A/N: I'M BACK, MY DARLINGS! Did you miss me? This semester at University has been insane. Luckily, I am almost done, so I should be back on a semi-normal track to updating my stories. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this next chapter, and please leave a comment if you can – I cannot tell you how happy it makes me to read your thoughts and feelings. Trigger warning: this chapter contains heavy drug usage, language, and a small conversation involving hypothetical rape. Please read at your own discretion.

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Under My Skin

A warm, golden light filled the entirety of the kitchen, and she sat at the island with her legs crossed, her feet already aching from the constraint of the Louboutins. Christine kicked them off of her feet slowly, as if his house was her own, and she had just gotten home from work – or in her case, performing in front of thousands of people while panic bit the back of her throat. She watched the muscles in his back move and clench through the scarlet fabric of his shirt as he stacked a couple of stray dishes; he seemed to like his house spotless, although she could not erase the explosive mess that was his bedroom from her mind.

"Why do you keep everything so clean…with the exception of your bedroom?" Christine asked, pushing the baggie of cocaine around with her forefinger. She was dying to undo the tiny rubber band that kept its contents together, but she shoved her clawing need into the back of her mind, knowing that she had given it to him as a truce for what she'd stolen. Christine had a lurking feeling that he might become roused if she broke it open before he even turned around to face her, so she clenched her teeth behind her lips, patiently waiting for his response. Erik's movements came to a formidable halt, and he stared out the window, the sun gleaming against the gel that covered the roots of his dark hair. The silence began as a whisper, but it grew with each passing moment, almost palpable between them until Leia, the spotted beast, let out a small whimper of impatience.

"Yes, my sweet girl, I know," Erik murmured, bending down to tend to his loyal Dalmatian. "I need to let her out," he muttered, looking up at Christine from where he now knelt. "Come with me."

Christine eyed the liquor bottles that were organized on a set of glassy shelves.

"Will you make me a drink, first?" She fluttered her eyelashes at him, the corner of her lips curving into a mischievous smile. Erik nodded, scratching the back of his head before he pulled a bottle of whiskey from one of the shelves. Christine's heart fell as she watched him; he seemed unperturbed by her obvious advances, and she let out a long sigh as he dropped a single, rectangular ice cube into a rocks glass. His fingers were long and deft, and she drank in the sight of his hands; moving, twisting, articulating…with swollen, corded veins that pressed themselves through the surface of his skin. It was intoxicating to watch him do anything, she realized – but why did he seem so quiet, so hidden within his own thoughts? She wondered, then, what he was thinking about, and if there was any part of his mind that wanted to tie her up with his thickened, vermillion ropes. She absentmindedly ran her fingers over the scars upon her wrists, and pressed a fingernail into one particularly deep scar. Erik turned toward her – did he sense her slight brush with pain, could he smell the suicide attempt from the fear lingering in the darkness of her eyes?

"Your drink," he stated flatly, pushing it across the smooth marble countertop. Christine grasped it as she slipped off the stool to follow him outside. Leia whirled around and growled as Christine came closer, guarding the space between her and Erik.

"God, it's like she hates me or something," Christine scoffed, sticking her tongue out at the dog. Erik ran his fingers over Leia's spotted head, leading her away from Christine and nearer to the back doors. He held the door open for the dog as she trotted out into the manicured backyard, and Erik waited for Christine to pass by him before he followed her outside. She stood barefoot in the outdoor kitchen, watching the ripples of the pool water that had been filled with her own blood a mere 24 hours ago.

"You never answered my question," she said quietly, taking a long sip of her drink. The whiskey burned as it passed down her ravaged throat, creating a makeshift wave of euphoria that instantly calmed the anxiety stirring within her chest. Erik tucked a stray black wave of hair behind his ear, turning toward her slightly.

"I clean my own bedroom, if that's what you're asking," he answered nonchalantly, adjusting himself slightly. "I don't like Eleanor going in there. It's private."

"Mmm. I get it," Christine quipped. "But you don't have to pretend, with me. I know what you're into. And it's not even…well, it's not uncommon. I know plenty of sadistic fucks who like tying their girlfriends up. Even some people I've known like to…well, pretend like they're raping you."

Erik stayed solemn and quiet, which frustrated her further. "I don't date," he said simply, running a hand through his hair. "And I don't rape…or pretend to rape, as you called it. That's a bit too…eclectic for my tastes." He turned and faced her then, the golden light of the evening shining upon every detail of the ebony leather mask.

"Why are you so concerned with my sex life?" He raised a dark eyebrow, his hazel eyes dancing with curiosity. Christine bit the inside of her lip, trying to hide her smile.

