A/N: Thanks for the positive responses of the last chapter! I have no clue where this story is going, but it's definitely going somewhere.
Be warned that this chapter is extremely deserving of the rating. If smut is not your thing, skip the second half. Then again, if smut is not your thing, then perhaps you should look elsewhere because there's going to be a lot of it in this.
In the faint hours of morning, an angel stands before an Opera House and a demon watches her.
It is easy to cling to the corners of buildings, to the shadows of structures that cast him into darkness. Six months since the fire, and it is fortunate that the managers have been able to restore the theatre. Yet another new chandelier, refurbished seats and stage, and the same patrons that attend for an evening of entertainment.
Ridiculously, the scandal seems to have boosted sales higher than ever before. The patrons and opera-goers are fascinated by the Phantom, and Box Five has been occupied every single night since he abandoned his post, the viewers eager for a glimpse of the Ghost.
His life—her life—is all a fascinating story to them, these elite who think themselves more important than the rest of the world. Every blunder, every aspect of their association has been dramaticised and romanticised into a tragic story of the Ugly Ghost and Pretty Soprano's relationship: the gossip of theatre-goers everywhere in Paris…
He scoffs at the idea. If only they knew the truth: that there had never been enough between him and his former pupil to form any semblance of a relationship. But he's been the mysterious tutor sent from the heavens for years, and now that she knows him as a man, she abhors him.
Granted, he has given her cause—but that still doesn't make it any better.
He stands behind crafted stone and sees his angel, watches her as she stares at the building of her former home. Chestnut curls piled atop her head in an elegant bun, gloved fingers clasped together by her stomach. So proper and poised, without the boldness of a performer.
It is the first time she's returned since the fire.
That night, he sneaks into the Chagny residence as he always does. It's laughingly easy, but he doesn't dare take any precautions. Steps are light and calculated, ears attentive to any hint of movement. He will not be exposed by the Vicomte, no matter his crime.
And just as he's predicted, Christine is touching herself when he quietly lands on the balcony of her room. Mocking lips curl into a smirk; her husband must be away for the night.
She's writhing and moaning and gloriously naked on the magnificent four-poster, one hand between her legs and the other cupping a breast. He watches as her lips part, as her back arches, sweat gathering in small beads by the column of her neck. Doesn't let himself think about how he has pried into her life and continues to do so, invading her privacy as he always has. Golden eyes rake over her nude body, appreciatively tracing over white skin, soft curves.
Her hair is wild and tangled, her chest heaving in frantic gasps. Christine touches and rubs and gasps, desperate and visibly frustrated, willing herself to reach that sinful heavenly peak. He watches her in the shadows, drinking her in greedily.
It's lewd and inappropriate and invasive, but he doesn't care. He's too far gone to care, now.
When she finally comes, her whole body shudders, her mouth opening to cry out a name.
"Erik!" she almost screams, burying her face into the pillow in the last minute to muffle her cries.
Time itself seems to stop as he stares at her nude body tossing on the sheets, listens to her voice contort and sob his name again and again. Erik, Erik, Erik. Never had he thought his name beautiful, but to listen to it tumble from her lips in the throws of passion is his blissful undoing. She's coming down her high but he's still climbing it, grasping yet never quite catching that pinnacle point of pleasure, untouched by his twitching fingers.
His eyes never leave her form, drawn in by her gasps, her moans that finally quiet into sighs. He can almost see her heart start to slow, her blood leisurely flowing within her veins.
At last she lets out a deep sigh and sits up, reaches for the white nightgown that's tossed on the floor, and buries herself under the sheets.
He'd returned every night since her marriage to lament over what he's lost—what has never been his in the first place. And wondered if he'll ever be able to possess her body as he had once possessed her mind.
And tonight, watching his prima donna drift off to sleep, he finally has his answer.
Perhaps she should have known that he would eventually come to her.
His presence is something unexplainable, yet unmistakably felt; she senses him as soon as she enters her room, knows instantly who it is. The maids are still up, dusting the last bits of the house before they retire to bed, and he has the nerve to enter her home. Her blood freezes in her veins, and suddenly her heart is pounding far too loudly in her ears.
He's supposed to be dead.
The room is shrouded in darkness save for the slither of moonlight that creeps through her open window. An untrained eye would not have spotted him, but she can see him clearly: standing a few steps in front of the balcony door, the outline of his tall figure faintly traced by moonlight.
He's supposed to be dead.
The door is closed behind her, and she doesn't realise she's shut it until she takes her hand away from the polished wood. Her breath is stuck in her throat; she can hardly breathe. He is as still as she is, both unmoving as they stare at each other.
Beats pass, the air thick with thrumming tension. Somehow, she can feel the golden eyes that hold her still.
It's her who finally breaks the silence. "Why are you here?" she asks, voice low.
He doesn't move, but she can almost see the cock of an eyebrow. "Are you surprised?" he counters, and it's a marvellous betrayal to suppress a shiver at the sound of his voice.
