Work Text:
Being Erik’s wife had so far been very similar to the months they shared before Raoul had reentered her life. Days were full of music, at night they’d read together in the parlor sipping fragrant teas.
Erik was less talkative than he had once been. Less prone to laughter. He seldom smiled, but he looked at her sometimes like he was sure she was a mirage of smoke and mirrors.
They had not talked about the events leading up to their marriage. Not her mad impulse to tear away his mask on stage as all of Paris watched. Not Erik’s rage or that white wedding dress with buttons down the back. Not about their kiss. About Raoul leaving in disgust after they had signed the license.
No, they did not talk about the kiss that haunted her even now, three months later as they settled into an almost familiar routine. Legally wed, and yet he never touched her. Not at all.
Not even in the hall in passing, or to correct her posture. Not an embrace, not even to brush her shoulder free of crumbs at breakfast from the croissants he’d baked especially for her.
She’d never realized how tactile of a person she was until she was taken away from the casual intimacies of society. An embrace from Meg, the touch of a guiding hand at rehearsal. Being helped from a carriage or running through the streets with her friends, hand in hand. Erik had promised her that she would return to the opera the following season, but for now…
Now, she was alone. No one touched her. She felt the absence of it thrum over her skin every time Erik was close enough, the pulse of possibility between them. He never reached out, and she was too afraid that he would move away if she opened her arms.
Now, she watched him from the chaise. She had been watching him often lately. She had begun to wonder what would make him touch her.
It wasn’t her hair unbound or her fine dresses, not the color she pinched into her cheeks every morning before she greeted him. She didn’t know why she cared so much.
By all accounts he was a monster. He’d stolen her away, put her in an (admittedly beautiful) wedding dress, and forced her to choose. And she had chosen him, chosen him with admittedly little regret.
He had not touched her since she needed his help to undo the buttons of her dress, one by one. He had stood so close to her then, had been so gentle. He’d been so polite and restrained, and her heart had raced like she was tasting something forbidden.
She had waited for him that night in her most beautiful nightdress, expecting that he would come and claim her. He never had.
He noticed her watching him at last, and the wash of music that had filled the room was gone, leaving only silence. Still fingers on the keys.
“Christine, I dare not ask if you are happy, but I would like to know that you are at least content. You seem…listless.” His fingers traced the air, having lost the words.
She watched. It seemed obscene to ask him why he never touched her. “You are a wonderful husband, Erik.”
And he was. He doted on her, spoiled her, looked at her as though she was art. He listened to her, cared for her. He didn’t touch her. All of this was ideal, according to some of the ballerinas with many patrons. She recalled Sorelli regaling the corps with stories of her patrons who favored admiring her from afar: that’s the best part. The old fools don’t even have the nerve to touch me.
But Erik was neither old nor a fool. In fact, he was rather…handsome in his own way. His lack of physical attention to her was not only baffling, but unexpected.
They had kissed. But only the once. It had been…unexpected. It had felt inevitable, like there were no versions of her life that didn’t contain Erik’s lips on her own. She’d thought that he would kiss her again. She thought they’d move beyond societal niceties and simply…be together, whatever they decided that meant. She’d expected him in her bed, had expected his kisses. She never thought that he would never touch her at all.
If she was going to live with him forever, surely it wouldn’t be without ever feeling human touch again? To her great dismay, she began to cry.
“Oh Christine, forgive me.” he clambered to his feet and knelt before her. Again the supplicant, again the sinner seeking absolution at her feet. It wasn’t right. She cried harder.
“What can I do, my darling, what can I do?”
“Erik,” she could hardly choke out his name. “I don’t want to never be touched.”
Confusion shone from his golden eyes. “I--”
“Why don’t you touch me?”
“Christine, I--”
“You said you loved me, but you don’t touch me or even--” A new wave of sobs hit her and she buried her face into the cushions. “I don’t want to never be touched again.”
Erik raked his hands through his hair, the immaculate strands getting mussed beneath his fingers. “I’ll make you some tea,” he said, and dashed out of the room, leaving her alone.
So this was to be her life? Abandoned while she was crying. She sniffled into her sleeve, likely ruining the silk in the process. She was pathetic, this was worse than pathetic.
Erik returned, teacup in hand. It rattled in the saucer. He set it beside her carefully. She left it there, pulling her arms around herself. Still, she trembled. She thought her heart might break, here in the warmth of the music room. A place where she had always been happy.