"You don't date? Why not?"

"Leia, come," he called, gesturing a hand toward Christine, leading them back to the double doors through the glittering chrome of the outdoor kitchen. Leia obeyed fervently, side-eyeing Christine as she trotted through the open doors. Christine followed warily, her eyes pinned upon the dog, and she felt a slight brush of Erik's hand guiding her lower back. She whirled around immediately, coming face to face with his open shirt, the soft spots of black hair upon his chest that she was longing to touch. She could see that his breathing was somewhat agitated, and he laid a long finger against her bottom lip, so soft that it barely touched her.

"Let's sit," he suggested, and she nodded, her breath now flowing in heated waves. She padded across the kitchen and settled herself upon the wide expanse of the sofa, her heart tingling with a peculiar surge of exhilaration.

Erik emerged from the kitchen holding the bottle of whiskey in one hand, and the baggie of cocaine in another. He sat near to her on the sofa, but left decent amount of space between them. He pushed the baggie toward Christine, watching solemnly as her fingers closed around it.

"Draw out the lines," he instructed, topping off her drink, his eyes burning holes into the sinewy bones of her wilted wings. He knew. He knew she was beginning to get restless, that her wings were melting between her shoulder blades, those ancient blue-black horrors that kept her alive. She obeyed his command immediately, laying out the lines – they were a bit haphazard within her desperation, jagged and thick, like the scars on her wrists. She bent over the six lines she'd laid out, snorting the first three, her nose pressed against the glass of the coffee table. Christine felt his eyes upon her, threading into her, watching her with a strange fascination. She lifted her head back, closing her eyes as the all too familiar drip made her shiver, and she downed a mouthful of whiskey to rinse it from her throat. She glanced up at him, waiting for him to bend down, to humble himself before her and snort the other three. A twisted grin curved at the edges of his lips.

"To answer your second question; I don't date because commitment disgusts me."

Christine's eyebrows shot up, and she almost let out a worried stream of consciousness. "It disgusts you? Why?"

Erik bent over, snorting the last three lines exactly as she had – with no rolled up dollar bill, just his nose pressed to the glass. He angled his face a bit more than she had in order to make room for his mask. But he did not chase the drip with whiskey; instead, he let his head fall back into the cushions, his eyes fixated on the ceiling.

"It never works."

"What do you mean, 'commitment never works'?" She asked, feeling the edges of her wings scraping their way up to the surface of her skin. She shivered with delight, moving forward to cleave more lines from the baggie. She would get nice and fucking high with him; it was a badly drawn, makeshift plan, but it was the only plan she had. And maybe he would loosen up; he seemed so…tight, so reserved…so secretive about himself and his life. And she was itching – no, dying to know more.

God, Christine, can you get any more desperate? She thought, biting her bottom lip, digging another fingernail into the inside of her wrist.

Erik turned his head to look at her as he lounged, a couple tendrils of his wavy hair falling against the masked side of his face. "If you must know, I enjoy the intricacies of sex more than the intricacies of a relationship. Sex is complex in it's nature, but everything comes naturally, organically, if you will. Relations are forced; the talking, the rules, the confinement, of it all…I dislike confinement. And I dislike rules…unless I'm the one making them."

"So you're a control freak," Christine said casually; new plan…she was going to act as careless and as nonchalant as him, to see if he could stand his own structure when it was thrown back in his face. She imagined his ropes around her wrists as she laid out six more lines; three for her, three for him. Christine bent over, snorting her lines as quickly as she could. More of her precious white powder made her more powerful, more in control of her mind, her body, her glimmering spirit. She dug a fingernail into the biggest scar on the inside of her wrist, and her skin crawled with the pleasant whisper of pain; when her eyes were closed, she could see her father's face…shining with tears, smiling up at her.

Three more lines and she'd be able to see the face of God.

"Yes, I suppose I fit the definition. Though I dislike the word 'freak'…" Erik answered, his voice seeming to be strained. He watched as she threw her head back, her bright red curls falling against the sides of her face. "I enjoy being in control," he said slowly, as if tasting every word for the first time. "It's…arousing, the things I can do when I'm in total control. As if I'm a God, merely existing in a world full of mortals."

"Mortals that you tie down and fuck until they bleed," Christine cackled, snatching her backpack from the floor. She dug around in its depths and pulled out her makeup bag; she always kept a spare joint in her lipstick case. Erik paused audibly, then let out a small, simpering laugh. "The blood isn't always from the fucking. Sometimes they claw up my back. And I bleed. It's aggressive poetry, fucking a beautiful woman. Finding out what makes her beg. Revealing her deepest and most shameful desires."

