#2004 phantom of the opera imagine

[monoghost]

𝒟𝑒𝓁𝒾𝒸𝒶𝓉𝑒

(No TW just comfort)

   There he stood across the room not really grasping why you so suddenly came to him without uttering a word even in response to his own, that is until he saw the look in your eyes. His gaze soften upon seeing your melancholy expression, the way your head hung low, and your hands dejectedly falling at your sides. Initially, he was worried he had upset you but upon observing you he knew it wasn’t that, you had something much more pressing going on. Although he couldn’t quite read exactly what was causing you such distress he just knew the emotions you had felt by one look at the way you carried yourself. You hadn’t dared to meet his stare knowing that if you did so everything would come crashing down at once, and the weight of the burden you were carrying would become too much for you to bare. You refused to let the pools that were building in your eyes overflow in front of him. He noticed you holding back, it slightly pained him as he would never want you to feel the need to put up a front around him. He slowly made his way towards you, his eyes fixated on your gloomy expression. Although Erik wasn’t one to typically initiate large amounts of physical affection in the relationship as you both were still fairly new to this however at this moment none of that mattered. All that matters is that you’re in front of him in need of his soft touch and protective grasp. He slowly reached for your hand taking it into his own then lifting it softly to his lips all the while maintaining eye contact with you even if you tried looking away. The way you so helplessly stared at him absolutely broke his heart, he knew you struggled with so many things all at once but to see how truly distraught you are in this moment made it all more real. He stared softly before gently wrapping his arms around you his right hand subconsciously guiding itself to the back of your head to pull you into his embrace, and the other slowly running up and down your back.

“Everything is okay now, I promise you my love I’m here.” He spoke so softly and delicately while running his hand down the back of your head. This was enough to set you over the edge, tears falling rampant from your now reddened cheeks as you raised your hands to grasp the material of his shirt from his chest your other hand grasping the back.

“I’ll protect you I promise, share your burden with me Angel don’t hold back it’s only me.” His voice was so soothing to the burning of your heart, he was so genuine and was happy to comfort you the way you have with him. His delicate words and voice caused you to bury your face into his neck just so you could feel more surrounded by his protective presence. Recalling everything that had caused you to be this way your shoulders shook as you now audibly sobbed into him. It was so much emotion at once, the overwhelming feeling of affection you’re getting from Erik, the sadness you held in your heart, and your gratitude for finally having someone to genuinely try to soothe the wounds of your heart. 

Upon hearing your audible sobs he softly shushes you while pulling your body impossibly closer to his own. 

“When you’re ready tell me what’s going on but for now I’ll just hold onto you until you’ve calmed.” He softly reassured leaving gentle kisses on the side of your head and the tip of your ear. Although you didn’t tell him what was on your mind that night he still stuck beside you and held onto you giving comforting words here and there without forcing anything out of you. He simply stuck by your side the entire night until you fell asleep in his embrace once he had taken you to lie down, your face still buried into the side of his neck while he held you with both arms. Although it was a simple gesture it was truly all you needed and he understood that happily caring for the person he loved more than absolutely anything.

[lickkuid]

Okay, just imagine-

Modern AU: Christine with her and Erik’s daughter. Erik is the one behind the camera taking the picture as Christine teaches her a piece of Erik’s music. Meanwhile Erik is tearing up as he watches his girls 🥹

Okay now I’m crying

📸 Emmy | Instagram

[henrysglock]

so like jamie…if there’s any chance you want to play another insane tragic villain…would you consider…you’ve already been in sweeney todd…you could knock it out of the park…i may or may not be on my knees begging pleading shaking sobbing—

[oscarsasylum]

i tried to make her deformity look more like how its supposed to look... the only difference is that i made it kinda look like scales

[sleepyconfusedpotato]

🎭Phantom of The Opera! GhostJade🌹💀

Happy Halloween! ( •̀ .̫ •́ )✧

This took me longer than I wanted to admit and I'm obviously late 😭 But here it is! Did a poll on Tumblr about which character GhostJade should dress up as for Halloween, and Phantom of The Opera was the top one.

I took the colors/vibe from the 2004 movie with Gerard Butler and Emmy Rossum. Ghost with that mask looks better than I imagined! Jade is just so fun to draw as usual (not the dress though 😭)

Anyway, hope you like it and let us all welcome MWIII! ✨

Support me on Ko-Fi! ✨

[behindthemirrorofmusic]

How are we feeling about this upcoming YA Phantom? 😃 (im not scared at all haha)

Worried mostly, mainly because of how modern media works. In the past if you messed up an adaptation people could just wait for it to go away.

Now if they mess up how they write Erik we will be in for decades of essays, reaction videos, judgement, having to explain the original book. It will keep showing up in our hashtags. I mean look how much damage the 2004 movie is still doing ...

I just can't imagine it will be able to properly understand Erik’s character or the trauma he went through before he decided to live in the opera, and what made him fall in love with Christine ...

[imaginethebeautifulworld]

So I was reading Phantom of the Opera and some of Erik's descriptions made me think so much of Gil! I remembered how amazing your Hades and Persephone fic was, and I was hoping you could do something with the Phantom too? Thanks so much!!!!

Hello, Anon! I absolutely adored Erik in the book, and now that I read your ask, I can easily see the similarities, too~ I grew up on a weird blend of the book, musical, and both the 2004 and Lon Chaney films; I tried to honor that blend in this a bit, but a majority was pulled from memories of the book. I hope you enjoy, and thank you for your patience~

The theatre was filled to bursting, the audience awed, riveted, mesmerized, your voice weaving an enchantment over hundreds of unsuspecting admirers.

He was proud of you.

Your voice reached him even in the highest and most of isolated rafters, a platform forgotten- abandoned- by the stagehands stationed several stories below. Your voice was full, carrying all of the strength and conviction and passion as the character you were playing.

Gone was the timid spirit he had stumbled upon all those years ago, broken and shattered from loss, left with only the protections of a then-aloof guardian and a firm, dispassionate teacher.

He was drawn to you from that first day, a twist of compassion, of understanding; in spite of your upbringing and (even then) impressive talent, you were still an outsider, your peers and the other students keeping their distance, leery of your background, and some envious even then.

Yes, the companionship and camaraderie would come in time, but in those first few months, he saw the same loneliness and sadness in you he'd once carried so heavily himself, and his heart ached to comfort you.

The first time he spoke to you was purely accidental, a slip of a whisper he prayed you would dismiss as a ghost, or mere imagination. He had grown too comfortable in answering you when you were alone, his voice always near silent as you spoke to your mother, your father, and sometimes the angels themselves.

It was the latter with which you had caught him, crying out with a broken heart after discovering another student had sabotaged your satin slippers, intent on seeing your failure, your embarrassment, and (as likely was the case with that particular little shrew) your dismissal from the school.

But you persevered, successfully completed your performance, never once showing your distress until you were away from the others. It was only then, hidden away in a forgotten practice room that you showed your anger, your sadness, your hopelessness. The mask had fallen, and he was once again struck by the beauty of the fractured soul he admired so deeply.

"Please," you whispered, and it broke his heart to hear it, "I feel so alone."

It ached, being unable to comfort you, seeing your progress and healing of the past few months tested so needlessly. He ached for you; he was angry for you.

"You are not alone."

It was a fleeting, foolish slip, his temper and his longing both getting the better of him. Your sudden silence choked his own breath, his entire body freezing in terror.

For a moment, for an eternity, there was naught but silence.

He didn't dare move, fearful of how even the slightest shift of fabric could give him away, could startle you, could-

"I was half-afraid I had gone mad, speaking with shadows and expecting them to finally reply."

You were... teasing him, only a little, though at the time he was still petrified that you would demand he reveal himself. You had moved closer to the false panel, studying it closely, seeking out any faults that might give away its secrets. For a moment, your eyes were perfectly level with his own, and he feared you could hear his heart racing in his chest.

But soon enough you had drawn away, crestfallen. "Perhaps I have gone mad," you murmured, sighing in defeat. "Perhaps the rumors are true, and you are nothing but a ghost."

Memories of his time spent serving in the court of a distant empire flickered to memory, a rueful sound resembling laughter slipped past his defenses. "Of the many things they may wish and claim me to be, dead is not yet among them."

Your focus once more returned to the panel, and he instinctively took a step back. "Please-" he began, quickly cutting himself off.

Where others would have pressed forward, you paused, then took several steps away from the wall, granting him his distance, a warm sense of appreciation, and another he couldn't name at the time, sparkling to the surface at the warm breath of relieved laughter you released soon after. "You- You're really there."

That moment, one he could still so clearly remember as the peripeteia, the decided, unexpected change to a familiar script, one which would set the trajectory of both of your lives for the next ten years. It would lead to many late nights spent in practice, in conversation, in debates about the literary characters you loved so dearly. "I am always here."

Your aria had drawn to a close, the spell broken by the deafening roar of the audience's applause, and Gilbert was pulled from his memories, unable to conceal his smile.

Brava, Schatz. Bravissima.

He stood to his full height and began to make his way towards the nearby ladder.

For your role, another scene yet remained- a joyful reunion between your character and the valiant hero following the defeat of the jealous villain, a happy end to a romance so riddled with tragedy.

Gilbert needn't see the ending; it was a tale as old as time.

His footsteps were silent and certain, following a path he could traverse in his sleep; he had already paced it many times in his dreams.

Of all the false doors he had constructed in his opera house, there was one he had yet to pass through, one which now loomed before him. The room beyond was bathed in the ethereal golden glow of candlelight, a world outside of the darkness, fueling even more of the torment already plaguing his mind.

He was haunted by his doubts, by his need to... His need to properly introduce himself.

You had risen so high, could fly even higher, could rise above anything the fools in this theatre could ever hope to imagine. With your voice, your grace, your elegance, and your perspicacity, he had no doubts you could soar to a realm where only angels once dare tread. Perhaps it was wrong to want to burden you, to-

Movement on the other side of the glass brought his thoughts once more to a standstill. You were laughing, carefree, glowing with happiness and a brilliant light which followed everyone through the corridors after a triumphant performance. His heart fluttered to see you so beautifully framed, a living portrait he yearned to touch.

He frowned at the thought.

These feelings...

He had cared for you when you first arrived, a deep friendship slowly growing, even as he never allowed you to glance upon him. Slowly, then almost in an erupting whirlwind, those feelings had adapted, deepened, solidified. He was left hoping, wishing...

You were an Angel, in the most benevolent, compassionate of ways, but even an Angel would surely shun a Devil's Child.

For that was what his eyes and his appearance had always been: that of a devil. And surely-

Another figure was entering the room, and you were quick to abandon the comfort of your velvet settee, rushing to embrace-

No.

You were laughing, falling into conversation with an ease that only came-

You were familiar with this... this boy.

Perhaps even intimate, his traitorous thoughts interfered, the herald to the invasive darkness which followed.

It was a cold, bitter thing, rising from the depths, twisting and corrupting his every breath.

He had been careless, allowing you your freedom, allowing you to slip away to the gilded sanctuary of your guardian's maison de ville.

This boy dared to presume he could even look upon you, let alone embrace you, speak with you so candidly, even addressing you by your given name-

Gilbert felt his rage, his envy, grow stronger, even as that bedamned Raoul finally departed for the evening, leaving your bright smile in his wake.

You often called Gilbert your "Angel of Music," a bringer of light to your once dreary and dark days. You used it affectionately, a term of endearment for one you saw as a companion, a compatriot in curiosity.

But much like his namesake, Gilbert was Fallen, cursed, a creature of shadows and Night.

It took so little to pull him back into the Darkness, and now, with the sting of envy plaguing his every thought, Avarice and Doubt whispering in his ear, his ambitions had changed.

You were his.

He would ensure no one else could dare claim you, would have the slightest chance at your heart.

With skill honed from years of practice, Gilbert silently slid open the trap door, his voice carrying over to you in a tone he himself barely recognized. "Insolent boy. The impertinence of him, sharing in our triumph."

You startled at his voice, turning to him instinctively, your eyes widening in disbelief, before you graced him with your brightest smile yet.

Your joy glittered with more radiance than any star in the heavens, but its glimmer eclipsed your awareness, obscuring the darkness in the figure stealing ever closer.

"Hello, Engel."

Thanks for reading!

