A Chivalrous Man by catcorsair
For the brilliant and kind helloitskrisha, who wanted a voyeuristic blowjob, but probably didn't mean this.
Thank you for reading! Please review!
His valet found [Raoul] in the morning sitting on his bed. He had not undressed and the servant feared, at the sight of his face, that some disaster had occurred. ––from The Mysterious Brougham, The Phantom of the Opera, by Gaston Leroux
Though he had fallen to his knees as the carriage passed, now he rose, and for a lack of something more suitable to do in his anguish, the Vicomte de Chagny took off, stumbling, after it. Surely appearing to any of the sparse late-night passersby a haggard creature of more than twice his twenty years, he ambled the quiet midnight avenues of central Paris in its wake like a man possessed.
He had followed the slow, steady clip clop clip clop for some time before he noticed the sound––as relentless as the beating of his own heart, thundering its rhythm in his chest, projecting him forward even with his eyes glued to his scuffed shoes––had ceased; now he raised his waterlogged gaze to the familiar, bright facade of the Opera Garnier. He was standing on the Rue Scribe side.
There had been no performance at the grand venue again tonight, coinciding, unignorably, with his dear Christine's ominous absence, and as such the usually-overwhelming streets about the massive structure were eerily silent. Still the quiet sedulousness of the sleeping city echoed about him like the hum of an inescapable orchestra, readying itself in the pit; like cruel, hissing laughter at the Vicomte's helpless plight, as if all of Paris were mocking him for giving his heart to a whore.
Christine Daae. A whore.
Staring up at the formidable spectre of the slumbering building, Raoul, the young Vicomte de Chagny, began again to cry; heaving, exhausted sobs that shook his trim form, as his tears stung at his hairless cheeks and blinded his vision, filling his mouth with their salt.
When the fit had subsided, he gazed upon the towering marble facade before him with raw and stinging eyes, and wished, for the first time in his young life, that he were dead.
How could he live, without her ?
Soon, sounds coming from the last drainage tunnel on the side of the staggering complex captured his ear, the low, intimate sussuring of lovers in the unmistakable crux of passion, whimpers and sighs and silken-sounding caresses; only another mockery to Raoul's broken heart. He closed his eyes, determined to shut the relentless whispers away, and ignore the visions which crept behind his eyelids––himself, pressing his dishonored Christine's small, seductive body against the smooth, secret stones, just as some man must do to some woman now, as her hands swept his spine in a lover's embrace, and his fingers crawled beneath her skirts––
And then he heard her.
"Please, oh–– Erik! "
As if a dagger struck him in the gut, Raoul groped for his own abdomen, buckling over in shock. His hand struck out at the giant marble blocks of the Garnier's facade, and he stumbled, coughing, onto his already-ragged knees.
Again, the sound tormented him, like another strike: "wait, please––did you hear that?"
He would know that Angel's voice anywhere.
"No, no, Christine––" Raoul muttered, and clapped his palm atop his lips. In a frantic motion unbefitting of a man of his stature, he scrambled for the exterior wall just aside the shadowed tunnel, pressing his back against the cool stone, palms flat and sweat-slick on the smooth marble.
And he listened. A rustling of fabric, a scrambling of delicate feet. A gentle splash of water, and a sweet, pretty moan, no more than a whimper––
Then, hurried, breathless: "Erik, no––no! Wait! I think someone is out there–– oh–– "
There could be no doubt that it was Christine he heard in that tunnel. His own Christine; her sweet, tempting sounds of certain sin, her low, whispered words––
But who was this Erik?
Her Maestro, her good genius, apparently. What kind of holy Angel took a good girl out for drives on the Bois at this hour? Only to hide her within drainage tunnels, speaking softly enough to her that respectable folks could not hear?
"Oh, oh my God ––you beast, " came her stifled cry, and then a wet splashing, as if Christine had fallen into the trickling water that flowed past his dress shoes to disappear beyond the shadowed grate; she sputtered something that Raoul could not identify, followed by a soft, hollow thud; now shoes were scrambling on wet stone, and heavy fabric swept the pavers. Christine gave another grunt, another, almost like a squeal, and then, as the Vicomte's heartbeat began to thunder in the hollow cavern of his chest, reaching such a throbbing threshold he thought she and her lover must hear its drumbeat in the corridor beyond, all went still, and the man inside the tunnel laughed.