“Christine, I did not intend to distress you.”
“Do you love me, Erik?”
“Of course.”
“What are we doing then? Why didn’t you--” her face flushed. “Come to me at night.”
Erik blinked. “I’m sorry?” His voice sounded strange, less melodic than usual. He tugged at his collar, less composed than she had ever seen him.
“We’re married,” she said, then, “I waited the first night. I thought you wanted a real marriage?”
“This is a real marriage.”
“Then why don’t you touch me, Erik. Never a touch, not even an embrace. A kiss on the hand. A kiss anywear. I can’t live like this, I need to be touched. I need you to touch me. I feel like I’m floating away. I sometimes wonder if I’m here at all.”
“You’re upset because you want to be touched? You want…me to…touch you.”
Christine nodded. “I thought that when I kissed you things would be different. It’s foolish--I know you don’t--”
“I do,” Erik said, and his voice was ragged again. “I always do. Every moment of my existence since the first time I heard your voice. I always want to touch you.”
“Oh,” she said, softly. She reached out her hand. It trembled between them. He took it, gently, ever so gently, and she almost began crying again. His touch sang to her, and everything in her begged for more. “Then would you…”
“Anything.”
“Hold me. Please.”
With a soft cry, he gathered her into his arms, pulling her close against his chest. Enveloped by him, she finally felt loved. The chaise was too small for the both of them. The abandoned teacup shattered on the floor.
“It doesn’t matter,” Erik said. She could feel the rumble of his voice in her ribcage. His arms wrapped around her, fingers tracing the curve of her back. She moved closer, burying her face in the soft sheen of his waistcoat. “Is this alright,” Erik said, as he carded his hands through her hair.
“Yes,” she said, feeling a lazy sort of longing within her. She went boneless against him. “Don’t stop.”
He redoubled his efforts, and she felt the massage of his fingertips against her scalp. Pins scattered to the floor. “I have always loved your hair,” Erik said softly.
“Mmm?”
“It was the first part of you I ever saw. Even then, I longed to know its texture beneath my fingers. You are so beautiful, Christine. You have always been the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I never could have imagined that my touch would ever give you comfort. I have inspired little else besides fear.”
Christine let herself slide down his body, her head resting on his thigh. She pulled his arm over her torso and entangled their hands. “I’m not afraid of you, Erik. I was afraid of us--of whatever combustible thing that exists between us.”
“Desire. I have ever desired you, my Christine. Does that frighten you?”
“No.”
Perhaps in some way she had always known that there was desire between them. Known that the reasons she ran from Erik stemmed from a different type of fear. Raoul had been simple. Respectful. Even their most heated moments had left her cold.
Erik had always been different. She’d trembled at the first brush of his hand, and the sensation had not abated since. The way she knew it was him on stage with her before he even opened his mouth. She knew him from the way the air changed around her, from the wave of his gloved hand. Their voices twining together filled her with the sweetest agony.
“Forgive me for neglecting you. I am unused to…” His hand stilled on her brow. “I never expected you to stay. I never attempted to keep you here.”
“You disabled the traps,” she said.
“I thought that one day I would wake up to find the house empty. But you stayed. I was not prepared for the reality of you. Here every day, within reach.”
“Do you regret it?”
“I regret the manner, not the result. I could never regret marrying you. Your monster is selfish, Christine.” His finger traced over the curve of her nose, the soft curve of her cheeks. She shivered happily, eyes fluttering closed.
“I never saw you that way, you know that don’t you Erik? You were never a monster to me. You were an angel, a friend, a teacher. A man, but never a monster.”
“We were happy before, weren’t we? I even thought that perhaps you had begun to care for me.”
“I do care for you.”
“I have been so foolish--”
“And I have been too much of a coward.” Christine said. “I never knew how much I needed touch until it was taken away.”
“I delight in every piece of you. This is heaven, in all the ways I never dared to imagine.”
He kissed the back of her hand, tentative and soft. She smiled. This was enough. This was what she had wanted. Conversation. Assurance. Touch. Touch like his hands in her hair, his body beneath hers. She sighed happily looking up into the gold of his eyes.
“I love your eyes, ange,” she said, reaching up with her free hand to brush the curve of his jaw.
He trembled.