A breath is forced down her throat, deep and slow. "No, I'm not." Then, "You're supposed to be dead."
"He told you I was dead." His tone is wry and mocking, intending to ridicule her naïvety. "Didn't even bother to check if it was the truth before he quickly affirmed my death, and you took his word for it. Isn't that right? Your precious husband."
"My husband has nothing to do with this," she snaps. "The mob—"
"—couldn't have captured me if they tried. Really, Christine, I thought you would have known better than to doubt my abilities." A tilt of his head, and she can see the faint hint of his thin lips, pulled into a knowing smirk. "Or perhaps you never have. After all, I don't think any woman would think of a dead man while touching herself at night."
Her cheeks flame. "You watched me," she hisses accusingly, fingers digging into palms by the sides of her hips. "You haven't changed."
"No, but you have." If it was possible, she would say that she could hear the smirk in his voice. There's no pride, no admiration—just his maddening beautiful voice insulting her position. "My little songbird, always so innocent and proper."
Her eyes flash warningly. "I am not yours, Erik."
He takes a step forwards, then another, then another. The moonlight illuminates the unmasked side of his face, outlining his sharp cheekbone, his jutting jawline. Everything about him is sharp, from his crisp outerwear to his glaring gaze. He eventually stops in front of her and stares impassively, inspecting her, assessing her.
It's futile to search his expression, but she does it anyway. Pushes away the disappointment that floods her bones at the discovery of nothing new.
"No, you are not," he says finally, and she's not sure what to think of that conclusion.
A knock sounds at the door, and the charged tension in the air is broken for a moment. "Madame de Chagny?" a girl's voice sounds, faint through the thick door. Her maid. "Would you require my assistance to undress, Madame?"
She is about to tell her that she will be but a moment, but a sudden idea grasps at her and doesn't let go. Christine looks up at the man who had possessed her so completely, who had lied and manipulated and invaded her very life, and holds his gaze.
"No, thank you, Charlotte. I will manage for tonight."
"Oui, Madame."
Her former tutor stands fixedly, never once betraying a hint of expression as the sounds of footsteps start to fade. It is well past eleven; the maids have long since retired to their wing. She knows the bedroom is well secluded—no one would overhear them now.
He knows it too.
She will not let him toy with her again. He has come to her once more, revealed himself to be something he is not—not an angel, not a dead man—and expects her to fall into him again. But no, not this time. She knows what she wants from him, knows how to get it. Desire is an ever-burning flame within her, desire for his body, desire for him. It's overpowering and sinful, and she is a saint fallen from grace. She will use it to use him.
She steps forwards, and it's too close. All he has to do is move an inch, and their chests would touch. The space between them is deliberate; he understands that.
A slender hand reaches up to toy with his cravat. "I've always hated these," she comments, sliding the smooth silk through her fingers. He stands unmoving, and she can feel the tenseness in his muscles as he tries to control himself.
Good.
Her fingers drag along the silky material, lightly skimming the flesh of his neck. "They're terribly difficult to remove." Blue eyes hold gold, direct and forward.
His cold hand reaches up to cover hers, long fingers expertly undoing the tie around his neck. It falls easily from his shoulders, fluttering to the ground soundlessly. "Perhaps you haven't been trying hard enough," he murmurs, voice a dulcet tone of suppressed lust, barely restrained, unable to taunt.
Good.
The skin bared before her eyes is disturbingly pale; she moves her hand to stroke it, feels his pulse in the pads of her fingertips. Touching his flesh betrays the way his blood races beneath her fingers, his control slowly slipping away.
Try to mock her now. Go on.
A hint of a leer plays at her lips, and she looks up at him once more. "Why are you here, Erik?" she asks again, already knowing the answer.
He holds her gaze for a long time, before finally replying, "I believe you called for me."
"I did," she affirms, and reaches for him.
She does not kiss him—not those oddly shaped lips, thin yet bloated (the same lips she had remembered kissing twice: once to set her prince free, the other for a reason she cannot quite grasp)—but his coat falls to the floor with a dull thud and her hands are tearing at his shirt, sending the buttons flying. Instead, she presses her lips to the cool skin of his chest, feels his breath hitch and pulse race beneath her mouth. It sends a visceral flood of fire through her veins, wild and powerful. Her nails rake his flesh as she pushes the offending garment off his shoulders, and her tongue draws and explores the strange marks of his skin.
The words he doesn't say are inscribed in the way his hands tangle in her hair, fingers fisting against her scalp. Her teeth scrape on a nipple and the fingers in her hair tighten none too gently, pins falling to the ground. It doesn't go unnoticed that he's still frozen to the spot, shocked at her rabid attack of his body, and the realisation that hits her is delightful.
He's inexperienced, new to the act of sweat and skin. The Phantom of the Opera, master of everything apart from the joys of the flesh, still after six months.
And Christine Daaé, the ingenue, maestro at last.