Special shout-out to @the-scribe-and-her-scribbles for unwittingly inspiring me today to finally sit down and write. She's an amazing writer, and if you haven't checked it out already, I highly recommend her ongoing series It Will Come Back.

[lokislynx]

The Phantom of the Opera. It's been in my life for... over 30 years now more or less. ALW's was the first I knew. I love the original book by Gaston Leroux. I even like Susan Kay's version to a point... Would have been so much better without the ending.

The musical has become somewhat of a trigger to me but not related to the story.

The first time I was "shocked" somewhat by the story was when I saw the musical years ago in Finland, my hometown Helsinki. It was glorious and different but there was a second after Christine fainted in the end of Music of the night that implied... that's too strong a word really but... rape.

I was bothered by it. Like I was bothered by the missing stockings of POTO 2004 movie. (Over all I do not like the movie at all).

I realised I've always thought Erik's love as extremely passionate but... "knightly". He loves from afar. I feel he never imagines anything as physical as sex between him and Christine. He wanted to live with her, have walks with her and sing with her but physical contact... He broke down from a kiss on his forehead!

I've extremely hard time imagining him even spying at her from behind the mirror while she was changing her clothes. Leroux's Erik frankly doesn't seem mature enough. The rest... or the over all image of him is... sure he blackmails, murders and tortures people but he is a gentleman when it comes to ladies... like Nadir said in Kay's Phantom. This is why he suffers so in the book. Raoul is the very real physical love, Erik represents the love from the old knight's virtues. Like Don Quixote. This doesn't make his love any less passionate, but Raoul's existence makes it ever the more desperate. Erik loves Christine, he wants and yearns for her, but... never expects to "satisfy" her physically. The beauty of it is that he can do so to her mentally and she is extremely pulled by him that way... torn between the mental and physical aspects of love.

And Past the point of no return... I adored the song when I was a child. Now however... it's so far from what Erik would do. He would not parade his (nor hers!) sexuality or sexual passion in front of an audience! He's been paraded almost all his life until he found refuge from beneath the "tomb" he built for himself like the ancient pharaohs! He would rather guide rats down his pants than do that...

[megistusdiary]

ASDFKASFJDSAKFASJF VAMPIRE ANON I LOVE YOU god you and me same brain my dude.

ok so! vampire anon is dead on however there are some details i need to shed some light on with the phantoms first meeting of his beloved angel (who is named christine, and im going to call her that for the sake of clarity)

so their first meeting is after christine has filled in for the leading star and gives a glorious performance, after which her fiancee (yes shes engaged) sends roses to her dressing room. phantom is Not Happy and unbeknownst to christine, her dressing room has a secret passage. now im going to pause here, because the lyrics to this song (entitled "the mirror" youll see why) are fantastic: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yh3_ps50yrg&ab_channel=ThePhantomoftheOpera (link is to the 2004 film adaptation)

so! turns out the fucking full length mirror in her dressing room is also a door, down to what i believe are referred to as "the canals" which where the phantom resides, deep below the opera house.

after taking christine down there, he shows her a wedding dress (either a mirror depicting her in one, or a mannequin wearing one he made for her himself, depending on adaptation) and yeah she fucking faints and the phantom just scoops her up into his bed and goes back to writing music

and GOD im going to fucking combust over here.

(it should also be noted that when chrisitine initally rips the mask off, phantom is pissed at her (and usually slaps her for it) because he doesnt want her to be repulsed by his face. he'd literally rather die than submit to the mortifying ideal of being known)

-🎭(previously phantom!arle anon)

okay so basically the phantom is a red flag!!! but we already know arle is probably also a red flag, so...fitting, right?

not the secret passages though, uh oh-

imagining arle making her darling a wedding dress fit perfectly to her measurements. scary, but also, if it's arlecchino, i'd be down.

and taking her angel to her room...hmmm 😇 she is definitely toned underneath her jacket. i just know she's got muscle and superhuman strength, so princess-carrying her angel is lightwork.

not sure if arle would slap her angel though, or maybe even just a light tap to push her away? or maybe nothing at all? who's to say...

hopefully not because as long as she is kind to me, i'd do whatever she wants 😭

[starsomens]