And now Raoul heard him, that Erik, that rake, as he spoke in the same, softly hypnotic voice he had heard the night Christine first disappeared, pressing his ear to her dressing room door, if having taken on the barest, breathless rasp, "sweet Christine," the villain whispered, "Why resist? Would you dare do otherwise?"
"Here?" stammered Christine, "Erik, you cannot expect that I might––would you risk my reputation, would you seek to ruin me, so easily?"
"Do you think you have any honor left, my girl?" said the stranger bitterly, and Raoul could make out a decidedly feminine whimper, then an alarming crack, like the sound of a rod striking stone. He winced. "I valued your virtue when I believed you had it," continued Erik, "but seeing the evidence of how you have shared yourself has given me reason to withdraw my own restraint!" Another groan, followed by a grunt, another––masculine and urgent––and then: "damn you, child, you shall obey me!"
"Oh, God forgive me this," whispered Christine, and the words stopped Raoul's breath in his hammering chest, for reasons he could not identify, "I will. I will do it. But please, Erik. Not like this––bring me back down––have it of me there––"
A swish of heavy fabric, another splash, another grunt, and then, as if the man who spoke the words were only growling: "have you not sworn to do as your Angel bids you, child, and only him?"
"Yes, Erik––but––"
"Then open your damned mouth!"
And then she gave a strangled cry, as her companion again laughed darkly, the sound echoing in the stone tunnel like a knife to Raoul's beating heart. Soon a wet sputtering, a suggestive whine, sounded from behind the grate, as he crushed his cheek to the cool stone, straining to hear; and in a low, melodic voice that twisted his stomach to knots, forcing the bile to rise in his throat, the stranger murmured, "yes, that's it, my love––good girl––"
In the pit of him, his organs felt as though they were churning and twisting to hot pulp; his mind reeled, spinning in a too-bright and clouded cacophony, as if he had drunk several glasses of champagne over his limit at on of his brother's more scandalous affairs. He clapped a palm atop his trembling lips to stop the mindless groan that threatened to burst forth from his dry tongue, as new, hot, angry tears streamed down his cheeks, collecting in the fine hairs of his moustache and stinging the tender flesh of his lips.
Damn her for a harlot, a tease! How many men did his perfect, prurient Angel sell herself to, for the honor of that stained stage, as she refused even a single kiss, a measly, innocent dinner, from him!
'The Angel is very strict,' indeed!
Now he heard her coughing, wetly, beyond the black grate; as the dark stranger gave a low groan, then a weak, breathy, "fuck , yes, girl––"
Oh, surely Christine had been fucking her great Maestro all along! The invisible enemy took shape behind Raoul's closed eyelids; a villain, fat of body and crude of manner, he had no doubt about it. An ugly creature, wet-lipped and red-nosed, thrusting his tiny cock inside her every night, with Raoul's own bouquets wilting on her dressing-table!
And he, the snubbed Vicomte, the victim: the pitiable imbecile who once believed in her!
But as much as he hated her, reviled her in that moment, he had to know the truth of it; he had to see. No more dressing room doors, no magic mirrors. Imagining the worst was easy. Perhaps it was not all that it seemed?
He could not believe it of her. Not Christine, not like this––
Raoul darted across the street without glancing at his path; he cursed and shook a gloved fist at a passing carriage after nearly crashing headlong into the flank of its proud-looking Percheron. The occupants of the cabin laughed thoughtlessly––how dare they show joy at a time such as this, when all the world is falling down in pieces!––as dirty water splattered the hems of the Vicomte's ruined trousers.
Splashing across what remained of the street, Raoul planted himself against a morris column in the safety of the pedestrian crossing, with its spinning pictures slowly rotating behind the clouded glass, and squinted into the shrouded drainage tunnel on the Rue Scribe side.