She drags her nails down his torso, feels the air leave his lungs when her hand slips into his waistband and mercilessly grips his shaft. He is so much thicker than her husband is that for a moment, she slips into weakness, sharing the groan that leaves his mouth as she thinks about how he will feel inside her.
It's thrilling to think that she can take this from him: that she can possess his body just as he had once possessed her mind. Her touch is cruel and full of maliicous intent, stroking him in ways that make his body shudder for her. Control is a wasted effort; she recognises this in the way he tries to bite back the moans leaving his mouth. Every sound he makes shoots a thrill down her spine, racing through her bones and pooling wetness between her thighs.
But she knows that with inexperience comes the inability to persist, and the thought of giving him satisfaction when she has been unfulfilled is an unappealing one. Abruptly, she lets go of him and does not wait for him to recover before turning her back to him. "Help me out of my dress," she orders, pulling her hair aside so he can access the buttons.
Impatience overrules the haze of his mind at her ministrations; with a forceful rip her dress is undone, and she quickly strips the sleeves off her arms, letting it pool to the floor. An irritated groan sounds behind her at the sight of her corset and she almost laughs, but he makes quick work of it until it, too, lies at her feet. The chemise is finally pulled over her head, and she pushes the offending garmets aside with her foot.
Perhaps it is cowardly, but suddenly, she does not want to face him. She does not want to see his face as she takes this from him, does not want to see his eyes glowing as he drinks in the sight of her body. So she reaches behind to grab his hips, pulls him forwards to grind against her bare curves. And oh god, the lips on her neck are glorious and the hands grabbing at her breasts are delicious, and all she can do is let her head fall back against his shoulder with a sigh.
He is rough, as she knew he would be. Driven to desperation by the absence of touch, mad with longing for the need to be felt. Her fingers tangle in his as he explores her body, guiding him to all the places she wants to be touched, letting him learn the topography of her skin. She drags his fingers between her legs and moans when he feels her there, where she is wet and wanting.
And this is what she loves most about him: his ability to learn quickly. It is clear that Erik is inexperienced, but she presses his thumb against that wonderful, delicious spot and curls his fingers inside her and he immediately absorbs her reactions. There are quick breaths against her ear, loud and hot as he listens to her delirious cries, sweet agony building fast and unbearably close. He rubs and flexes fingers inside her until she is sobbing, knees buckling unsteadily beneath her. He moves them forwards until she is pressed against the door, and it's dizzying to feel his hand press harder against her, trapped between her legs and solid wood.
Still, his expert fingers are not nearly enough. "Erik," she gasps, overcome with the need to feel him inside her. Pressed against the wall, pressed against him, she feels the full extent of his desire: long and thick and throbbing against her curves, so close to her searing heat. "Erik, please—now—"
Her words are a beg, but she hears his submissiveness in the way he groans into her neck and bites at her flesh. Power has not been relinquished from her hold yet. He is utterly helpless, and it is all her doing.
"Erik—" she hisses, reaching behind to roughly grasp at his hair. "Now."
He does not need to be told twice. He slides easily into her wetness in one swift movement and it's a reverent prayer within this act of transgression.
Jutting hips jerk against hers in quick, unpracticed movements, and somehow it's delicious. She should feel trapped, pressed between his body and the door, him pushing into her from behind. Their rhythm is set by his snapping hips, her pleasure fuelled by his fingers still pushed against that sweet nub of shivers and screams.
But here and now, Christine hears his voice, loose and delirious and mingled with her own, and knows who's truly in charge. Him, losing himself in her hot grasping core, so soft and inviting and devouring him deeper within her. The knowledge of this utter possession of him is so delightfully empowering, drenching the very essence of her until she can't tell his voice from hers. All she can focus on is his other hand raking at her breast, brutal and clumsy but so, so good.
It's easy to lose herself in this sex he gives her. She cannot see his face, cannot see what she has taken. Knows he's willingly hers from his grabbing hands, his breath panting by her throat.
And pushes away the little slither of compassion that reminds her she's his first, he has never done this before, and she should be gentle. The princess in her that wants a perfect wedding night of shared sighs and deep gazes.
She closes her eyes against this betrayal and lets herself be guided by the primal animalistic urges of her body, spinning higher and higher into herself. Pleasure is a forbidden fruit dangling from his fingertips, and she will take it. He will not shake her; she will not let him.
She will find her release, and he will give it to her.
Colour explodes in a burst of sensation when his tip rubs against her just right, and Christine lets herself scream. Her voice raises and contorts and she hears his do the same, gasping and groaning and sending delightful shivers down her spine. There is finally release, finally a chance to let her body sing and thrum the way it had yearned to for so long, and it's delightfully fulfilling. He goes limp against her, pressing her tighter against the door but she is too exhausted to complain, too satisfied to push him away.
When he finally pulls away, there is no eye contact. He silently dresses as she silently watches him, and there is no shared kiss as he steps out into the balcony and disappears into the night. She watches him leave her and her wet thighs, soaked with their shared fluids, and suddenly remembers her husband.
He is standing at her balcony the next night when she enters the room.
She lets him in.