So Im a huge fan of the phantom of the opera movie from 2004 and the song between Christine and Raul (All I ask of You) JUST AAAGHGHGSD

~~~~

Just imagine it's your wedding day and you and Noah had agreed on a private first dance to make things more intimate and the song is playing in the back and you're singing the words to each other, like secret vows for only you to hear

Say you'll share with me one love, one life time "Say you'll share with me one love, one life time"

Your hands are around his neck and his arms are wrapped around your waist holding you close while you sway to the song. Feeling tears brim your eyes, His lips kissing them away so gentle

Let me lead you from your solitude "Let me lead you from your solitude"

Your hands trace at the shapes and features of his face, feeling out the face you love you love so much. He was everything you could ask for. The good and the bad...you loved him so much. The way his eye crinkled when he smiles, the way his words would flow through you and send shivers through your body like an icy river. How deep his eyes were, but yet so warm

Anywhere you go, let me go too "Anywhere you go let me go too"

He looked at you and saw his entire world in the palm of his hands. Every inch of your skin, every corner of your soul....the woman of his dreams. He loved how messy you looked in the morning, or how you'd complain when he didn't get enough sleep. Coming home and sleeping with you in his arms. He was in love with the feeling of your new ring against his skin. A reminder that you were husband and wife, you were his and he was yours

share with me each night each morning love me, that's all I ask of you "share with me each night each morning love me, that's all I ask of you"

You loved him He loved you.

and that's all he needed to feel like all was right in the world.

"Forever," he whispered

"and always." you finished

[blogthebooklover]

Stop! I had no idea it was Phantom's birthday!!! Your reblog made me gasp. Do you have a favourite adaptation????? 🤌❤️

Great question, @french-vanilla-in-the-clouds! I haven't seen too many of the film adaptations, like the Chinese "Song at Midnight" or its remake, or The Phantom Lover. I would like to thank the YouTube channel, Phantom Reviews, for introducing me to the other adaptations of Phantom. Here's a list of my personal favorite POTO adaptations:

The Phantom of the Opera (1925-1929)

This was actually the first silent film I ever watched as a kid, I was around 9 or 10 years old and it was also around the same time that the Andrew Lloyd Webber movie was coming out. I love Lon Chaney's performance as Erik, and his ability as a makeup artist as well. This holds a special place in my heart, because I remember watching it at my grandmother's house. I hope someone can make a proper adaptation of the book with today's technology; however, this is probably the closest one we have so far.

(look at the way he clenches his fist on his sleeve, A.M.A.Z.I.N.G!)

The Phantom of the Opera (2004)

I remember liking this more as a kid and a teen, this has become more of a guilty pleasure movie for me now as an adult. I do appreciate some of the costume designs, I think my favorite is a tie between Christine's masquerade dress and her Think of Me dress. Minnie Driver is always fun to watch as La Carlotta, and Patrick Wilson did his best as Raoul. If it were made today with Emmy Rossum's acting abilities from being on Shameless, I think it could've worked beautifully, I'll give her some leeway because she was a teenager then.

(This is my favorite shot of Erik, btw)

The Phantom of the Opera (1990)

Btw, this was actually my first introduction to Charles Dance before Game of Thrones. I know this is technically also an adaptation of another musical prior to Lloyd Webber's, Yeston and Kopit; regardless, I like how this version of Erik is more on the sweet side, but he does have his limits (and I love his sarcastic remarks about Carlotta lol). I wish we could have seen what his disfigurement looked like, however, I do appreciate how the filmmakers wanted the audience to imagine it for themselves.

Goosebumps' The Phantom of the Auditorium (1995)

Okay, so I haven't actually read any of the Goosebumps books. I liked watching the TV show a bit more. This episode was a fun, kid-friendly version of Phantom.

(excuse the crappy quality of the photo)

Phantom of the Paradise (1974)

Okay, this one is a lot of fun. I do like how it was more rock and roll, and I like this Phantom's design, it almost reminds me of Panna a Nevtor, or the Czechoslovak Beauty and the Beast movie. There's definitely some campiness to the film as well, especially with Beef (the La Carlotta counterpoint), and Winslow's court case scene.

Phantom of the Megaplex (2000)

I have a soft spot for this one, because it was the first time where I saw clips of the Lon Chaney film featured in the beginning. On paper, I do like the premise of a guy haunting a movie theater, and I do like some of the more "Phantom" moments where he's disrupting each theater with something, like the projector bubbling out, or the dinosaur balloon. Also, I do like Mickey Rooney's speech about movies and movie-going.

[lickkuid]

Music of the night | Erik Destler

Warnings: NSFW, First time, Dom!Erik, Fluff // 18+

About: Erik and Christine have unspoken feelings for each other that develop more and more with every lesson he teaches her. One night after their lesson, Christine asks to unmask Erik to see his true self. Overcome with emotions, the two cannot help but show each other how much they love one another. Based in the 1870s but Erik doesn’t live under the Opera house.

Word count: 8,243

-

“Again,” Erik demanded, hovering his fingers above the keys of his piano. He and Christine occupied the music room of his small flat, having their weekly lesson. Their lessons had been continuing for roughly five months now, and with every visit, Christine was progressing immensely. Faster than he thought she would.

But the minute Erik met her, he quickly realized she was unlike anyone else. Purely a goddess. In beauty, personality, and ambience.

Her rich, chocolate brown eyes met his icy ones which reminded her of the snow that rested delicately upon pine trees in the coldest months of winter. He watched her with such intensity her airway felt constricted, her breath hitched in her throat.

He gave a soft nod, signaling to begin again. His fingers danced over the keys effortlessly, still watching his goddess.

Sucking in a silent breath, Christine tore her gaze from his and focused intently on the drapes of the steel gray curtains atop the window to steady her breath. Tapping her fingers softly against her dress, she began the aria which Erik had her memorize in their last lesson. With the first couple notes out of the way, she let herself get lost in the music.

Her eyes closed as the music brought waves of great sadness over her. The slow, melodramatic notes flowed with fluid grace from the piano and meshed perfectly with Christine’s angelic voice.

Erik only broke his gaze off of Christine to glance at the keys, but they returned only a second later to her delicate frame. This was the time he was really able to study his angel, and he didn’t waste a second. Her curls were pulled up to her head, tied by a ribbon. However, her hair was so long, it still managed to reach below the blades of her small shoulders. He wanted to wrap her curls around his finger, hoping they were as soft as they looked.

Just before he finished the last note, he broke his gaze off her and looked to the keys.

Once the piece had finished, Christine stood still with her eyes closed. Her heart thudded wildly in her chest, attempting to break free. “Christine,” Erik started, drawing her attention to him. She watched as he slowly stood from his bench, his tailcoat brushed the seat, and walked around the piano. “That was perfection.” he beamed.

The white mask obscured half of his beautiful smile. Christine had been a little alarmed during their first lesson when he wore the mask, but as their time went on in lessons, she had grown used to it. Though she longed to see what his full smile looked like unmasked.

Blushing at his compliment, she tucked a stray curl behind her ear and glanced at the plush carpet. Her heart began to skip faster, and her stomach tumbled. “I have you to thank, maestro.”

“Let's end with that today, we have been at it for almost two hours now.” He trailed off, reading the clock on the wall.

Christine nodded, she thought she sensed a hint of disappointment in his voice, but quickly scolded herself for even thinking that, knowing it was probably a figment of her imagination. Surely it was wrong to fall in love with a married man.

At least- she thought he was married. His house was always very clean, the only small clutter was a pile of scores on top of the organ in the far corner of the room. Their lessons were always done in private with only the two occupying the flat, but she always guessed that was how he liked teaching his lessons. His wife most likely goes into town to shop while he teaches. She didn't have any proof of marriage, but it was better to think he was spoken for than to let herself dream of a reality with him.

Erik thought their time together always went too fast. The two hours they had been rehearsing felt as if twenty minutes had passed. It was frustrating. Their time spent together brought him much joy. Once she left her lessons, he was already looking forward to seeing her the following week.

Christine also glanced at the clock with the realization so much time had passed. “Oh! I’m so sorry, I hope I have not overstayed my welcome.” She said, the rosy color across her cheeks deepened to a red, and she quickly gathered her things off the chair against a wall.

Erik had to hold back a smile watching her become flustered. He gave a soft shake of his head and turned back to his piano to close the lid over the keys. “Christine, you never overstay your welcome.”

She put her cloak on and drew her bottom lip in between her teeth, a habit she developed when in deep thought. Erik watched her, wanting nothing more than to stop her actions. Her lips were far too pretty for her to be biting in such a way. He wouldn’t mind doing it, but what was entirely too inappropriate to think about in her presence.

Seeming to lose the battle with her mind, Christine ran her thumb over her arm and looked down. “No, I should be going. I’m sure your wife is to return home soon.” She hesitated.

Erik’s brows knit together in confusion. “Wife?” Where did that idea come from?

Erik longed to be a husband. To have someone to tend to, have someone to provide for. Someone to share walks into town with. Someone who could look past his repulsive face and tormented body. But his face never let him get the opportunity. Any woman whom he ever came in contact with, which weren’t more than a handful, had turned their noses up at him or made a point to gawk at him. Everyone but Christine. Oh, how he longed for another half. He longed for her.

Christine silently cursed herself for her cloak resting on her shoulders now, for she was flaming hot. Had she misjudged him? Was her handsome teacher unwed? “I was under the impression that you are married.” She spoke softly, looking at him. The confusion etched on his face slowly softened.

Before Erik’s mind could process what he was doing, he strode forward and stood in front of Christine and looked down at her features. He had a good couple inches on her height. Her head only came as high as his upper lip.

Christine’s heart felt like a sledgehammer in her chest. Her eyes never left his icy ones as he planted himself a foot in front of her. His aroma of roses and some other earthy scent. Pine. Her eyes fluttered closed for a brief second as his scent enveloped her, clouding her thoughts.

Once Christine opened her eyes, Erik held up his left hand which did not adorn a wedding band. “I’ve never been married,” he murmured, seeming almost embarrassed at the fact.

Guilt washed over Christine for bringing up a topic that clearly held many emotions for him. She looked at his hand which had the slightest tremor to it. The only piece of jewelry was a silver band with a black stone in the middle which rested on his pinky finger.

“Oh. I am sorry for assuming. I only thought with the privacy of lessons and how well kept your home is, you had a wife.” The twinge of red returned to her fair skin.

Erik watched her with such intensity, it made her want to squirm. But it wasn’t an uncomfortable gaze. She almost thought it was an adoring look to his features. Her breath hitched in her throat when his hand came up to brush a curl away from her face, brushing it behind her ear. She leaned into his palm, the coolness of his fingers felt like a breath of fresh air against her burning cheeks.

“Maestro,” She began.

“Erik.” He interrupted. “Please, call me Erik outside of our lessons.” His voice thick.

“Erik,” She corrected. “May I?” she asked softly, gesturing to his mask.

His relaxed shoulders turned rigid in an instant, a sharp breath drew into his lungs. Erik’s jaw ticked and he lowered his head. Of course she would want to see it. Erik had known the day was coming, but no matter how many times he thought he was ready to show her, he would always chicken out. He didn’t want to lose Christine. She was his sunshine on a rainy day, unbeknownst to her.

“You know I will never judge you, you can trust me fully with anything,” Christine spoke with such gentleness, it made Erik want to sob in her arms and tell her every detail of his poor life he had endured. But he would spare her the gruesome details of his past.

His jaw twitched a couple more times as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. His gaze remained focused on the ground between their feet. He understood that whether it was now or later, the topic of his mask would come up again and he would be faced with this same ultimatum. Show her now and have her walk out of his life for his cursed face, or continue to become more attracted and attached to her, only to have her leave him further down the road when she sees his true self.

Erik nodded and Christine gently cupped his face in her palms. His day old stubble pricked her palms as she ran her thumb over his left cheek.

Her left hand raised to where his jaw and neck met. As her thumb hooked under the porcelain mask, Erik’s shoulders began to shake. Slowly, the mask made its way over Erik’s face, pulling the black wig along with it too, exposing his two greatest insecurities.

The gasp of horror he was waiting to hear, never came. Instead, Christine trailed her hand up and over the mountains and valleys of his beautifully carved skin. His skin was incredibly smooth under her dainty fingers. The heat of her palm against his sensitive deformity was shocking, he felt as though he had been struck by lightning.

Damn fool. He thought. Your hideous face has shocked her beyond words. Sucking in another ragged breath, the tears began to sting his eyes. “Please, spare me your criticism.” His voice laced with emotion. “If you no longer wish to partake in lessons with me, I shall not hold it against you. This disastrous face isn’t deserving of someone with your beauty.”

What kind of life had this man known? The thought alone brought forth the familiar sting of tears in Christines eyes as she looked at his face. Had he been shunned by everyone whom he had met, just because of his face?

“Erik,” Christine said, moving her right hand to his jaw to try and lift his gaze to her.

“No, Christine please,” his body shook with more violence as a tear escaped down his face. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. Please just go,” The sound of a choked sob left the man. His walls were completely shattered, not having any more fight left to hold them up.

“Look at me,” she demanded, her voice coming out stronger than she thought it would. The sound of the sob leaving him was enough to shatter her heart in pieces. Seeing the man she loved so broken, awoke a dark place inside of her that wanted to tear through anyone who ever made him feel like he was less than perfect.

Even in his disheveled state, he still stood taller than her. His puffy, ice blue eyes met her chocolate ones. His cheeks were flushed the faintest pink and his lips a brighter shade of red. His tears left wet trails down his cheeks resulting in her reaching up to swipe them away with her thumbs.

“You are beyond beautiful,” she began. “I can’t make changes to your past, but I can change the future. And I don’t want you to believe for even a second that you are not deserving of any kind of love.”

This is it. The time to tell him. If she was going to get emotional, now was the time to do so.

Standing on her toes, Christine placed a gentle kiss on his marred cheek. “I have loved you far too long to let you speak like this. Thinking nobody loves you.” The whisper of her words was hot on his cheek.

His heart jumped in his chest as another tear fell from his eye at her words. He had dreamt of her saying these words, but never thought he would get the satisfaction of her love.

The touch of her lips on his flesh was a feeling unlike anything Erik had ever experienced before. Sweet intoxication. He wanted- no, he needed more.