The vestibule was blocked with a sort of grate, almost as if it were a passageway of some sort. Behind it, shadowed in the grid of its bars were two darkened figures, just there, horrible and honest, pressed against the narrow stone walls of the corridor. Even in the dim haze of the flickering street-lamps, Raoul could easily make out their shapes: one, tall, thin, imposing in a dark cloak and top hat, clutching a cane in a tautly-gloved fist, leather fingers coiling with it into the bars, his face, immured in shadow; the other, small, fair, her cloak disheveled across her shoulders as she kneeled, prostrate before her companion as if in prayer, eyes sparkling with reflected water, skirts fanning about her like angel's wings amid the scum of the dirty passageway.
Christine.
And there could be no doubt of what he was seeing. With one palm at the back of her skull, fingers spread wide in her tangle of loosened curls, the tall stranger was guiding the woman Raoul had loved for half a lifetime against his rigid, spread-legged form, bucking his hips against her soft cheeks, as her hands dug into his thighs, and her lips wrapped about his cock in an unthinkable embrace.
Raoul felt the strength drain from his legs; he gripped the iron pedestal to keep himself from falling to the street like a stone, and muttered, "no, no, no no no––"
He had wanted the truth! Now, he had it! He should be glad to have escaped the clutches of that scurrilous prostitute, who gives herself to men in sewers, and on her knees, no less! Damn her, damn her! That conniving bitch, that duplicitous delilah! Blood rushed to his face, heating his ears and boiling his unblinking eyes; if Christine had stood there before him in that moment, he would have struck her filthy mouth, for ever having seduced him like the Salome she clearly was!
But he did nothing.
Because if he listened closely enough, in the silence of the abandoned street, he could just make out the quiet, wet whimpers from her songbird's lying throat, as her good genius pushed himself inside.
Raoul gave a yelp as the nail of his middle finger split and tore, leaving a trail of hot, red blood on the morris column. He had been digging his fingers into the cast iron as he gripped the pedestal, watching the only woman he ever loved, ever wanted––and God, how he wanted her!––betray him in exactly the manner he had most feared all along.
Damn her, he would have married her! He would have transformed that dirty swedish street urchin into a Vicomtesse! He offered her everything, everything––and still she chose a stranger's cock in a sewer over him?
Philippe had been right. Opera girls were only good for a fuck. Liars and concubines, the lot of them! They were owed nothing more than the scraps of their patrons, paid in transaction for their wasted cunts!
Christine had never deserved him!
The cold night air stank of coppery-blood as Raoul brought the finger between his lips, muttering acidly to himself and trying to ignore the steady grunting of the man Christine called her Angel, and the rhythmic slick slap slap slapping of his scrotum against her chin, quietly echoing is the stone streets like a battering ram to Raoul's brain.
Soon a lone couple passed on the sidewalk, oblivious to the scandal of the shadowed tunnel, laughing and canoodling in a manner which further turned the Vicomte's stomach and incited his ire; rolling his eyes emphatically, he called after them in a drippingly sardonic, whispering hiss, "good luck with that!"
The lovers shuffled past at an increased speed, crossing the empty street to vanish around the corner of the Garnier, probably thinking they had encountered another drunk aristocrat in the Paris streets; Raoul kicked at the sand staining the cobblestone at his feet, and wished he had never followed Christine.
He wished he had never seen.
And yet he could not walk away; unsure what to do with himself, he stared at his scuffed dress pumps, entirely numb, until her cry roused him, and his gaze darted up on an exhale of surprise.
"Erik, I am sorry!" he heard his once-beloved whine––oh, that abominable slut!––as she broke from her Angel's cock, leaving the rigid thing to bob in the shadowed space between them. In the sharded yellow glow of the street-light, Raoul could make out the reflective shine of her spit on the man's naked length, and with a pang of horror, recognized that this Erik had certainly bested him in one department, if not honor. Creamy moisture stained Christine's panting mouth and chin as she gazed up at her patron; she clapped a palm over her lips, shaking her head at him as he loomed overtop. Her spine curled and shuddered as she folded forward and said between her fingers, "please, Erik, how was I to know he would be––"
"Do you think I want to do this to you?" roared her companion, his unearthly voice echoing around the empty square and crawling beneath Raoul's skin, hinting of madness, danger, "you are bound to me, child, and you must face the repercussions of your girlish foolishness!" He had taken up his own cock in his fist; now, like a madman, he flailed the thing against her wincing face and spat, "damn you, you stupid, useless whore. I gave you everything––"
"It was only a coincidence!" cried Christine, still sputtering wetly, attempting to belie the mad onslaught of his sex, "please, Erik, Angel––I have not betrayed you! I have no control over what he––"
But the Angel gripped her by her hair and dragged her, too-roughly, again to the crux of him, such that Christine's shoulder struck the iron grate like a bell; Raoul heard his obscene groan as Christine choked on her words to swallow him again, clawing her streetlit fingertips into his trouser-fronts. She seemed to have surrendered to his handling of her; now the man dug his gloved fingers deeper into her curls, forcing himself against the shining, ruddy plumpness of her cheeks, again and again, pounding his cruel pleasure between her lips, as Raoul looked on in impotent horror.
