationship!We sleep together when my husband is away—that is all. I do not speak to you outside this arrangement; we do not have any notion of a relationship when we are not unclothed. We simply do not fit."

Erik is rigid, his glare cold as he faces her. "And now that I've crossed a border that has never been discussed, you wish to dispose of me," he says bitterly.

"I cannot afford the expense of you developing affections for me, Erik!" she cries. "You weren't supposed to fall in love with me!"

A short, barking laugh escapes his lips. "My dear, I did not fall in love with you because we started to sleep together. Unfortunately, I have been in love with you long before we began these little dalliances."

She stares at him, eyes wide and chest heaving, finding herself unable to speak. For the first time since he's come into the room, she lets herself drink in his appearance; sees his black fedora tipped low over his face, dark velvet cape swirling dangerously down his back. The white mask sits atop his skin, covering the deformity she knows he will always hide from her. Her dark angel, cunning and fierce and impossibly alluring.

She swallows and turns away. "This cannot continue, Erik," she says, her voice thick. A familiar pressure seems to crush her chest, entirely unwelcome and puzzling. "I was wrong to allow this in the first place."

A growl rips from his throat, tangling with her quiet breaths in the air. "Of course you run back to your Vicomte at the slightest hint of affection from me," he hisses, and she suppresses the urge to flinch. "When I was an angel, you were all too willing to confide in me, weren't you? Innocent little Christine Daaé, naïve and hopelessly clinging onto a fantasy of her father's making."

Shock creeps through her bones that he would dare bring up such a thing, and she turns to him hotly. "Do not bring my father into this!"

"You were so eager to believe, weren't you?" he sneers, unforgiving. Long legs step forwards, imposing and maddeningly powerful. "My gullible, trusting angel, dreaming of princes and pretty fancies. Tell me, Vicomtesse, is your fairytale what you thought it would be? Do you love your prince as much as you love the shadows?"

"Don't you dare question my love for my husband!" she screeches, voice ripped from her throat in a mad rage. "I do love him, far more than I will ever love you—"

"Then why do you not make love to him?" he roars. "Why do you not need him like you need me—"

"I do not need you—"

"Lies," he snaps. "Say what you will, Christine, but it is me you spread your legs for—"

"Shut up!" she screams, flying forwards to throw her fists against his chest. He catches her hands easily and forces his lips against hers, tongue thick and invading in her mouth. His thin, conquering lips are cold against hers, demanding her response, her submission. She squeals angrily, tangling fingers in his hair to wrench him away even as he walks her backwards. It is rough and unforgiving and entirely, deliciously satisfying, and she feels the backs of her thighs hitting the dresser. Her blood thrums with a traitorous excitement, his hot breaths swallowed into her throat. Backed into a corner by her demonic angel once more, trapped and desperate.

A quick tug and her dressing gown is loose, baring her skin to him, pale moonlight blocked by his body against hers. He's sat her down on the dresser, their mouths moving insistently in a seize for power within pleasure. Rough hands sweep over her bare body and he breaks the kiss, their mouths still lightly touching.

"Why are you not wearing your nightdress, Christine?" he rasps into her mouth, cool fingers skimming between her legs. She gasps and clutches at his back, almost shudders at the feel of his touch against her slick, hot flesh. He chuckles deep and low to find her wet. "See, my dear? Your body knows what it needs, no matter how you try to deny it."

"Enough," she gasps, hands boldly flying to his breeches. "Enough talking."

And then the glorious feel of him pushing into her, thin lips dragging against her neck. His scent clouds her senses, leaving her intoxicated on musk and wine, his knowing teeth scraping against her skin. The rich velvet that adorns his back serves to heighten her arousal, knowing that he has her pinned to her dresser whilst fully clothed, the image of a gentleman in a cloak and hat fucking a married woman in her dressing gown so strangely thrilling. His thrusts are quick and hard and dizzyingly delightful, and her mind whirls with the sharp twist of his hips.

Rough, hard, fast. Taking from each other, using and twisting until they are both left gasping for breath.

This is what they are to each other, what they always have been. Not happy, not forgiving, but dark and distorted. Lies and manipulation wrapped into the bodies of a man and woman.

But the sudden need to kiss him overtakes her and she drags his head back, crashes her mouth to his. It doesn't matter anymore because he's started it by kissing her last night—the sin has been committed and she is already destined for hell. He kisses like she knows he would: desperate and deep, invading her breath as his body invades hers. Mouth hot and insistent against hers, drawing moans breathed into the secret depths of his throat. Pleasure curls its hot iron within her and she cries out—she's so close

"What do you want?" he demands in a hoarse groan, hips thrusting desperately against hers. His tongue tastes her neck, slick and firm against her skin and she almost sobs, clutching him close.

"You." It is the first word on her lips, gasped out, crazed with want and need and him. "You, you, you—"

"Only me," he groans, pushing into her just right, and she frantically nods, moans pressed into his clothed shoulder.

"Only you," she sobs, scratching nails digging into the material of his cape. "Oh god, Erik—"

"Christine," he gasps, and she's lost.

Bright stars burst behind her eyelids and she's falling, her voice a breathless scream in the throes of her orgasm. He comes in her with a shout of his own and it's perversely satisfying to feel him fill her so completely, white creamy fluid so thick and warm within her. For a moment, all she feels is him—his mouth pressed against hers, his fingers clutching at her waist, his release inside her, hot and invasive. Her breaths are uneven and her mind is still dizzy, thrumming in the aftershocks of pleasure.

He's always cold. Cold fingers, cold skin, cold arms. But here and now, pressed against her and dazed from their shattering climax, he is warm.

Sense slowly returns to her once more, her racing heart gradually restored to its leisured pace. She feels his sweaty, clothed chest pressed against her bare torso and inhales his heady scent.

And, somehow, it is clear what she must do.

"I want you," she repeats softly with her heart caught within the balance, and Erik slumps against her, spent and satisfied.

"Christine," he sighs, pressing his forehead to hers. The breath that escapes his lips is relieved, content, sure.

She swallows, and finishes, "…on your knees."

Instantly, he freezes, hard muscles tensing underneath her fingertips. She can practically feel the shock coursing through his veins, a deep, profound blow. She holds her breath as he exhales, pulling back to glare at her.

The guilt she feels is harrowing.

"You used me," he says sharply, voice cutting through the air like a whip. "You use my body and reject everything else."

She stares at him without blinking. "You manipulated me."

"Please," he scoffs, "you wanted to be manipulated. It was a fantasy and you've always wanted to play the princess. Really, what kind of idiot believes in an angel of music?"

Her hand collides with his cheek, sharp and powerful. His head snaps to the side—it's a wonder that the mask doesn't fall off—and she watches him, hurt and sharp, hot anger twisting in her heart.

He is still for a moment, breathing heavily at being struck. "Christine," he says quietly, slowly turning back to look at her, "that was untoward of me."

"It was," she snarls, furious.

"I… I'm sorry, Christine."

"Get out of my house."

He looks at her for a long moment, expression stoic and unreadable. Then he pulls away—and it's a traitorously tearing feeling as he slips out of her—and tucks himself back into his breeches. She stares at him, legs still spread across the dresser, robe parted to reveal her body to his gaze, his seed leaking down her thigh.

He turns and strides to the balcony door, and somehow she knows he isn't coming back.