Before he could make any move towards her, she continued speaking, tears now brimming her eyes. “I need you to know. I have loved you and will continue to love you for as long as I am breathing. My heart feels like it is going to pound out of my chest anytime we are near. I long for your touch,” a tear escaped her eye. “I know you may not feel the same, but I can’t let you think you are unloved because I love you with every fiber of my being. I burn for you.” She confessed, feeling as if the weight on her shoulders had lifted.

Through her confession, his eyes never strayed from hers. A shuddering breath caused his chest and shoulders to rise and fall sharply. His Christine. She wanted him. She loved him. “Oh, Christine.” He reached for her, almost afraid she would shy away from his touch, regardless of her words.

An overwhelming emotion overtook him as he stepped forward and let his hand cup her cheek, an action he had longed to since the day he met her. She smiled up at him with such love, now that he had known her expression. Her brows pinched together softly, her lips full and rosy. “You have no idea how long I have wanted to hear you say that,”

Christine broke eye contact for a brief moment, flicking her gaze to his lips and back up at his glassy eyes. Erik knew that look, or at least he had read about that look. Romance novels had grown to be some of his favorites. For just some time, he could escape to a world where he was a handsome man and women didn’t look at him with disgust. He could experience what the sensation of kissing another was like.

Even without romance novels, he often thought about what it would be like to kiss Christine. Her lips soft and warm against his own. Experience desires with Christine. Roaming his hands over her body. Pleasuring her. Worshiping her. It was intoxicating and he wanted it all.

As Christine leaned in to him, his stomach tumbled in nervousness and excitement. He felt the weight of her hand land on his shoulder.

Erik didn’t know what to move or how to move it. His arms remained glued to his sides as her hot breath fanned his lips. Christine’s eyes fluttered shut and she closed the distance between them.

Every fantasy Erik had of this shared moment didn’t compare to the physical feel of her lips against his. Her lips were as soft as silk and pillowy against his own. Closing his own eyes and leaning into her body heat, Erik kissed her back and let his hands move to rest gently on either side of her waist.

Her perfume seemed to put him in a daze. The sweet smell of berries, dizzying him as warmth blossomed all over his body.

He stepped closer to her, finally pressing their bodies flush against one another and had to stifle a groan at their contact. Christine’s hand moved to tangle in his thin locks of hair, deepening their kiss.

Erik happily complied to whatever she wanted. He would give it to her. Lay the world down at her feet if she asked. He moved one of his hands to cup the side of her face to pull her impossibly closer.

A gasp left Christine as she brushed against his prominent erection. The desire within her swirling and her stomach swarmed with butterflies. Erik’s hips bucked at the contact, pressing himself further onto her hip.

Breaking the kiss, Christine looked up at him through her lashes. Her lips red and swollen. Erik’s chest heaved as he looked into her eyes, not liking the loss of contact. He needed to constantly have her touch, he felt as if he couldn’t breathe without it.

“Erik,” She breathed. “I need you,” she whimpered, her hand moved from in his hair, down to his chest, tugging at the front of his opened vest.

“Christine, are you positive?” His brows knit together. “Things wont go back to being the same between us. It will be the point of no return,” He hesitantly stroked her cheek with his thumb, afraid to do anything she wouldn’t like.

Her eyes fluttered closed at the gesture, leaning into his hand. This was absolutely what she wanted, for so long she had dreamed of his touch, of the feel of him inside her. She had never been more sure of anything else before.

“Take me there, I want all of you,” Christine told him.

Erik had no self control anymore. He would never be able to deny her anything she wanted. Regardless of his inexperience with physical touch, he would learn all the touches she desired.

He nodded and brushed his nose against hers. “Just be patient, this is all new to me.” he told Christine.

Her heart skipped a beat as he accepted. Her other hand moved to grab his hand that was holding her waist. His fingers were cool to the touch and a little clammy with nerves. She laced her fingers through his and squeezed gently. “It is for me too.” she admitted.

Erik squeezed her hand back and hesitantly leaned down to kiss her again. His fingers curled around the back of her head, pulling Christine closer.

Their lips collided, this time more heated than their first kiss. His lips were gentle but asserted dominance as they moved against her own. Their clasped hands fell apart at their sides and Erik used that time to grab her waist and pull her against himself.

Christine gasped at the contact of his erection against her hip. It was empowering to know that his body had that response to her. Wanting more, she pressed farther into him, grabbing the backs of his arms.

“Have me,” Her breathy voice whispered.

Erik broke their kiss and swept her up in one fluid motion. His arms went underneath her knees and across her back to clasp her waist. Christine instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck as he began to walk out of the music room.

They strode down the hall and to what Christine guessed was his bedroom. It was simple, a dresser rested against the wall, sheets of music atop the dresser. The same colored gray curtains were draped over the window, shielding their world from the one outside.

His bed was a beautiful black swan bed with red coverlets and pillows. She had never seen a more unique bed. She wanted to ask him about it, but decided to wait.

Erik gently laid her down, placing her so her head rested against the pillows. Before he settled above Christine, he pulled his tailcoat off, feeling too constricted

Christine watched him as he flung his coat across the room, not having a care in the world as to where it went or how wrinkled it would become. Erik’s left knee held his weight as he kneeled on the bed, coming over top of her.

His hands came to rest on either side of her head as she peered up at him. “Are you positive about this Christine?” His voice sounded strained.

Her heartbeat picked up as she peered up at him. His eyes still had a puffiness to them from crying earlier, and there was now a flush across his cheeks. Her hand came up to cup the right side of his face. The feel of his bumpy skin was warm against her hand. His eyes closed at the contact for a brief second before meeting her gaze.

“I’ve never been more positive about anything before.” she assured.

Wasting no more time, Erik lowered his body and crashed their lips together. Christine returned his kiss almost instantly. The heat of Erik’s body was like a magnet to her own, drawing herself as close to him as she could.

Parting her lips, she swiped her tongue across his bottom lip. It seemed to Christine that he was very timid of touching her the wrong way and that she would be the one to make the first move for things. And she was okay with it, as long as he was okay with anything she initiated.

Erik’s lips parted and their tongues met. It was a different feeling then Christine thought it would be, but the rush of arousal hit her core, making her let out a soft whimper against his lips.

Erik’s eyes opened in surprise at the sound, making sure it wasn’t a sound of hurt before closing his eyes again.

The bed dipped as his weight held up by his hands was transferred to his left arm. He moved so his elbow was taking his weight and his right hand trailed down Christine’s right side.

The trail of his fingers followed just beneath her breast, to the petite curve of her waist, giving a firm squeeze. Christine gasped against his lips at the contact, resulting in her breaking their heated kiss.

Loving the feel of her skin against his lips, Erik left a trail of kisses from her cheek to her ear, giving a soft tug on her lobe with his teeth. Christine's body arched into him, and the pleasure of her hip against his arousal was almost enough to send him over the edge. He was no stranger to masturbation, and did it often while thinking of his angel, but having her underneath him, arching into him, needing him, was pure ecstasy.

A groan left him, muffled against her skin. His hot lips moved to the base of her neck, leaving open mouth, gently licking and sucking on her sweet skin. It tasted just of her berry perfume, almost better. While he occupied her neck, Erik helped guide the cloak off of her, letting it fall off the side of the bed.

Christine's hands moved to discard him of his black vest. He nibbled her soft skin, and helped shrug off the article of clothing, letting it fall to the floor beside the swan. The hand that was on her waist moved to her arched back and began to pull the ribbon.

His trembling hand fumbled with untethering the string, but eventually was able to loosen it enough to have it slide off with ease. Erik broke off of her neck and tugged her corset up. Christine lifted her arms off his sides and up over her head. He lifted off of his arm and kneeled over her waist, then drew the fabric over her top half.

Once the corset was in his hands, he carefully placed it on the ground next to the bed, and brought his attention back to her. The fabric that had been removed supported her breasts, but now the plunging neckline of her dress didn't hold the fullness of them anymore.

Erik’s breathing picked up and he looked down at her, now only in her light blue dress and white lacy stockings which peaked out of the slit on her thigh.

Christine had grown inpatient and yearned for his touch. She leaned up on one elbow and grabbed the front of his white shirt, pulling him flush against her and crashed their lips together. Their sighs of content were music to each other's ears.

Erik pulled his body back a couple inches and began to unbutton the front of her dress, fumbling every other one. His nervousness made Christine smile against his lips.

Finally freeing the last one, Erik freed their lips and guided the fabric over one of her shoulders, then over the other. Her silky chemise revealed itself, the tiniest bit see through on her breasts where her nipple was. Sucking in a sharp breath, he allowed himself to look briefly but couldn’t let himself stare. He was a gentleman afterall.

The material of her dress bunched at Christine’s waist, folding in soft ruffles. Erik’s hands found the fabric on her hips and he leaned down to peck her lips. Finding some confidence, Erik mumbled, “Lift your ass, Mon ange.”

Christine’s stomach erupted in butterflies at his use of language, though she happily complied. He wasted no time pulling it down her legs and neatly folding the dress in half, setting it down with the corset.

Settling back over Christine, his cock strained hard against his trousers. Erik adjusted himself and almost moaned at the touch against his erection. He was aching, but he would not risk touching himself again in fear of finishing before her.

“You are wearing far too many clothes for my liking,” she said and began unbuttoning his white shirt. Before she could make it to the second one, Erik grabbed her hands gently and pinned her to the bed. “Christine, you cannot see my body,” his voice shook.

“There are scars from my past and it is not something you should ever have to look upon.” He explained, finally meeting her gaze.

Erik released her arms, and settled his weight like he had previously, on either side of her head. Longing for his touch still, Christine wrapped her right arm around his neck and brought the other to his cheek. “Erik, I love you,” She began, trailing her thumb back and forth over his deformity. “I love everything about you. I will never look at you differently for your body having a story. Scars or not, I will never love you less. To me, you are perfect.” Her eyes never strayed from his, which now pooled with tears.

“Mon ange,” he quaked, vision becoming blurry. “I love you, Christine.” He responded back to her, leaning down to give a passionate kiss.

Christine returned it instantly, feeling his tears drip onto her cheeks. “May I?” she questioned. Christine never wanted to make him uncomfortable, so his consent to anything she did was always needed.

With a sharp inhale, Erik nodded. Christine carefully unraveled her arm from his neck and dropped the one at his cheek. Her hands found their way back to his buttons and began to unfasten them.

His shirt buttons only traveled down to the middle of his chest, exposing his skin in a sharp V shape. Unable to control herself, Christening brought both hands up to his collarbone and let her warm fingers explore his muscular chest.

She almost moaned at the feel of his broad chest. The muscles under her palms were large and toned. Her hands met the soft curl of his chest hair as she let her curious hands wander aimlessly around his chest.

Finally pulling away before she lingered too long, she brought her hands down to his waist and pulled the shirt out of his trousers. Before she pulled the material up more she looked at Erik who was already watching her with a vulnerable gaze. “I love you,” She assured.

Erik felt his heart pull in his chest at her words. She loved him. She really loved him. It was something he would have never dreamed of happening and he never wanted to wake up from this dream. “I love you so much, mon ange.” he replied and let her pull the shirt over his body.

His muscles that Christine had run her hands over were sharply defined in the soft glow of the gas light. His dark chest hair left a light trail down his stomach and into his trousers. Along his ribcage, a large scar ran to the front of his chest, following the length of a rib. She grit her teeth together, noticing a lot more small ones no bigger than an inch long all over his torso.

“You’re beautiful,” she told him, trailing her fingers along some scars.

One of his hands cupped her cheek and he gave a weak smile. Too overcome with emotions in the moment, all Erik could do was lean down and kiss her passionately.

Christine sighed in content and brought her hands down his body to the loops in his trousers. Giving a soft tug forward, Erik’s hard on ground right into Christine’s sex.

Their moans joined together in their kiss, becoming more heated by the second. One of Erik’s hands moved to grope her breast under her chemise, no longer able to contain himself.

Christine moaned in delight, tipping her head back as his fingers rolled her nipple in between his fingers. Her skin was even softer, if that was possible.

With each light twist and roll of his fingers, waves of pleasure shot to Christine’s sex. Her hand that was pressed against his chest moved to his side to hold onto him. The pleasure pooling to her center caused a deep ache to settle between her legs.

Erik removed his hand briefly to pull her chemise off both shoulders and down to her waist, exposing her full breasts. His mouth watered at the sight, wanting to take her into his mouth. Before he could act upon his thoughts, Erik tore his gaze from her breasts and looked at her to make sure this is what she wanted.

Christine watched Erik’s questioning gaze and gave him a nod, not giving him time to ask. She lifted her hips to give him easy access to pulling her chemise off.

Suddenly, Christine was met with a wave of nerves that made her stomach flop as Erik began to move the fabric slowly down her hips.

The sound of a choked groan got caught in Erik’s throat as he caught sight of her fully naked for him. The curls hid most of her beautiful flesh but the knowledge that she was bare for him, made him want to cry tears of joy. He had longed for a woman to devour and now he could finally act upon his desires.

Christine looked up at him with an obvious flush to her features as he took in her full body. Only her stockings remained with her garter holding them up, but he didn’t seem to have any intention of removing either.

Putting her chemise with her other articles of clothing, Erik broke out of his trance and hovered over Christine. He left hot, sloppy kisses from her belly button up to the base of her breast.

His hot breath fanned over her hardened bud, making Christine shiver. Goosebumps pimples her skin, raising the hairs on her arms.

Giving light kisses to her breast, he suddenly took her right nipple into his mouth and rolled his tongue over her nub, glancing up at her.

Christine’s eyes rolled in the back of her head as her head thrust back into the plush pillows. The wetness of his tongue was enough to drive her to insanity. The lapping of his tongue flicking over her bud sent pulsing waves of pleasure to her center. Her hands flew to his hair, pushing him more into her breast, resulting in him sucking harder.

Erik’s left hand groped her left breast and began to roll her nipple between his fingers, giving an occasional pull. A whimper left Christine as she bucked her hips to his, needing to relieve some pressure. “Erik,” she moaned once her hips met his.

He glanced up at Christine, his cock twitching in his trousers at her moaning his name. “More… I need more,” she begged, her chest heaved in uneven breaths.