Is this what Christine, the sweet girl of his youth, who had teased him with dry kisses in the hot attic of her father's seaside home, wanted from her men? Violence, humiliation, from a spectre she claimed to admire, in the filthy backalleys of the grand place she adored?
And this, this––whatever this was––is this why she refused him, a damned Vicomte!, when he had only ever treated her as a respectable woman, and not the easy score his brother claimed she surely was? How could she prefer this brutality, to his flowers, kind words, and innocent, amicable touch?
He should have known the truth of it, when she told him, breathlessly and rosy-cheeked, that she was bound to her Maestro. That she could not love her childhood friend, not anymore, because she belonged to another––
But Raoul could never have used her as this Erik was now. Raoul could never force Christine Daae, that perfect, impoverished Angel of the French countryside, to her knees before him, to take him like he had paid her in coins. He could never strike her, raise his voice to her in anger, he could never treat her like her Angel did.
And yet. He hated the feelings the spectacle ignited in him. Mindlessly, Raoul trailed a palm down the front of his trousers, over the bulge of his sex; he could not look away. He stared at the steady bobbing of Christine's yellow curls against the stranger's groin as if he were a man hypnotized; what if it were him, who felt the warmth of her lips on him now?
It was mesmerizing, the way the foul thing slid between her lips, barely illuminated in the flickering streetlight. She opened her mouth wide, almost as if she were singing an aria, taking it inside again and again, swallowing the stranger's cock almost as if she hungered for it––God, she was beautiful. Once or twice it slid from between her lips and she recoiled, gagging and sputtering onto the cobblestones like the street-trash that she had proven herself to be. Still, the villain's cock beat against her wincing face, as his shadowed testicles ruddied her cheeks; Raoul nodded, absently, vigorously, as the stranger grunted out, thrusting against her, "if you behave as a whore, girl, you shall be treated as one," adding, as Christine gave a suffocated groan that nauseated Raoul for its wetness, "you will not ignore my commands again!"
He could see her mouthing soundless words, shuddering her golden curls as she shook her head. She brought both hands before her, clasping the fingers against the front of the man towering over her like a shadow in a supplicative gesture; bowing her head, as strings of liquid hung from her trembling pink chin, sparkling in the amber glow of the gas lights.
"Erik, if you love me!" she wailed, digging her fingertips into his trouser-fronts, kissing the hand that had released her curls to slide heavily over her cheek and trace her drooling mouth, as his cock rubbed at her ruddy chin, "Erik, I beg of you, it is done!"
"It's this or your cunt, Christine, and I shall not be gentle about it," he growled, looming overtop. "Would you prefer I ravished you?"
"You wouldn't!" she hissed, glaring up at him with a fire in her blue eyes that Raoul could feel the heat of even from his hiding-place, "would you behave as the monster you appear to be, under there?"
For an instant, there was perfect silence. As if the city had sucked in a shuddering breath and held it, Raoul felt the oppressive pressure all around; it stopped his breath and stilled his heart, and then:
"Insufferable child!" roared the Angel, as he loosed his flailing cock to strike Christine across the cheek; she recoiled, coughing and sputtering, as his palm again struck her open, gasping mouth, and Christine stumbled, sobbing, her wet knees scrambling on the ground.
When Erik took up his cock again to violently stuff himself again inside, driving himself within her crying mouth by both gloved hands gripping her cheeks, Raoul cried out at the shock of the vision, and dove behind the iron pedestal.