“I love your jaw too, and your hands.”She gleefully watched the flush that overtook the unmasked side of his face. She sat up, cursing the tangle of her skirts as she slid further into his lap.
“I am glad that parts of me please you.”
“All of you pleases me,” Christine said, and it was so easy to say. Because it had always been true. She had always liked to look at him. The fine lines of his body, the competence of his hands. Beautiful. Her maestro. Her Erik.They stared at each other, breathless. No more games. Not anymore. The king and queen were the only players left.
“Erik, would you mind very much if I took these off?” Christine said, tugged at her skirts.
The air went still, Erik seemed to cease breathing. “Christine--”
“I want to be closer to you.”
A broken moan escaped his lips. He tore at her skirts, the force of his tugging spun butterflies through her. Skirt discarded and soaking up the spilled tea, she clambered into his lap.
At last, the inside of her thighs pressed to the outside of his. She scooted forward and he hissed, stilling her with hands on her hips. “I am only a man, Christine.”
“I don’t mind,” Christine said, heart in her throat. Exhilaration sang in her chest. She was wanted. She was loved.
“Do whatever you wish to me,” Erik said. “Every note I write is for you. If I had known that you needed me--my hands, blood-covered as they are would have been at your service. My lips are not uniform, but I would have given them to you. I would worship you with every particle of myself if I thought it would be enough. My body has always been yours to command, Christine.”
She shivered in his arms, her unconcious undulation making her aware of the bulge of his desire hot and heavy against her. She pushed him back, and the chaise creaked beneath them. He looked up at her, masked and trusting as she settled atop him.
“Erik, will you take it off?”
“Christine, this is enough. To have you this close is enough. You needn’t look upon my face.”
“I want to. I want to kiss you. I miss your face.” She laid atop him, felt the frantic rise and fall of his chest as he wrapped his arms around her. He did not stop her reaching hand. Did not stop her as she lifted away the mask to reveal the horror of his face.
He did not stop her as she cupped his cheeks, masked and unmasked as if they were the same, and pressed her lips to his.
In hindsight, this had always been inevitable. The two of them. The abandoned soprano and the isolated phantom who haunted the depths of the opera.
As he kissed her, it all seemed to fall into place. The stories she’d told herself were replaced with the truth: Love.
What was it that Raoul had said that night on the roof? Love of the most exquisite kind, so deep that one couldn’t even admit it to themself.
She felt it now with Erik hard beneath her. She felt it in the keening urge deep in her stomach that begged her to press against him, to open her mouth to his searching tongue.
She surrendered, giving into impulse. She tangled her hands in his hair, and reveled in his echoing moan. Wanton, she was wanton and could not regret it as his hands slid up her thighs pulling her closer to him. The undulation of her hips setting her afire with passion. It wasn’t enough.
She sat up, bracing her hands on his chest. He followed her with his mouth. She kissed his cheek, the twisted one, and he gasped, pulling her to him.
“Christine, you don’t have to do this.”
“I want to,” she said, and flicked open the buttons of his waistcoat one by one. “You’ve made me rather breathless,” she laughed.
“It’s that damned corset,” Erik growled. His hands were warm even through the layers that concealed her waist.
“In the interest of closeness, I could be persuaded to take it off. I am told that husbands are marvelous at healing the marks of ‘damned corsets…’”
Erik gaped at her, eyes wide. For a moment, she feared she had taken things too far.
“Christine, do not say such things if you don’t mean them.”
“And if I do?”
“Then by god never be silent again. If you knew the sleepless hours I have spent seeing you dancing through my mind. Christine. The things I’ve longed to do to you, if only you were willing--”
“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me.”
“It will not shock you?”
Christine shook her head, the place between her legs throbbing at the thought of hearing Erik’s fantasies in his voice.
“Erik, please.” She turned so that he could reach the laces of her bodice. “Tell me while you undress me. If you want…”
“How could I not want?This moment is a fantasy, Christine. Enough to keep me awake at night. Your lips upon my ruined face, your mouth.” He pressed his lips to the curve of her neck.
A sound escaped her, a keening whine that would have embarrassed her if not for the way his breath shook against the curve of his ear as his fingers worked at her bodice, then the corset beneath.