Erik’s right hand which was resting against her side gave a slight tremor as he thought of his next action. Bringing his shaking hand off of her waist, he rested it on her upper thigh, having to work up the courage to touch the sacred area of his angel.

His once cold fingers had become warm from Christine’s body heat. The weight and warmth of his hand made her hips buck up to try and get him to move. “Please,” she whimpered.

Erik grazed her nipple softly with his teeth, his fingers trailed steady circles into her leg. At an agonizingly slow pace, he began to move his fingers up to her core.

Not wanting to leave her waiting for long, he sucked in a sharp breath, pulled her breast out of his mouth and switched sides so he sucked her left breast and his hand played with her wet bud. His right hand cupped her warm core.

Christine gasped at the feel of him against her. Her stomach coiled and her hips moved involuntarily against his hand.

Erik sucked her nipple hard, earning a cry of pleasure. He began to move his fingers gently between her folds, the wetness of her desire surprised him. His fingers coated in her dripping heat. He had to stifle a groan from the feel of her.

Erik pulled off her nipple with a “pop” and watched his hand move through her now slick folds. His thumb found the bud that he had read about before in many explicit books. Curiosity got the best of him as he applied light pressure and swirled it in a circle.

“Oh god,” she cried and pushed against him, applying even more pressure. Feeling satisfied with knowing the books had not failed him, he applied even more pressure eliciting a cry from Christine.

Watching his hand move against her, Erik’s erection twitched, begging to be released. Self control had always been an enemy of his, but he was not letting his own desire get in the way of hers.

Releasing her nipple with his hand, Erik leaned down to leave featherlight kisses to her collar bone, never stopping the circling of this thumb.

Her hands found the back of his head as he kissed her neck. Christine pulled him up to her lips and kissed him feverishly.

Erik returned her kiss and ran his middle finger over her entrance. Her sigh of satisfaction was quickly replaced with a gasp as Erik pushed his finger into her tight, wet center.

“Christ,” she breathed, arching her back at the new feeling of fullness inside her. Erik slowed the circling on her bud to a halt, not wanting to overwhelm her with the sensations. He kept his finger still once her slick walls enveloped his finger, letting her get used to the feeling.

The coiling in her lower belly grew as he sunk his finger inside her. With every inch of his finger moving inside of her, the butterflies flew wild.

Very slowly, he began to move his finger, pulling back until the tip remained and then pushed it back in until his palm met her folds. Her whimpers ghosted over his lips as her eyes remained closed, ravishing in the feel of him.

Erik took the time her eyes remained closed to observe her as he kept moving his hand. Her brows pinched together, curving upwards at the front. The very few smattering of freckles across the bridge of nose, Erik burned into his memory so he could draw them later. Her plump lips formed a soft ‘O’ in her pleasure.

Erik glanced down where their flesh met and added another finger, letting her adjust to the two digits. The crease between her brow deepened as he stretched her. Her bottom lip had now been drawn in between her teeth. Erik placed his other hand on her jaw and gently used his thumb to pull her lip out from her teeth.

Her lids opened and she met his gaze. “Does this feel okay?” He asked, looking over her face for any hint of discomfort.

She nodded and wiggled against him, trying to get him to move. “Yes, it’s perfect,” she responded.

Capturing her in a sloppy kiss and tracing his tongue along her bottom lip, he began moving his fingers, picking up the pace. Instinctively, she allowed him inside her mouth as their tongues danced together.

Erik returned his thumb to her sensitive bud, earning the reward of her moan to his ears. Once she felt stretched enough, he curled his fingers, attempting to give her a new form of pleasure.

Christine’s hands flew to his back and clawed gently, making sure not to hurt him where his scars were. “Keep doing that,” she told him as he brushed against a spot that made her see stars.

Erik complied, giving her exactly what she wanted. He moved his head down to her neck and began to suck on her flesh, leaving a light mark just above her collarbone, not wanting to hurt her.

“F-Faster,” she pleaded. He looked up at her and saw small beads of sweat coating her forehead.

Speeding up pace, he curled his fingers just like she had asked him to, her moans coming out more sporadic.

Knowing the reaction it elicited from her earlier, Erik drew her breast into his mouth again and lapped over the perky bud. “Oh god, Erik.”

He hummed in response, the vibrations adding to the waves of pleasure flooding to her core.

As his fingers curled inside Christine, she could feel herself becoming higher and higher, chasing the ultimate peak she could feel herself nearing. The tingles flooded over her body, small at first but began to feel like fireworks as she neared the precipice of ecstasy.

Shocks and jolts suddenly took Christine, feeling as though electricity had run through her sex. Her body clenched around his fingers as she reached the edge, the pleasure becoming too much for her to handle. Her legs began to shake and her hips lifted involuntarily, grinding harder against his hand.

The electric shock in her core eventually subsided to small jolts once her orgasm passed. Her chest heaved as Erik pulled off her breast and smiled up at her. “Was that okay?” He asked.

Her lids felt heavy but she kept them open and smiled at him while nodding. “That was better than anything I could have imagined,” she told him. Erik moved up towards her, his fingers slowly eased out of her, glistening in her orgasm.

Keeping his eyes locked on hers, he brought his fingers up to his mouth and sucked his fingers clean of her desire. Christine gasped watching him, her stomach coiling as arousal hit her almost immediately regardless of her just experiencing an orgasm. “I need you in me,” she begged.

“Anything you command,” Erik said and shifted above her so he could unbutton his trousers and pull them down his legs, exposing his briefs.

His erection strained against the loose material, though it was not polite to stare, Christine couldn’t help but keep her attention focused on his length.

He tugged at the elastic band and in one swift motion, his cock sprang forward against the skin of his abdomen.

Drawing in a breath, Christine stared at the flesh. It was an impressive length and the girth of him was commanding. She had no clue how it would fit inside of her.

The tip was extremely red with the tip glistening in the lamp light. He had the slightest curve to his length, which made Christine wonder if it would hit that spot inside of her that he had found minutes earlier.

He settled between her legs with one hand bracing his weight by her shoulder. Her knees rested against his hips, opening herself up to him. Erik looked at her, a flush over his cheeks. “This may sting a little, I’m sorry,” he told her. “I promise I will go slow,”

Christine nodded and rested her arms on either side of his ribs. She suppressed a moan as he guided his length over her folds and through the remnants of her orgasm. Once he had himself slicked up, he pushed the tip into her warm sex.

Closing his eyes at the feel of Christine’s tight walls, he had to use every ounce of control left to not plunge into her.

The pleasure she had once experienced had been replaced with a burning sensation as Erik pushed himself into her. Christine whimpered once the hilt of his body reached hers. The electric shocks she felt minutes ago now pulsed around Erik as she adjusted to his size.

The sting of tears burned her eyes. She closed her eyes so he wouldn’t see her discomfort. “I’m sorry,” Erik whispered, kissing her gently.

Christine nodded and after a minute the pain finally subsided so a light sting. “Okay, you can move,”

Erik studied her expression for any hint of pain before he withdrew his hips, pulling his erection almost all the way out before plunging back in, at a slow pace.

He rested his head in the crook of her neck, biting down hard on his lip to control his lust. Again, he gently removed himself before pushing back into her, keeping an agonizingly slow pace for himself.

After a few more thrusts, the stinging gave way to pleasure for Christine and she began clawing his sides, meeting his thrusts.

Erik moaned in her ear, causing her stomach to tighten.

Feeling herself becoming more aroused with every push of his hips, Christine brought her hand to her mop of curls and began rubbing slow, sensual circles. Needing him impossibly closer, she drew her legs up and hooked them around his waist.

Erik used that opportunity to push a little deeper inside of Christine, resulting in a breathy moan falling from her lips.

“Touch yourself, Mon ange,” He told her, watching as her hand rubbed steady circles on her clit.

“It feels so good,” she breathed, moving her hand in faster circles.

“Just like that,” Erik purred, feeling his cock twitch inside her.

Feeling the need for more, Erik sped his pace up, the slapping for their skin becoming louder with each thrust. It was a sound Erik could listen to forever, he wanted to compose a song to the tempo. Christine rested her head against the pillows once more, seeking out her orgasm again.

Suddenly getting an idea, Erik halted his movements, and withdrew his length, earning a cry from Christine. He untangled her left leg from his waist and pushed it against her chest. Pushing his tip back in, Erik’s hips began moving at a faster pace.

Before Christine’s fingers could find her clit again, Erik beat her to it, rubbing the enlarged bud with his thumb. An audible gasp left her, the curling of her lower belly began. She had been amazed at how different it felt when he touched her versus when she touched herself. It was enticing.

Feeling himself becoming closer to the edge, Erik tried to push his release down, he needed Christine to come one more time before he would.

As Erik thrusted harder into her, he hit that familiar spot which he continuously grazed earlier. “Right there,” Christine moaned, feeling the pull of her pleasure building again.

Erik complied, thrusting into her again and again, finishing that same spot every time. With each snap of his hips, the same jolts of electricity found her core again, bringing her to the edge. “Erik,” she moaned, teetering on the edge.

“Come for me,” he demanded, adding more pressure to his thumb, feeling the same clenching around his length that he felt on his fingers.

Christine’s hands found his back and raked her nails down his back as her orgasm found her again. The waves of her release hit her harder this time, sending her body into a fit of convulsions.

Christine grabbed his face and kissed him with every ounce of energy she had left. Erik returned her kiss, just as passionately as she had. Feeling her walls clench around him, the familiar shiver of his orgasm quickly approached. His thrusts became uneven and sloppy, having no rhythm anymore. A whimper came from his throat as he pulled away from their kiss, needing air.

Suddenly his release crashed into him harder than it ever had before. A loud moan left him as he buried himself in her neck, quieting his whimpers. His hot seed shot inside Christine as he came crashing down on his high.

Erik’s chest heaved as he remained inside of her, trying to muster up the energy to pull out and get cleaned up.

Christine’s hands came to either side of his face and pulled him up to her. A sleepy smile found it’s way onto her face and she leaned forward to kiss him slowly. Kissing her back tentatively, Erik slowly pulled out of her.

Christine was thankful she chose to kiss him so he didn’t notice her wince when he pulled out. Pulling back from their kiss, Erik looked at her with a gentle gaze. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He questioned, looking around her face.

Christine shook her head and smiled softly. “No, that was amazing. Thank you,” she brushed some of his hair back that stuck to his forehead from sweat.

“Thank you,” Erik replied, giving her another kiss. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” He asked, not waiting for her response since he was going to do it regardless of her answer.

“I will draw the bath for you, I shall return in just a few minutes, Mon ange,” he said, pulling himself off of the bed before he could let himself hold her. If he held her, there was no way they would be getting out of bed for the rest of the night.

“Erik,” she said, grasping his hand before he could walk away to the kitchen to get her the water.

“Yes, my love?” He asked, reaching down to grab his briefs that were thrown down by the bed.

“I love you,” she peered up at him, planning on telling him any possible chance he could get.

Erik smiled faintly. “And I love you, my Christine.” He kissed the top of her head and set off to get her the water for her bath.

-

About an hour after their exploration of one another, Christine lifted her head from Erik’s chest, who now wore a simple white shirt that exposed his chest in a V shape. “I’ve been trying to wrap my head around this for the last hour, but where did you find this bed?” She questioned, dragging her fingers over the soft coverlet.

Erik’s hand that was resting on her shoulder fell to her waist as she sat up and looked at him. He gave her a sheepish smile. “I.. found it,” he responded vaguely.

Christine hummed, not believing a word he said. Her expression must have given away her feelings because Erik gave a soft chuckle and shook his head. “Okay, maybe I didn’t find it,” he trailed off.

Christine’s brow raised in silent question. “I stole it.” He admitted with a smile.

“Erik!” She scolded like a mother would who found their child eating sweets before supper.

He pulled her closer to him with his hand on her waist, missing the warmth she provided. She snuggled back into his side with a content sigh. “I’d hardly call it stealing. It was sitting out by a dumpster after a traveling show had left town. Since it was sturdy, I decided to bring it home.” He explained.

Christine closed her eyes and tried to imagine him moving this bed all by himself and couldn’t help but giggle. “How did you move this all by yourself? I must admit, it is quite amusing to think,”

Erik looked down at her and twirled a finger around her damp curls, inhaling the scent of his shampoo. “I have an acquaintance from Persia that I asked to come help me move it. Cesar pulled the weight once we got it onto the wagon.” He told her, kissing the top of her head.

Knowing that he had been a stranger to friendship and relationships most of his life, Christine smiled at the idea of him having a friend. “I’d like to meet him,”

Erik nodded and rested his chin on top of her head, closing his eyes. “I will write to him soon to request his company,” he smiled, thinking of his only friend meeting his lover.

“You’ve also been to Persia?” She asked him, not knowing he traveled.

“I’ve been to many countries, my dear,” He told her, thinking of all the countryside he had seen in his 34 years of life.

“Would you tell me about your travels?” She peered up at him through her lashes.

He smiled and laced their fingers together. “Of course,” he told her and began to recite all the different cultures he had seen throughout his travels across Europe. Through his explanation, Christine leaned further into him and absorbed every word that came from his lips. Her heart squeezed being in his arms, finally feeling complete.

you can find me on AO3 (Lickkuid) where I am currently writing a Royal phanfic of Erik and Christine (it’s gonna be 🌶️🌶️)

[lorrainestea]

What freaks me off the most in "Phantom of The Opera" (2004 movie) is that one scene when Meg walks into the dark, cold, moist tunnel leading to the underground of the opera building. And she is still wearing her POINTE SHOES. During the time of "Phantom of The Opera" which should be around 1880 (according to the internet, please correct me if I am wrong) were pointe shoes different from how they are made today - they didn't support the dancer's feet very much.

This is what Wikipedia says about pointe shoes during this time line: ...Pointe shoes were nothing more than modified satin slippers; the soles were made of leather and the sides and toes were darned to help the shoes hold their shapes. Because the shoes of this period offered no support, dancers would pad their toes for comfort and rely on the strength of their feet and ankles for support.

I can't even imagine how uncomfortable they must've been.

BUT even the modern pointe shoes aren't exactly comfortable to walk in - not even on a flat surface such as a stage (of course it depends on which type of pointe shoes you have, but at the end those are not shoes for walking, especially on flat feet). Not to mention they would die pretty quickly if they got wet.

Meg, my darling, my sweetheart, please don't wear your pointe shoes into a dungeon. It's not worth it.

[icyash22]

Master List!

Requesting rules and stuff-