"Do they ever…ask you to hurt them?" Christine asked, wide-eyed, rolling the joint around between her thumb and forefinger. Her scars screamed out silently, impatiently, needing the joint to be lit; craving another halfhearted drug to cool her racing heart.

"I don't harm them. I give them what they want," Erik stated blandly. As Christine lit the end of the joint, she took a long drag, blowing rings of smoke that floated upward, higher and higher until they disappeared. "What if…they want to be harmed?" She asked, offering the joint to him. Erik reached out and took it carefully, taking a longer drag than she had. As he expelled the smoke, his lips formed into a thin line.

"Then I give them what they want. Within reason."

Christine curled a leg underneath her, leaning into the space between them. "You tie them up, don't you? I saw the ropes in your bedroom."

Erik took a long sip from his glass, his eyes falling upon the open baggie on the coffee table. "Six more lines," he ordered, and she fell forward in bliss, her fingers working to immediately please his command.

"Yes, I tie them up. They ask me to…usually."

"And if they don't ask? Do you…impose your will?" Christine was far past being afraid, now. Her wings had grown from the tiniest black budding into the fullest span of an angel. How did he not see them, her wings? They were more magnificent than she could ever be. Large, soft, and wide, they flittered against the back of the couch, aching to grow taller, to brush the chandelier that hung from the vaulted ceiling.

"Yes, I do," Erik whispered, watching her shaking fingers edge out the lines. "Is that why you've come here? You want me to take control of you…you want me to tie you to my bed, is that it?" His voice was so gentle within the question, that at first, she did not even recognize his words. She paused, dipping a finger in the first line and spreading it in the inside of her gumline.

"Yes and no," she responded casually, closing her eyes against the numbness that filled her mouth. "I think, right now, more than anything…it's your presence, that I want. It…it soothes me. I came here to seduce you, to get you to bring me to your bed with the mirror and the ropes…but now, I think…I think I just want to sit here with you. Is that weird to say? That I just want to sit and listen to your voice?"

"Mmm," Erik responded, his voice deep within his throat. "You know I can…do things, with my voice. Without even touching you."

Christine snorted the first line, the jagged little scar of lighting that she had clumsily made. "Oh, I seriously doubt that, Erik. You're a bit full of yourself…did you know that?"

Erik laughed again. "I'm not arrogant, I simply am aware of my…abilities."

Christine smiled widely, closing her eyes against the intensity of her high. "Okay, fine. Try it on me. Not a single touch, right?"

"Right," he breathed, "not a single touch." He moved over on the couch toward her, leaving a tiny sliver of space between them. "Let me tell you what I would do…if I could touch you." His voice was a mere whisper, a rasp, a growl. "I would tie you up so that you could not touch me. I can push myself against you, and find how secretly wet you are, right there, between your milky thighs. I want to drink you, because God, you smell like heaven, and it's driving me…insane. I can't stand it. I'll lick every drop that dribbles from the sweetness of you, and you'll moan against me, begging for me to slide inside of you. But I won't. I won't…not yet."

Christine let out a small moan, pushing a hand against his chest. "Okay, stop. Please stop." She adjusted herself uncomfortably, the pain between her legs throbbing and aching for him already. She heard him let out a satisfied snicker. "Oh, you! All right, fine. Your voice is beautiful, and you know how to seduce a woman. Fine. Is your ego finally satisfied?" Christine sighed, turning herself away from him, fearing the power of his words, at the voice that had sung to her when she'd panicked, when she had been lost and bleeding.

"It's not pride, as I said before," Erik crooned, "I am simply aware of my abilities."

Christine edged away from him, needing there to be a space between them again. "Can I ask another question? Since I agreed to be a part of your…little experiment?"

"Fine," Erik agreed, bending down to snort another line. "But after your question, I get to decide what we do next."

"Please, no more of your 'seduction', Erik…I…I'm seeing someone."

Erik snorted with laughter. "And…?"

Christine giggled. "And I don't want to cheat on him."

"You already have. You let me talk your body into…getting ready for me."

"Well I didn't know…I didn't know it would work so well," she admitted, biting the inside of her lip.

"Don't lie, Christine. You came here wanting me to fuck you."

She let out a long sigh, her wings fluttering against the truth of his words. "Yes, I did, but…but now I just want to sit with you. Your voice, it's…it's ethereal. Better than mine…and I'm…well, I'm famous. So famous I have to hide in blacked out vehicles, and my dick of a manager tells me what to do, and my stylist dresses me in designer clothes that I hate, and…and…I guess I've said too much." She swallowed nervously, waiting for him to respond.