“The sounds you make--I taught you to sing, my Christine. I could draw forth so many other sounds from you. A symphony of pleasure. I would worship every inch of you until you trembled, until you forgot yourself and begged for me. I’d use my mouth, my hands--you have confessed you loved my hands and I am a vain man, Christine. Would you want that? You would forget that it was me who adored you--”
Christine shimmied from her loosened garments and turned in his arms. “Erik,” she said. And his name was a command, and argument. A promise that she did not want to forget and never could.
Her thin chemise shifted against her breasts, and she thought that surely she would die from the friction. At last she understood the desire of Aminta. At last she knew why Don Juan was triumphant.
She crushed her mouth to his, swallowing his promises until he seized her in his arms and rolled so that he was atop her, hovering. The chaise creaked again, and the pop of a spring made her laugh.
“Am I hurting you, tell me if I am too heavy--”
“More, closer, please.” She pulled him down, and felt the grounding weight of him pressed against her. All of her.
This was unfair, gloriously unfair that she was barely dressed beneath him and he still wore his shirt. She had never seen much of Erik’s skin. The closest she had gotten was seeing his bare throat, elegant in the firelight.
Now, she tugged at his belt. Tugged at the buttons of his fine shirt until the fabric rumpled. He plundered her mouth, trailed kisses down her throat and over her collarbone til she thought she would scream.
At last her efforts were rewarded with skin. She slipped her hands into the opening of his shirt, raked her fingers over the firmness of his chest, relishing how he pressed into her touch.
“Off.” she said.
He shrugged out of his shirt. Skin, so much skin. Thin, wiry, well built. Strong. Beautiful. Erik. Scars twisted over his torso. She felt more at his back. But now was not the time for stories, for excuses or explanations. Instead of asking, she touched him, relishing the sounds he made as she raked her fingernails down his abdomen.
“Salvation is in your hands,” Erik murmured. “To be so adored is a gift. You are a gift--”
She palmed his cock through the fabric of his trousers. He bucked into her, face red. It was hot in her hands, heavy. She wanted to see it. She wanted--
He stayed her hand. “You are so beautiful like this, Christine. So perfect that I cannot stand it. So perfect that I would sacrifice the world for this moment. You beneath me and in my arms… Would you permit me to worship you? May I touch you?”
“Anywhere,” she said, and his lips trailed over her as his hands slid under the hem of her chemise to find the curves of her stomach, the weight of her breasts. He pulled the thin fabric down to reveal them, worshiping her with his tongue until her nipples peaked and she cried out against him. He peppered kisses along the curve of her jaw and back to her mouth.
“You are incandescent, my darling.” He pressed her to the chaise. Through her thin pantaloons, she could feel his cock against her. But not for long. Losing a groan, he slid off of her to kneel before her.
“Erik the glass! You’ll hurt yourself.”
With a growl he stood and seized her. “I can bear pain, but I will not risk your safety.”
“Erik, it’s just a teacup--”
He picked her up in such a way that she was forced to wrap her legs around him or risk knocking them both off balance. “I have decided to interpret your promise of ‘anywhere,’ ” Erik said with a smile. “Anywhere in this house, anywhere on your body…” He grinned.
“What happened to my grim maestro,” she teased.
“No man could be grim with you in his arms,” Erik said. “I am not a handsome man, but I adore you--”
“You’re mine.” Christine said.
“A heart for a heart is a fair enough bargain,” Erik said.
Of course he knew she loved him. Of course she did not have to speak the words for him to intuit her desires.
Christine pressed a kiss to his throat, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. She covered his exposed skin in kisses. She found the place below his ear that had him trembling in the doorway. A nip at his collarbone made him curse. She did it again, surprised at her own ferocity, delighted by the give of his flesh beneath her teeth. She sucked hard, and he cried out her name.
Mine, she thought, mine. The purple mark stood out against the paleness of his flesh. She rolled her hips against his hardness, dizzy with want.
“You drive me mad,” Erik hissed. “I will not last if you do not stop.”
Christine rolled her hips one last time. Erik tossed her onto his bed. She landed with an undignified squeak, but the mattress was soft and laden with pillows enough to preserve her.
Like its inhabitant, Erik’s room was immaculate and clean, dressed in shades of black. She sat up, tossing aside her chemise. Aware of the contrast of his black sheets and her pale skin, anticipating his appreciation.
He looked at her for a moment, laying there and she felt the blood rush to her face anew. “I would capture your likeness in art had I the skill.”