What had he seen? His fingers slid, absently, over his rigid length, his dampened trousers, even as his mind reeled with new terror; what was he looking at? What was he watching, truly, happening to Christine?
Why did he like it?
"No, please––" he heard her wail, even with his back to her hiding place, "no more, please–– help! " Her cry was silenced in a squeal and a grunt; Raoul thought the Angel must have again taken hold of her hair and pulled.
"Call for help again and I will leave you forever, Christine," he hissed, his voice rancorous and low, as if it sounded directly in Raoul's ear, "is that what you want?"
She whimpered, "no, Angel––"
And then Raoul heard her gag and choke, and the sick, scraping sound of a body sloughing against stone, as that man who was anything but an Angel roared, "then stop struggling, whore!"; and then he was groaning, long and rasping and repulsive, as Christine's timid whimpers dissolved again to wet, slick silence.
Raoul was frozen to the paving stones, shaking against the Morris column. Poor, wretched Christine; he should pity her! Oh, God, he should go to her! His darling Christine, forced into such lewdness by a scurrilous companion––
Was it rape, what the Angel did to her?
No. He could not think it of her; he would not see her so soiled. Clearly, she had welcomed this––that––whatever that was, when she rode with a stranger of questionable intent in the Bois. At midnight, as if her companion had picked her up from one of its tree-lined, secretive streets. She must have sold herself the instant she stepped into that carriage, the first time she took her Angel's hand, unless she had given herself––some part of herself––long before.
He lamented the loss of her; Christine had been such a good, good girl.
Now, as Raoul watched, breathless, heartbeat so rare he had lost the count of it in his chest, the stranger took up his cane in both hands, and was now using it to impel Christine forward and against him by the base of her throat, as if she were nothing more than livestock in a sadistic halter, even as her fingers scrambled and beat against his thighs; as he did so he threw his head back, groaning––the sound unseemly, obscene from that off-puttingly glorious instrument of his throat––and a beam of light was finally cast upon his cheek. Black, smooth, too-shiny––Raoul squinted at the strange, inhuman face, struggling to make sense of what he saw.
Christine's Angel wore a mask.
The numbing horror the realization ignited in him was worse than anything he had so far seen; worse than Christine's scandalous midnight outing, much worse than her taking a brutish man on her knees in a shadowed sewage vestibule behind the opera house.
A man in a mask was a villain. A devil, a fiend––
Who was this masked Erik, and what was he doing to his darling Christine!
He would save her, rescue her! Free her from the influence of this demon!
No––
Because if he went to her now, she would know he had seen. She would know he had seen all of it, and done nothing. That he had let––this––happen to her, whatever it was.
A falling knife has no handle, after all. Sometimes it is better to simply pick up what remains of the thing, rather than incriminate yourself by diving in. And he was in no position to fight. Raoul would have his revenge and hers; on a playing field that he knew he could win, he would entangle the Angel, somehow, in time.
And sweet, naive, trusting Christine could benefit from a lesson such as this. She should have heeded him when he warned her that this Angel was a dangerous character, that his intentions were not so good as he had made them out to be. Raoul wondered, watching the woman's skull strike the tunnel wall behind her with a thud and a wet groan, impelled backwards by the relentless grunting thrusts of her so-called good genius, as she sputtered and whimpered into his assault, pale fingers flailing at his open cloak and the bars of her filthy cage––did she think to herself now, with her yellow curls tangled about her shoulders and hot tears streaming down her pretty, pink cheeks, I should have listened to Raoul.
Part of him thought she deserved it, for behaving as foolishly as she had.
Part of him was glad.
Now he groaned, gently, surprising himself with the salacious utterance, and was swiftly drawn back from his acrid reverie; and there, in the grip of his sweating, trembling fist, he realized he held his cock, pulsating and naked within the folds of his half-opened trousers. Creamy liquid stained the tips of his fingers as he pumped the thing steadily in his mindless fist.
And he didn't stop, even when Christine cried out, raggedly, "he will not let you get away with this! He will have your head, Erik, for treating me thusly!"