"I see," Erik murmured, and a short silence stretched out between them. "Perhaps I should be the famous one, then."

Christine let out a bout of laughter, rolling her head to the side to look at him. She wished she could see his entire face, not just half…For when he smiled, the sides of his eyes crinkled slightly. She wanted to see him, all of him, in this moment that they were sharing together.

"The mask…is it…is it to hide some sort of…"

"Christine, don't."

She crinkled her eyebrows at him, and he looked away from her, bending down to snort another line. "Why can't I…"

"I said no." His voice was sharp, and it interrupted her dream-like state, bringing back the words that Eleanor had said, warning her about his temper…

"Okay," she huffed, crossing her arms against her chest. "Fine. I won't ever ask about it again."

"Again?" Erik asked, suddenly intrigued, his anger melting away like the sin that dripped from the edges of her wings.

"Yes, again…did I stutter?" She answered lazily, her eyes falling upon the dog, Leia, who was curled up against the stone fireplace. "Your evil little beast is finally asleep."

"So…you plan on coming here…seeing me…again?"

Christine paused, watching him run his hands through his hair nervously. She cocked her head at him, a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

"Erik…can we go in the pool? Let me…redeem myself from last night. No bleeding. I really want to swim right now."

"You still have open wounds that – "

"Fuck the open wounds, they're fine. Come on," she sang as she stood up, anxious to pull off her constraint of a corset. She walked – no – she flew across the room, her toes dragging slightly against the carpet. Her wings repeated things to her that no one else could; that she should forget Gage and his abuse, his diseased lies about his cheating, his words that always seemed to twist and cause pain. She hated Gage, and wanted Erik, but she knew she could not give in to him…after all, he didn't like commitment. And something, even though she could not fully understand the feeling, told her to stay here, tonight, with him. To go into a heavenly body of water…to swim alongside him. If she was completely honest with herself, she just wanted to be held…held in the warmth of the water.

Christine heard him following her as she pushed open the back doors, and immediately began to strip. He had already seen her naked, hadn't he? She ripped open the front of her corset, tossing it to the side, and pulled down the velvet miniskirt. She stood in nothing but a lacey thong, her toes on the edge of the pool, watching the lights from the sides of the pool cause the water to dance. She wanted to be engulfed in it, a part of it…

Engulfed in him.

Christine slipped her body into the water, laughing as the softness and the stillness surrounded her. She waited patiently, clinging to the side of the pool, watching as Erik stood in the floodlight of the yard, staring at her. He seemed to be thinking, and she splashed him playfully, her wings soaking up the steam that breathed from the surface of the water. Erik looked slightly irritated at the splash, but nevertheless began to unbutton the rest of his blood red dress shirt. His chest was filled with black and grey tattoos; it looked like a scene painted from hell. Demons chased down angels, and the Devil held women in his lecherous mouth, while all-consuming inky fires surrounded the disjointed wings of the angels. Her eyes were not only in awe of the bizarre, tattooed scene, but also of the firmly lined muscles in his chest and abdomen. His shoulders were rounded and thickly veined, much like the statue of Zeus in the corner of the yard that had housed the infamous crown of thorns…

The very object that had led her up the wall and into his rose bush.

Into him.

Erik let his trousers drop, and he bent down to fold them quickly, causing Christine to let out another giggle. "I like things to be neat," he muttered before sitting down on the side of the pool and slipping himself into the water, sliding underneath the surface.

Christine turned towards his obscured shape as he swam underwater, his head breaking the surface with a breathless laugh. He moved toward her, gently reaching out for her arms, and she let him – she could not resist how raw and organic it felt to let him touch her.

Did he know she wanted to just be held? For he wrapped her in his arms, drifting the both of them to the middle of the pool, his legs fluttering softly to keep them both afloat. And for the longest time, she rested her head in the crook of his neck, smelling the mix of his cologne and his sweat. He rested his chin upon her back, moving them back in forth in the water; a dance, where there was no control, no wrist ties, no lying or fucking or anger. Only an astounding peace that caused her wings to lose their sin, the warmth of the water washing away the stained darkness, where white, underneath it all, began to show through.

…

A/N: What are we feeling? Perhaps Christine has finally met her match, or so it seems…but our Erik isn't too fond of commitment…at least, not yet. As per usual, I adore getting comments from you guys, whether they be short or long, doesn't matter. So if you read, please leave me some thoughts…It always makes my day! And also, thank you so very much for reading. Love, L.