Christine laughed, and an answering smile spread across his face. It made him beautiful. Oh how she loved the delight shining from those golden eyes. Oh how she loved him!
“I love you,” she said. “I love you like this.” She reached for him, and he crawled to her, pressing their foreheads together.
“I love you,” he said, and she hooked her leg around him and captured his mouth.
He moaned, a broken, beautiful sound. His hands cupped her breasts, her hips--
Erik. Erik everywhere. His lips trailing down over the soft curve of her stomach, too soft for a dancer, but worshipped beneath his palms.
“Anywhere, petite?” He pressed a kiss to the freckle above her left hipbone. “A proposition that the rulers of the world would not resist. Who am I to reject the command of a goddess who wishes for touch. Are you wet for me, Christine?”
“Erik,” Christine gasped, pushing her pantaloons down. His hands replaced hers, and then his lips. He kissed the soft flesh of her inner thighs as he rolled her stockings down one by one.
He shuddered at her trembles. “You are almost too much to bear,” he said as his fingers slipped between her shaking legs.
They came away glistening, and she panted out his name watching as he sucked the proof of her desire from his fingertips.
“Decadent,” he said and she gasped out his name, parting her legs for him. “What a marvel you are. Dripping with desire, wanton in my bed. Real. Here. Mine.”
With a groan, he buried his face between her legs, lapping at her until she cried out. He held her bucking hips steady. Her fingers tangled in the ruin of his formerly immaculate hair as she begged him not to stop.
The opera ghost between her legs, Erik. Erik’s tongue and Erik’s hands. Erik’s hips grinding against the mattress frenetic and almost obscene. It was too much. He looked up at her, golden eyes full of sin. Decadent, he had called her, and now he feasted. Christine arched off the bed as stars overcame her vision, pulses of pleasure rocking through her.
He kissed his way up her trembling body, eyes gleaming with primal satisfaction. “Did I please you?”
In answer, she wrapped herself around him so they were flush together. She pressed her lips to the hollow of his beautiful throat, shocked that the only word she could remember was ‘more.’
Her hands slid between them, and this time he did not stop her as she slid her hand into his pants to grasp his hardness. Her touch was clumsy, but he still moaned her name. The syllables of it beautiful in his gasping mouth.
“Let me see you.”
Without another word, he stood and removed the final barriers between them. His eyes seemed to glow as she studied him. The hardness of him, the pulse of wetness at his tip. The way his cock bobbed against his stomach. She wanted to devour him. More than that, she wanted him closer.
She had thought herself sated. Seeing him thus convinced her otherwise. Her gaze traveled over his body, focused on his desire.
“Are you blushing, Christine?”
“Are you afraid, Erik,” she countered, inching towards the end of the bed.
“No,” he whispered as she wrapped her hand around him. This was power. Her Erik arching into her hand. Her Erik whispering her name over and over, broken sounds flying from his throat.
He tumbled into her, dragging open-mouthed kisses over any parts of her he could reach. The heavy heat of his desire pressed into her hip. She squirmed against it.
“Would you wan--”
“I do, I--”
His fingers found the part of her that made her writhe, and he settled between her legs.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes--”
He plunged into her with gentle ferocity and for a moment, all she could see was the gold of his eyes. The tremble of his muscles as he fought for control. Her Erik.
Wanting--and oh she had never wanted like this with Erik’s hands all over her and Erik’s lips on hers. Erik inside her. She wrapped her legs around him in a vain attempt to get him to move as he stroked her with his thumb in a way that had her crying out--
“Please,” she said, and at long last he began to move. The slow drag of friction made her whimper against him. The intentional gentleness of his thrusts nearly drove her to distraction. It was too much, it wasn’t enough. Yet it was nothing compared to his voice, rougher than she had ever heard it:
“Christine, I adore you. You are so beautiful, so good, so infinitely divine. My muse.”
They moved together, over and over until Christine cried out walls fluttering around him. He watched her with a look of rapture, and kissed her. It was not long before she was granted the sight of Erik in ecstasy. His weight settled atop her. She felt deliciously loved. Satiated. Wanted.
Erik pulled her close and pressed a kiss to her temple as she pillowed her head on his chest.
Tangled together. They had always been tangled together.
“I love you,” he said. And it was the last thing she heard before she fell asleep. Somehow she knew everything would be okay.