"You will tell your good Vicomte what you have done?" he hissed, and there was a certain self-satisfaction evident in that callous, beautiful voice, even as he added, " fuck ––for you are so very skilled at it––"
Christine gave no reply; Raoul noted, increasing the severity of his frantic self-flagellation, that her grip had slackened against her tormentor's thighs. Now her pale hands stroked him, slowly, steadily, easing the fingers between his thighs and into the cleft of his rear.
"No… for all your whimpering, I think you like this, don't you, little slut," came the Angel's hated voice from the shadows, as Raoul nodded absently, panting softly in time with each steady thrust into his beloved's throat, with each merciless pull from his own trembling fingers. "Tell your Erik how much you like it, Christine."
Erik must have freed her enough to speak; now Christine coughed out, "yes, Angel," before he forced his red length again inside.
Bracing himself against the morris column with one sweating fist, watching the thick, ruddy flesh glide between those beautiful lips, Raoul echoed, breathless, rasping: "filthy, fucking opera whore, you know you like it––"
"Tell me it's only me you want, Christine," growled the villain, his words measured, ragged, hinting of violence. "Tell me how wet your cunt gets for your Angel. Tell me it was never him––"
"I want this," she breathed, "I want you, only you––"
"Take it––" said the Angel.
"Take it––" said Raoul.
Christine had gone limp against the wall of the vestibule, legs splayed; her fingers coiled in the cast iron grate and clawed at the back of her Angel's thigh, as fat, shimmering tears glistened on her red cheeks in the pale lamp-light. The unholy villian had let his cane fall against the paving stones with a clatter; now Christine winced with his every pump as Erik leaned both palms against the stone wall above her tangled head, easing himself within her, slower now, deeper, dragging himself from her mouth with every thrust, fucking her, fucking her, burying himself in her working throat such that drool sparkled against her lips and in slick, sticky trails to the deep-purple head of her assailant's dripping cock; and then, as Christine retched and sputtered, begging, sobbing between his choking invasions, "Erik, no more––Erik, please stop––" he kicked her, hard enough to force Raoul's groan, and when Christine buckled forward, opening her mouth wide in an anguished cry, he took up her quivering jaw in a gloved fist and eased himself back inside.
"Will you ever disobey me again, Christine?" he panted, wrapping his fingers about the root of his shaft and drawing it again from between her gasping lips. He struck the purple head against her chin, her tongue, crushed the clay of it against her skin. "Will you dare to make a fool of me?"
"Never," promised Christine, and spat. Her blue eyes captured the yellow lamplight as she gazed up at him looming overtop, pumping his length against her quivering bottom lip as she held her mouth open for him; tongue lapping at the shining fluid drooling from his swollen cock-tip, she added in a ragged breath, "never, Erik, never––"
And Raoul was pumping his own length, viciously, ferociously in one fist, staring at Christine's open, wanting mouth, even as the Angel did the same; groaning, Raoul buckled against the cast iron column at his side, his own mouth wide in ecstasy, in horror, lost to the look in his fallen beloved's eyes––why did she look at him like that? Erik struck his shaft once, twice, against Christine's eager mouth, and then, folding over against her such that he crushed her crumpled body to the wall, he groaned, long and low and obscene, as sticky fluid spluttered from between his white fingers, in spasm after spasm of sick ecstasy, staining the neckline of Christine's torn dress, her pale throat, her tear-stained cheeks and ruddy chin; and when it fell between her lips and onto her outstretched tongue, she moaned, and worked her open throat to swallow it all, baring her white teeth in a grisly smile as Raoul's own foul seed splattered over the twilit cobblestones at his feet like a maid pouring out a chamber pot.
Christine crumpled to the floor of the stone passageway, sobbing, her face obscured by her own clawing fingers, as her sweat and sick dampened curls stuck to her cheeks, her throat and her lips. Above her, Erik panted, chest heaving as he leaned bodily against the wall of the tunnel, bracing himself against the stones by his leather forehead and forearms, as his limp cock hung wetly between them, a sack of soft clay slowly dripping into Christine's sodden curls.
Raoul stared at the woman he loved, crying in her prison.
He stared at the wet stain of his seed soaking into the paving stones.
Presently he turned and vomited into the street.