~~~What I will Write~~~

-Oneshots, Headcanons, blurbs and imagines, every once in a while I'll write full part stories

Fluff🩵

Angst💀

Spicy/smutty 🔥

X reader content

Character x OC content

~~~What I won't write/support behavior~~~

Incest/anything that includes large age gaps and pedophilia

Foot fetish/piss/spit kinks. Personal preference, I hate these, no hate towards y'all but fr. I won't write them

i won't stand for homophobic comments, death threats and other types of online bullshit. If you want me to hear a concern or a fact I might not know, come tell me, don't insult me behind anonymous.

Just overall be kind to each other! PleAse. 🙏

What fandoms I write for!

Bnha (villains, Pros (with same age reader) and heros)

Harry Potter

Sally face

Danganronpa (all but despair girls cuz idk how to write for them yet)

Gravity Falls (aged up 4 spicy)

South Park

The Owl House (also aged up 4 spicy)

Fnaf (everyone except for the molten animatronics, and the Afton men)

The sun and moon show (cause I love Lunar)

Black Butler (aged up)

Phantom of The Opera (2004 and book version)

NightMare Before Christmas, Corpse Bride, Coraline(aged up)

Creepypasta

Attack on titan

COD men (Konig, Ghost, Soap, Price)

I think that's it but if I get new hyper fixations I'll add them here!

Here is my first question for y'all!

KO~~That's all!! Take care lovelies!!~~

[night-unfurls-its-splendour]

When the Longing Returns 

Phantom of the Opera (2004) Fanfiction

Chapter 5

Also read on AO3

Catch up here

Pairing: Erik (The Phantom) x Christine Daaé

Rating: M

Chapter Summary: Christine has her first music lesson with Erik in the lair.

Chapter Word Count: 10,328

This Chapter can be enjoyed with my custom immersive soundscapes! Follow the links in the story!

Notes: This chapter also has a little home work for you. I'll be putting these links in my author's notes as well, but Christine sings excerpts from Faust in this chapter, and I strongly encourage everyone to watch one of these (1, 2) performances for context, if you're not already familiar with Faust.

I would also like to thank my beta readers @l10ng1rl, @itsdarogatimebitch and a very special thank you to my lovely friend and humble reader @enigmawritesstuff, who very generously helped me while writing Erik and Christine's lesson. I don't know what this chapter would look like without her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Christine watched as the gate rose, dripping, out of the water. Her heart was still thumping with a fusion of past and present thrills as the Phantom... as Erik—she thought of his name with a glad rush of warmth—propelled the boat forward and they entered the candle-lit antre.

She suddenly had a sense of being physically overshadowed, and realised that he was looming over her, slightly hunched, chivalrously acting as a kind of human canopy to prevent any of the water drops falling from the gate from landing on her as they passed under it.

How wildly the extraordinary circumstances of her first journey here had played on her imagination!

The lair was still the curiously beautiful place she remembered, lit by candles and the moonlight, which shone down through the vents in the street high above, playing off the water.

But the candelabras did not rise up out of the water and somehow light of their own accord; that had been fancy, and nothing more. Christine was returning with a more prepared gaze and a mind less prone to make fantasy into reality, but it did not diminish her appreciation of the surroundings.

She could only admire how comfortably he had managed to appoint what should be such a dismal place. Cluttered with an artistic disorder and furnished with disused gilded stage decorations and velvet curtains, which gave it the faded opulence of an ancient castle suite, for such a humble abode it was somehow simultaneously grand.

Crowning it all, situated on the flagstone plateau in the centre of the cavern, his magnificent pipe organ, which Christine hoped she would be permitted to watch him play tonight.

She recalled the sight of him sitting there when she'd awoken and left his bed. He'd been composing, moving his fingers over the keys as if playing, but never depressing any of them; she assumed in an effort to avoid disturbing her rest by sounding the thundering instrument.

She remembered being both touched by his courtesy and awed by his knowledge of music, to compose without the aid of sound. He was not an angel, but he was, she heartily understood, a genius.

Her heart momentarily clutched with painful guilt as she remembered how wretchedly she had repaid his courtesy. But she didn't want him to see that there was anything amiss and spoil the joy of feeling his trust by reminding him of her previous trespass. Forcing the feeling away, she fixed her eyes on the surroundings, and found it strange how happy she felt to return to a place she had spoken of with derision and horror only three months previously. She had never told Raoul the full truth of her sojourn here; she knew he wouldn't have believed her if she had, in any case.

Erik watched her glance around the lair as the gondola glided up to the solid shore, and he laid the pole to rest against the wall, stepping easily from the boat. He did notice her look, once, at the alcove where the likeness of her was hidden, covered completely by curtains (as it had been for months), but her gaze slid over it and no expression of consternation came over her face.

He let out an imperceptible sigh of relief and resumed his action, sweeping off his cloak and tossing it in a great heap of wool on the floor.

Christine was not surprised by this, frankly slovenly, behaviour; it was almost the exact motion he'd used before. Though his personal hygiene seemed faultless, he was obviously not particularly orderly in his habits otherwise. Still, he could at least have draped it on the chair, she thought as he removed his gloves and threw them onto the nearest table with scarcely more care than he had handled his cloak.

His eyes, a bright grey-blue in the white light reflecting off the water, caught hers as he offered his hands to help her out of the boat. Christine clasped them, any further thoughts regarding his tidiness (or lack thereof) completely blotted out by the sensation of his large, warm hands enclosing her dainty, slightly chilled ones.

No longer sheathed in leather, the touch of his calloused fingers pressing against her palms set a frantic kind of tingling racing up her arms, down her sides, and into her lower back. It made her legs feel weak, though it didn't seem to prevent her from stepping steadily out of the gondola.

She alighted upon the shore in her modest grace and Erik was momentarily lost in appreciating this. Her gaze parted from his to again rove over the surroundings, as if ascertaining that everything was just as it had been before.

He'd spent much of the night doing his best to make sure that his home was in a fit state for her presence: cleanliness had not been the foremost of his priorities for the last several months and the results had been shameful, even by the standards of a recluse.

He was pleased to find that the soft smile, which had never fully left her lips since she'd first uttered his name, was still fixed there as he led her toward the steps to the platform. Once there, however, he noticed that, though the smile was still present, her eyes—beautiful, glittering, almost a red-black in the warm, low light—seemed slightly anxious.

Christine was anxious.

Now they were here.

Now the lesson was to begin, and though Christine must have had thousands of lessons with him, this would be entirely different.

Now she knew his name.

Now she knew his face.

"Is there anything I can get for you, m-Christine?" he asked, his speech stumbling only briefly as he hastily aborted the phrase "My Love". He didn't understand it, but something in his mind prevented him from verbalizing that endearment, though it came very naturally in his thoughts. What caused the barrier, and why, he couldn't quite determine. He couldn't tell if she'd noticed... he didn't think so, for when he continued, almost blithely, "Some water, perhaps?", she simply nodded with a sweet, quiet, 'Yes, thank you.'

"Wait a moment, then," he said, reluctantly freeing her soft little hand. "I'll be back directly."

He turned, went briskly down the steps they had just come up, and then off beyond the table in the centre of that section which comprised his living and work area, pulling back a curtain which Christine had assumed concealed a mirror, but must, in fact, have led to another room.

She was now left alone before the organ. It was a fine instrument, with a console and wind-boxes of black lacquered wood, the moulding decorated in gold leaf. She felt intimidated just looking at it, with its dual manuals of ivory and ebony keys; its rows of stops, also capped with ivory; and all its pipes standing proud and erect, like incredibly regular leaden stalagmites, reaching for the cavern ceiling*.

Christine knew music—her father had taught her to read notes before she was even able to read letters*—but the physical skill required to master such a complex apparatus bewildered her utterly.

Erik exited his little kitchen holding a carafe of water and a glass tumbler. With hurried steps he returned to her and filled the glass with deceptively steady hands before setting the carafe down on a small marble-topped side-table he'd situated nearby the organ. Christine recognized it as a prop table for Violetta's salon in La Traviata*.

The water was on the cool side of lukewarm (of course, he would not give her cold water before a lesson*). It did not entirely erase her nervousness, but it did refresh her.

"Can I do anything else to make you comfortable before we begin?" he asked. There was, in his tone, a palpable desire (near-desperation, it seemed) to oblige. Christine felt his deference tug affectionately at her insides.

A moment of silent deliberation followed, during which she tried to regain full command of herself as she decided what would best relieve both his need to be of service and her own nervous tension.

"Would... would you play something for me?" she stammered, her eyes flicking past him to the imposing instrument she had been admiring just moments previously.

It was a request Erik had not completely anticipated, but one he would fain fulfil. Of all the things—within reason—she could have asked of him; this was by far the most pleasurable.

"Of course, my dear," he answered readily, moving to the organ, whither Christine followed, feeling a rush at both his enthusiasm and the endearment he'd used.

"What would you have me play, Christine?" His inquiry was soft but ecstatic. "Mozart? Bach?" he offered.

Her face flushed pink, and she stroked the rim of the glass timidly with her index finger, her white teeth sinking into the rosy pillow of her lower lip.

Erik's gaze fixated there, and he hoped she would respond soon; before his body had any kind of impertinent reaction to the image.

Her expression was shy, but her eyes suddenly sparkled with enthusiasm.

If he was to play that superb instrument for her, she wanted his music to be the first she heard from it.

"Something of yours?" she suggested. "Something triumphant."

This addition was made with such an expression of delightful anticipation and encouragement that it sent a current suddenly racing through Erik, which seized his hands in a grip of passionate inspiration.

He knew precisely how to satisfy her request.

Something of his? he thought, a rather pleased half-smile creasing the corner of his mouth as he turned on the bench to face the console. No. Something of theirs.

Christine set down her water glass next to the carafe on the little table and stood off to Erik's right hand, her insides fluttering as he adjusted the stops. She wound her arms around herself as he poised to begin; but even so, she was not prepared for what followed.

She remembered, once, when she was very young, perhaps three or four (not long before Mama had died), her father had taken her into Uppsala, and they heard the organist practicing in the cathedral*. They had listened in the doorway; her father would not take her into the Narthex* (directly above which rested the organ loft) lest the volume should hurt her young ears, though even at that age Christine was able to tell how absolutely fascinated her father was by the sound of the great instrument.

This organ was not as grand as that one had been, but it was still powerful, and Christine now stood immediately beside the source of the thunder. As Erik began, the first blast of the organ's speech made Christine jump slightly, and stole from her lungs the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The initial eruption of sound was followed by another blast as Erik's hands worked up and down the lower manual several times, and then his left hand shot to the upper row of keys, depressing a single chord as his right hand began a complex counter melody with such a rapidity that Christine was stunned at the flawlessness with which he executed it.

Now came the melody, carried by the bass clef, and Christine watched his thighs tense as his feet moved agilely across the pedalboard, all while his fingers continued that hellacious counter-tune.

Christine felt a thrill that sang in her veins as recognition dawned. She knew this song*.

It was theirs.

Their song, which they had woven, almost spontaneously, together on the night he had revealed himself to her as a man. The night she had followed him here for the first time.

Your spirit and my voice

In one combined

The Cahman organ in the Uppsala Cathedral had played liturgical music—sacred and solemn. But Christine had asked for triumph, and she couldn't imagine a composition that more perfectly suited her request than this. Handel would have trembled to hear it; Bach and Mozart would have had to doff their proverbial caps to this brother-savant.

The resounding voice of the organ, and the arrangement applied to the melody, rendered it an anthem which was singularly—one might almost say 'sinisterly'—dominant in its glory.  That melody—that bass melody—that made the stone under Christine's feet rumble, sending audacious vibrations up through her feet, into her legs, and higher.... It seemed that every part of her from the tips of her fingers to her centremost being was alive with the sensation.

And he... the creator of that music, the genius who, with his deft, practiced fingers, made those pipes breathe as God made man breathe... he was all Christine's eyes sought as she pressed back against the wall simply to keep herself steady.

It was shocking, wonderful, to see him in his element. But she could hardly see his face—the side facing her was masked. But she had to see it; to witness his sublime expression as he fashioned his music.

So, there was nothing for her to do but to cross the plateau and observe him from the other side. She didn't know if her legs would be steady enough to carry her there, and yet they were already in motion.

Erik could see Christine only from his periphery. But he could hear her. He'd heard the little sound that had escaped her as the organ, under his command, bellowed its first resounding strains. And he could make out her trembling white shape, flitting behind him and coming back into view (or just beyond view) on his other side.

He hoped Christine was pleased with what he'd fashioned from their song, having begun this arrangement of it that same night, while she slumbered in his bed. It had then lain untouched until just last night when he'd sat down, in need of something to work at, now that his Don Juan was complete. This could be the overture of a new opera. One he could dedicate wholly to his willing muse....

He imagined what it would sound like with a full orchestra—with brass, cymbals, timpani—as he climbed an octave, the song building to its exultant heights and then dropping again, the bass carrying the bridge with its groaning, almost creeping, certitude.

As Christine watched, with rapt attention, the expression of victory on his face, she saw how the crease at the corner of his sensual mouth deepened with the building crescendo. The sight made her heart thump faster than even the music did.

And then, just as it seemed to be reaching a climax, the music cut off abruptly, and the last note reverberated off the stone walls and ceiling.

Deafening silence reigned for one, two, three... seven seconds as Erik's legs relaxed, and his hands drew away from the keys, settling in his lap.

"I'm sorry... it's incomplete," he explained, gesturing vaguely to the music sheets on the organ.

To Christine, it seemed as though she could still feel the tremors of the organ shaking in her core. Her legs felt quite numb with the cessation of the vibrations, but, again, they carried her without staggering. She rushed to him, sitting beside him on the bench, her expression nothing short of exuberant.

With no thought, no hesitation, Christine reached for his talented hands, clasping them in hers and drawing them close.

"It's incredible!" was all she could say, in a thrilled whisper; and that commonplace adjective fell stupendously short of conveying the depth of her awe, which words alone could not describe.

But no words were needed, of course.

He knew that the composition and arrangement were both technically exquisite—he had no concerns regarding the quality of the piece. What mattered to him was what Christine thought of his adaptation. Though, from the uninhibited exultation with which she had thrown herself onto the seat beside him—the same exultation with which she had sought out, and now clutched, his hands—she was very much pleased with the work.

And Erik was pleased with her reaction. She had brushed his thigh in her haste to capture his hands, and that faint but enthusiastic touch excited his heart to a rapid, thundering beat. He resisted, with mounting difficulty, the impulse to free one hand from the gentle cage that confined it and press it to the side of Christine's face, or perhaps her neck.... The memory of how her skin had felt—soft and delicate as a rose petal—the one time he'd been privileged to touch it, had sustained him through the time they'd been separated, and it must carry him through now. He could not allow them to become distracted.

Only Christine's touch could distract Erik from music.

"I thought, if you approved, that this could be an overture for a new opera..." he said, raising his voice slightly—an attempt to quell excitement with a conversational tone.

"If I approved?" Christine echoed softly, still holding his hands between them.

Her index finger was absently stroking his hand in the same shy motion she had executed on the water glass—one of her little nervous ticks (and Christine had many). It made it difficult for him to control his breathing. But he could not remove his hands from hers, so long as she wished to hold them.

Christine had not expected him to seek her input on his work. What insight could she possibly offer? Any knowledge of music she had claim to was owing completely to him, except that which she owed to her father.

"This is not my music only, Christine; it is yours, also," Erik explained in a low steady voice. "I would not dare put it to any other purpose without your approval first."

Christine’s gaze darted down to their hands and remained fixed there, on the red stone in his ring. Her cheeks began to glow pink again.

"Mine?" she questioned.

"Yes, Christine," he responded, fervour enlivening his eyes. "You began our duet that night, not I."

"But,” she argued, “I would never have been able to do that without you." She felt a mere shadow next to him. His musicality was so far superior to anything else she'd ever known. For an angel that was expected, but for a man it was uncanny, almost unfathomable. "I have no genius of my own," she said quietly.

"Untrue!" he declared suddenly, his resonant voice echoing in the cavern.

She jumped, taken aback by his sudden outburst. It was he who grasped her hands now. One of his hands extricated itself and he lifted it to her chin, tilting her face up with his fingers. 

"Look at me," he said, his voice coloured by a commanding timbre which Christine could not disobey. She glanced up and met his gaze. His fingertips against the skin of her jaw made her stomach tingle.

It galled him viciously that she should think of herself in such terms. No genius of her own! Outrage! Sacrilege!

"Your aptitude for music," he said with warmth, with severity, with passion, "is unmatched by any woman who has ever sung in this city. As your teacher, I have, I hope, guided and inspired you; but your talent... your power is all your own, my dear Christine."

His tone was agonisingly soft upon this last pronouncement, and his vehement assurance washed over her, stole her breath with intoxicating force like a strong March wind, both exhilarating and comforting.

"You must never forget that skilled as I am, though I say it myself, I am not so powerful as to be able to imbue talent where there was none before. I am only able to foster what nature has already gifted you. Do you understand me? And please say that you do, Christine, for you must know—know—that it is not in my nature to lie about music to spare anyone's feelings; even yours*."

Christine could not help but believe him wholeheartedly. She did know. She knew from OG's infamous notes that the Phantom never withheld criticism where he found fault; and the Angel had never disparaged her in their lessons, but he had never flattered her ego unduly either, even when praising her. But then, she had believed the Angel incapable of partiality or deception. Erik, on the other hand would perhaps have been a less sure thing without this severe lecture. Speechless, and a little chastened, Christine inclined her head in affirmation.

Erik withdrew his fingers from her chin and his hand re-joined its twin in enfolding hers.

"I wish you never to speak of yourself like that again," he said. His adamant tone and expression had softened now.

His confidence in her flooded Christine with emotion, to a point that she thought she might not be able to contain it; that it might take the form of tears and leak from her eyes. She nodded again and closed her eyes, taking several deep breaths to subdue herself. He gently squeezed her hands in his, and the pressure was somehow both exciting and relaxing.

Immeasurable seconds passed, and Erik waited patiently for her eyes to open again, taking this opportunity to simply indulge in admiring the astonishing perfection of her delicate profile in a detail he'd never had the luxury of experiencing until this very moment.

When, finally, they did open, and she looked up at him with her brown irises clear and calm, he took a steadying breath.

"Shall we begin?" he asked, regulating his tone to ensure it was clear to her that they would proceed only if she was comfortable.

Christine's heart stuttered with nerves again, but she was embarrassed by her timidity, and did not want to waste the little time they had by being a coward. She'd already sung tonight; there was no reason she should feel so apprehensive. So, determined to master herself, she nodded confidently.

He stood, and drew her up with him, leading her, with one hand holding hers and the other lightly resting on the small of her back, to stand roughly where she had been when he'd begun to play.

While he moved away, to remove his jacket and fetch his violin, Christine took a sip of water and then linked her fingers behind her back, pulling her arms down as far as she could and sighing as she felt the stretch in her chest, shoulders, and spine.

Thus primed, with her shoulders relaxed and posture correct, she felt ready to begin when he returned to sit upon the organ bench.

His cerulean gaze roved down her form with an approving smile which rendered him entirely dashing, and almost undid all of Christine's efforts to remain in command of her heartbeat. In his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, he sat in an almost debonair attitude of ease, and it occurred to Christine that she'd never seen him look so relaxed except for the brief moment she'd observed him at his work, before he noticed her presence. It was unusual, and yet seemed so perfectly natural and becoming to him.

"Now," he said, "this is a lesson just like any other, Christine. So, we shall begin as usual. Breathe in..."

And Christine did. Her lessons always began in this way. Christine breathed in, and in, until she felt her lungs could hold no more, and then in again; holding it—feeling the effects in her shoulders, in her abdomen—until she could hold it no longer. And then, finally, the glorious, soothing rush as she released that great breath, letting it hiss out slowly between her teeth and her tongue.

Normally, in the Chapel (where all of her lessons had been held until this one), Christine would fix her gaze on the flame of her father's candle during this exercise; but now her eyes were locked with Erik's.

She noticed that he seemed to move in sympathy with her, his shoulders rising as she breathed in, and falling as she exhaled.

"Very good," he said, nodding slightly, his approving smile still fixed in place.

And with that, they began her warm-ups.

Christine had always hated warming up. Particularly, she hated having to do it alone. As a child she'd thought it sounded silly, so her father would always do them with her. And then, when Erik, in his guise as the Angel, had also found her reluctant to do them by herself, he, too, did the exercises with her; and in this way, she had come to enjoy them.

Three months ago, when she had lost her tutor, it had become a two-fold trial for her. Not only did she hate the silliness of the sounds, but the absence of her teacher's voice had made the practice oppressively lonely. The routine was empty, and the sound of just her voice had seemed silvery and cold. She could have asked any of the chorus members to warm up with her, but even if she'd not been too shy to approach someone (and she didn't know many of them very well), it would simply have felt... wrong to do it with a practical stranger; and they would not know the methods that the Angel had used with her—the same methods her father had used. (How Erik had been able to know those exact methods was a mystery which Christine was puzzled, and almost terrified, by). It was more than just routine for her; it was ritual, it was intimate, it was sacred. She felt that with more conviction than ever, now that his voice was mingled with hers again.

After about ten minutes of preparation, Erik said, "Excellent. Now, the next performance of Faust is Friday, yes?"

Christine nodded in confirmation, though she was sure he knew the performance schedules better than the managers did.

"That being so, I'm afraid we have only a little time to prepare you," he replied apologetically.

Christine was a little confused by this. She was more than prepared; Siebel was not a demanding role, and she'd already sung in two performances.

"We'll run through your parts, then, starting with those in... Act III."

Christine's brow furrowed; Siebel was introduced in the beginning of Act II... but then his solo was in Act III, so she thought no more of it.

Until, after awaiting her signal that she was ready to begin, Erik began to play what was, unmistakably, the King of Thule Aria*.

Christine blanched.

She supposed... if he'd not been leaving his notes for so long, then perhaps he'd not been observing the goings on... was it possible that he did not know that she wasn't playing Marguerite? That he assumed that, ever since he'd showered his wrath upon the premier of Il Muto, she had been given leading roles, per his demands? How would he react when she told him that she was singing Siebel? Christine suddenly feared for MM. Andre and Firmin.

"Erik, wait, that..." she took a deep breath, nervous to speak now. He stopped playing and looked at her inquisitively. She set her jaw and said bravely, "That's—that isn't my part."

In the course of the following seconds, Christine watched the metamorphosis of Erik's expression into something sly and knowing.

He cocked his head, an eyebrow raised facetiously, as if to say Come now, my dear; you should know better than that.

"Yes, it is, Christine," he said, his voice a low, chilling rumble.

And she understood. It made sense why he'd apologized for only having four nights to prepare her for the performance: because, by some machinations of his, as yet unknown to her, she would be singing Marguerite.

He smiled in an odd mixture of amusement and apology as he watched the realisation dawn on her adorable features, and then shift into panic.

"Erik!" Christine gasped, her shoulders hunching as her hand came up and braced over her abdomen—she felt a hot, tingling wave of nervous agitation rush through her. "Erik, I-I can't sing Marguerite!"

He set down the violin and bow on the bench, and stepped close to her.

"And why should that be?" he asked.

Her lips trembled as she searched for a response.

She fumbled because as his words, sonorous and certain, settled in her ears, she began to think, indeed, why couldn't she? It was the one role she had always longed for most.

Erik knew this. Every time the Opera Populaire produced Faust he watched her gaze covetously at Marguerite from the wings, mouthing every word, for she knew it all by heart. When she was fourteen, she had confessed to him—or rather, to the Angel—her admiration for the role, though at the time her voice was not nearly developed enough.

Now though?

A week ago, he had come out of the lair for the first time since October to survey the goings on of the Opera and to observe the preparations—for the Bal Masque, and for Faust. And he had watched her on the stage after-hours, singing—with only the gilded figures, writhing in their agonies and ecstasies, which adorned the balconies, and the painted cherubim on the ceiling for her audience—a sublime, a flawless (or nearly flawless), rendition of The Jewel Song*.

And it was truly a role Christine was born to. One she would sing as it had never been sung before. No one who did not hear Christine Daaé sing Faust would be able to claim to know Faust*.

The last several times they had run this opera, the role of Marguerite had been gobbled up greedily by Carlotta Giudicelli. And now Firmin and Andre had, as Lefevre had before them, handed it to her on a platter.

It was an insult to Monsieur Gounod for them to have cast such a tawdry pieceas "La Carlotta" again in the role of Marguerite. Since he had discovered it—though he was not surprised—Erik had been considering ways to make the contemptible cow pay for butchering a role which was characterized first and foremost by humble purity with her vulgar, Café Jacquin* caterwauling.

Perhaps he could make her "moo" this time instead...

Christine tried to imagine herself singing the role. She'd done this often, but never with an idea that it would truly happen—and now, if Erik had his way, it was to happen in less than a week! Her heart was pounding at the thought. She'd had her triumphs, of course, but Elissa and The Countess were both very straightforward roles; Marguerite required incredible emotional range. She had taken both roles at the very last minute, but she had been practicing them with the Angel for weeks beforehand. Though she knew Marguerite by heart, four days didn't seem enough to prepare for the role of her dreams. At the moment, four months hardly seemed like it would suffice.

"Indeed," Erik continued, his voice low and compelling, "you are the only one, Christine. Only you can sing Marguerite as she was meant to be heard*. Carlotta is entirely unsuitable."

That was true, Christine had to admit. Just the other day, a giggling Meg had joyously shown her the reviews for the opening night performance in the Revue Theatrale. While most critics had given Carlotta the usual perfunctory praise which her influential friends purchased for her with bribes, one, who was anonymous, very highly esteemed by the public, and clearly too rich to be bought, had very openly (and accurately) criticised Carlotta's Marguerite as "Rather too splendidly sensuous*".