And then, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, ruining his dress-coat, he let his weight fall with an echoing thud against the side of the sturdy morris column, and raised his eyes to meet those of the evil Angel, watching him through the bars from behind his black mask.
"Christine, start on down the path," hissed the villain, without freeing the trembling, spent Vicomte from his unreadable gaze. Like a weapon, his red cock hung against his thigh, still wet with her; Raoul wished he would put the horrible thing away.
"Erik, it's dark," she breathed, already swallowed in lightless black, "I do not know the way alone!" When she did not begin to move, to rise from her panting heap against the stones, the Angel kicked out at her, just enough to force her cry and hasten her feet; Raoul flinched at the dull thud of leather sole striking bone.
"Go!" Erik roared, still staring, as Raoul felt the bile again begin to rise, the dizzying tumult spark light behind his eyes, "do not turn around, do you hear me? Go! "
Raoul could not stop his feet as he thrust himself, bodily, from the shelter of the morris column; he stumbled across the avenue, feeling the spent waste of his cock as it bobbed, naked against his thigh. The evil Angel summoned him with his glowing stare, and Raoul did not dare to look away. Part of him wished a carriage would run him down, crush him to rotten pulp in the street, and yet he was spared; soon, though he could not identify the moment he had done so, he had his shaking fingers coiled in the bars of the Angel's iron cage.
"Good Evening, Vicomte," Erik said.
Raoul's mind was reeling, as new nausea twisted his bowels; he could not meet the villain's stare. "Christine," he spluttered out, finally, too-late and much too low for her to hear. He could hear her stumbling, unseen, down the passageway beyond; her wet heels clicked unsteadily against the cobblestone, her sobs echoed in the dark. Erik eyed Raoul curiously, his gloved fingers working between them, tucking his spent sex into his fly and carefully neatening his trousers.
"Why did you follow?" he said, after several moments spent in pregnant silence, adding, like another knife to Raoul's churning gut: "you must have seen what I did, and yet you failed to call out or come for her. Why is that?"
Raoul sputtered, noticing the uncanny glow of the Angel's eyes as they flashed behind the dark holes of the mask. "I love her!" he stammered, and the yellow eyes narrowed.
"You love her?" mused his enemy, though something shadowed his shrouded features and was swiftly gone, "I love her too…"
"Then what have you done to her?" Raoul breathed, fully aware of his nakedness as it brushed the cold iron of the sewer grate. He shoved his flaccid sex into his fly, clumsily doing up the buttons, adding distractedly, "you cannot love her! I love her! And I would never!"
"Are you so sure?" said Erik in a low voice. He bent to retrieve his cane from the floor at his feet and Raoul was struck by the grace of his movement; now he wiped the drying semen from its laminated onyx shaft with a handkerchief, and fixed a bored eye on Raoul. "All men are only animals, beneath our masks, Vicomte… are we not?"
The comment unguarded him; Raoul coughed, attempting to settle his racing thoughts, the rising bile of his growing shame. But he could not hold back the ravage of emotion; soon he was shouting into the alien face of the monster before him, as that yellow stare looked calmly on.
"Erik!" demanded Raoul, spittle flying madly against the iron bars as he shook them in his two fists. "If that is your name! I have found you out for a villian, and one day soon, I will best you! You shall not get away with this!"
The glowing eyes slid over Raoul, the tracks of his tears, the vomit on his chin. The crusted stain of his own seed, dribbling down the length of his trouser leg and wetting his fingers as they curled into the cast iron bars. There was semen on his shoe, glimmering as it caught the yellow lamp light; beneath the stranger's judicious eye, Raoul scraped at the mess with his opposite foot.
"You call me a villain, Monsieur?" said the Angel, softly, raising his gaze to again meet Raoul's frantic stare. He sighed. "Could I not say the same of you?"
And then he tipped his hat, turned again to the long corridor behind the grate, and was swallowed in black.
A/N: I'm sorry for what I've put them through this time... I'll have to make it up to them. ;)
As always, thank you for reading! If you read to the end, please leave a comment or review! Your words feed my soul and make me write faster (and sometimes, at all!) I try my best to respond to every one (If there is something you want to chat with me about, catch me on Ao3 or Tumblr, where I am admittedly more active!)
Until next time,
Cat