Christine looked up into the eyes of her mentor, electric with encouragement, and felt bolstered. If he, prodigy that he was, believed that she could be ready to perform Faust in four nights, then who was she to argue with him?

Christine found herself nodding again, and Erik smiled with approbation.

"Good, Christine. Very good."

His eager eyes flicked across her face and then followed a stray lock of her hair down over her collarbone. He almost reached out to brush it back over her shoulder, but he couldn't risk the diversion which the sensation of her skin against his fingers might pose to him.

"Now then," he said, briskly, clearing his throat and retreating from her to take up his violin again, “From the recitatif* 'Je voudrais bien savoir'. Whenever you are ready, Christine."

Christine found herself faltering a little when he walked away from her, but held herself straight and cleared her throat. "I'm ready, Ang—Erik..." she corrected herself with a blush.

Erik, smiling at her little slip, began the accompaniment again, and Christine began to sing.

"I should dearly like to know who this young man was;

Whether he is a noble lord and what his name is... "

It was not difficult for Christine to achieve the correct emotional tone for Marguerite as she sang these lines. She had often seen it performed giddily, flutteringly, but Christine had always favoured a more awestruck interpretation—a hazy distraction. It was easy to portray because it was a disposition Christine had often felt inclined to, but had to suppress, over the last few days.

Marguerite shook her head and began to sing her ballad about the melancholy King of Thule and his golden chalice, before drifting off again, into her dreamy contemplations.

"It seemed to me that he was most handsome..."

She resumed the sombre, steady chanson, before interrupting herself again:

"I hardly knew what to say,

And at first, I blushed bright red."

She could sympathise; as she sang, she became keenly aware of Erik's gaze fixed constantly on her. How could eyes so cool a shade of blue radiate such a burning heat?

A lesson just like any other, he'd insisted. But how could it be? No walls divided them, as in the Chapel, no illusions. He was so blatantly there, before her; a man—corporeal. How could this be a lesson like any other lesson when she could feel—could see—his eyes raking over her? When she knew that he perused her with the gaze of a lover.

But what if she really wasn't prepared to sing Marguerite? If, despite his assurances, Erik's feelings for her were, in fact, blinding him to her deficiencies? What if she disappointed her teacher...? Her teacher who loved her?

The thought made her tense; made her sweat. Her shoulders stiffened a little as she clutched her shawl in her suddenly damp hands. A slight panic overtook her, because she could hear her voice tightening as the song-within-the-song concluded and Marguerite again became occupied with her fancies, until finally...

"None but great lords possess a mien so resolu—"

Christine's voice cracked, and she stopped all at once, her face reddening in embarrassment. Erik ceased his bowing as Christine turned her face away.

"I'm sorry," she muttered with mortification, hiding her face in her hands, and rushing to sit down on the organ bench.

"Christine, it's alright. You needn't apologise," Erik said with the steady kindliness of the Angel as he sat beside her.

He frowned now, glad that she was hiding her face and wouldn't see it; he didn't want her to think he was upset with her. It was himself he was displeased with.

To be sure, her shock at his intentions for her to sing Marguerite had been every bit as precious as he'd predicted, but he ought to have thought better of surprising her like that when it would put so much pressure on her, and with so little time to prepare herself, just to see that expression.

Imbecile! he scolded himself internally, holding his violin and bow in one hand and running his other across his mouth, which twisted in frustration.

"I don't know what happened," Christine moaned, somewhat aware that this was a lie, her elbows on her knees and forehead in her hands.

"Christine, it's perfectly understandable," Erik said. "I must take the blame, I think. I've put too much pressure on you. And it's your first lesson after... after a long time, and in a place you're unused to as well."

He couldn't stand to see her in that attitude. He lifted a cautious hand to her shoulder as he spoke and was surprised to find that her rigidness seemed to ease under his touch. She straightened up a little and lifted her face, turning to look at him.

Strange that the heat of his eyes had inspired such tension, and yet the warmth of his hand soaking through the thin cotton of her nightdress seemed only to relax her. She was leaning in against him, an unconscious craving to be nearer his warmth conducting her movements.

This, too, surprised Erik slightly. He'd vowed to keep his distance, but what could he do when she was closing it? Her proximity to him had shifted just enough that his hand's position became awkward, so he moved it, quite easily, around to her other shoulder, his arm now stretching across her back.

This would do. This was safe enough; near, but not dangerously so, as they had been in the tunnel when she'd been pressed against his chest. And it seemed to ameliorate her, which was all the incentive he needed to allow it.

Just at that moment, looking at his arm spanning her delicate shoulders, he happened to notice that the ribbon tying her curls back appeared to be the same weight and width of those which he had tied around the roses he gave to her. She'd kept one? It had to be the one from the gala night, for he knew too well the fate of the one he'd gifted her for Il Muto.

She'd kept it.

The affect which this simple little bow of silk had on Erik was profound. He wondered if this, like the change in her soap, had been a conscious choice on her part; some little manner of eschewing her attachment to Raoul de Chagny. But the idea also occurred to him that perhaps she had been using it all along. All this time, had she been (consciously or unconsciously) wearing his favour, even as the little Vicomte courted her?

Erik's heart suddenly thudded faster (with an excitement which, he was aware, was a little perverse) at that thought; his neck was suddenly warmer under his cravat, and the fingers of his left hand flexed, itching to tighten on Christine’s shoulder and draw his little soprano still closer.

But that would be dangerous. This was not the time to be having such ideas, especially when she was dispirited and vulnerable.

"If you like, I would advise that you take some more water and then try again whenever you feel ready," he said, forcing himself to remember that, right now, he was her mentor first and foremost. "But if you aren't comfortable continuing, we can end the lesson here for tonight. I don't want to—"

Alarmed by this suggestion, Christine suddenly sprang fully upright in her seat.

"No! Please!" she protested, interrupting him.

Erik did not seem the least bit disappointed in her, as she'd feared he might, but she did not want to end the evening with a failure. It was her own fault; she'd been lying when she said she was ready to begin, and that was a mistake which she should have known better than to make. She had simply been too proud, and she'd let her doubt in herself get the better of her.

But with his hand cupping her shoulder, with his arm enclosing her, she felt mellow and confident. She wanted to sing Marguerite and would not retire to bed after one slip-up in practice; she didn't think she could sleep if she did.

"I don't want to end the lesson," she said with determination. "Let me try it again."

"Are you certain, Christine?" he asked, his tone very serious, almost stern.

"Yes," she said resolutely. "I'm ready now. I want to sing."

It pleased Erik to see her with such a will, such a brightness in her vast, lustrous eyes. It seized him in his centre, and, with a surety he'd not felt since gala night, when he had first had the pleasure of igniting the sensual spark in those rich, dark irises, he said solemnly (though with a timbre in his voice which was not entirely teacherly), "Then, my Angel, you shall sing."

Again, they stood, and again he walked her to her position; and this time he allowed himself the liberty of circling behind her to place his hands on her shoulders, pulling them back to ensure her posture was just so.

A little hum built in Christine's throat as she felt his palms press against her shoulders, a sound of mingled contentment and anticipation.

As he came around in front of her again, he indulged a little, tracing his hand down her arm, the curve of her elbow, to take her hand in a fluid motion and squeeze her fingers lightly before releasing them. He offered her some more water and she drank, handing him the glass when she was finished.

Then he took his instrument in hand once more.

"From the beginning. When you are ready, Christine," he said, poised to begin.

Christine simply nodded this time.

If she thought she had started well before, it was nothing compared to this. She was astonished at the smoothness with which she was now singing. It was as if she was somehow singing in velvet as she oscillated between the gloomy ballad and Marguerite’s recollections of her encounter with Faust. Her prior failure crept into her thoughts as she approached the line she'd botched, but she combated it using the techniques Erik had taught her, while keeping her thoughts fixed on the memory of the warm steadiness of his arm around her, which incited a rather pleasant tension all down through her abdomen.

"None but great lords possess a mien so resolute,

Together with such gentleness!”

She glided over the notes that had previously seemed out of reach to her. Her voice was full and flexible, as clear as a mellow church bell; and every phrase of music she conquered fed her confidence.

Without thought or pause, she flowed effortlessly through the recitatif that bridged The King of Thule and the Jewel Song, her movements and expressions becoming animated as she acted out Marguerite's discovery of Siebel's posy of flowers and the infernal casket of costly jewelry.

"Whence could this rich casket have come?" she asked, kneeling on the floor as she would on stage with the jewelry case before her. Brow furrowed, she continued, timidly:

"I dare not touch it, and yet …

Here is the key, I think."

Her head tilted to the side.

"What if I opened it? 

My hand shakes.

But why?

It is not wrong to open it, I suppose."

Inside, Erik's heart was swelling with admiration and pride. How marvellously she portrayed the tremulousness of the girl as she reached a shaking hand forward to open the box!

"O God! What a lot of jewels!

Is this some bewitching dream

Which dazzles me,

Or am I really awake?"

He could only imagine how radiant she would be on stage. But on stage it would be difficult to see exactly how precisely she had crafted her interpretation over the years she'd yearned for the role. Only he would ever be close enough to see her eyes glitter as if reflecting the sparkle of the precious jewels that existed only, at the moment, in her mind's eye.

"If only I dared

Adorn myself, for a moment,

With these earrings!" she mused with the breathless wonder of temptation lighting a covetous fire in her eyes as she touched each earlobe, as if to don the earrings.

"Ah! there is a mirror

At the bottom of the casket!

How could one help admiring oneself?"

She gasped in wonder, holding up an invisible mirror, canting her head at a proud angle and twisting her slender, graceful neck to admire the earrings.

"Ah~" she began to trill, glancing at her maestro, whose violin sang in harmony with her. Her vocalisation melted into the aria, and Christine felt the rapture of song overtake her.

"Ah! I laugh to see how lovely

I look in this mirror!

Ah! I laugh to see how lovely

I look in this mirror!" she sang joyously, before caressing the mirror's face with astonished fingers.

“Is that really you? Marguerite? Is it?

Answer me! Tell me quickly, tell me, tell me, tell me!" she bade the reflection, before clutching it to her bosom and closing her eyes.

No, no! – this is no longer you!

No, no! – this is no longer your face!

This is the daughter of a king!

The daughter of a king!

Is it you? Is it you?

No this is the daughter of a king,

To whom everyone bows as she goes past!

Her face drifting up, Christine's eyes opened and, glazed and dreamy, caught Erik's. Her heart pounded as she sang:

"Ah, if he could see me thus,

He would think me as handsome,

as any fine lady!"

Ah~” her heart soared as her voice floated up in an airy crescendo.

"He would think me as handsome

As any fine lady!"

What delicious irony that she could see Erik watching her with his sharp, blue eye as she sang this. Her skin prickled, but it was not with perturbation.

"Let's complete the transformation!

I am longing to try on as well,

The bracelet and the necklace!" she exclaimed in mellifluous tones, feeling the heady rush of excitement Marguerite felt, her heart resplendent with the sumptuous song. She pantomimed the action of adorning herself with an almost crazed intensity. She "put on" the bracelet and gasped:

"Gracious! It feels like a hand

Clasping my wrist."

Erik imagined his hand applying that weight to her delicate wrist which the imaginary bracelet mimicked, and then was, again, briefly consumed with the idea of kissing it as she stood and sang through Marguerite's decadent raptures of naïve Vanity.

"Marguerite, this is no longer you!

This is no longer your face!

This is the daughter of~ a king~" her silver accents of elation rang throughout the lair, echoing off the walls and ceiling, surrounding them both in the vibrating song.

"To whom everyone bows~ as she goes past~"

The splendour of her voice as it climaxed caused Erik to suppress a deep moan. Closing his eyes and inhaling sharply, he was able to contain himself for as long as was necessary to play out the ecstatic finale of the piece. But when it was finished, and Christine stood before him, with eyes alight and breast heaving, he set the violin aside and sprang forward to grasp her shoulders.

"Excellent, Christine! Magnificent!" he ejaculated*, his voice and expression saturated with an adulation so powerful she felt a fire seem to light in the apples of her cheeks.

Christine was panting and ecstatic after her song, but his praise was splendid, overwhelming, and stole whatever breath she'd managed to recover clean away.

Raoul praised her singing ceaselessly, but Raoul would laud anything she did. She could spill paint on a canvas and call it art and he would applaud her skill. He was not very musical; and, though exceedingly fond of her father, had retained almost nothing of what her father had taught him when he was Raoul's music tutor. She'd found that out quickly.

Praise from Raoul could never be anything more than flattery.

Praise from her teacher? From the most musically gifted individual she'd ever known, who had imparted to her only a fragment of his own vast knowledge? That was profound. It was everything.

"Oh, you are more than ready to perform Marguerite, Christine, more than ready," Erik continued effusively, lightly caressing her face with his knuckles. Her honeysuckle aroma, pure and enticing, filled his head and made his ears roar with how it quickened his blood. Breathing heavily, he drew so near to her, bent his head so close, that their foreheads almost touched.

Christine, still filled with the euphoria of singing—singing for him—at her full power, and at seeing what vibrant animation accompanied her Angel's jubilant voice as he celebrated her, did not hesitate to lift her face to his. His fingers stroking her cheek with such ardent tenderness had set a warmer kind of joy bubbling up inside her, and her lips were beset by a tingle which she knew could be satisfied, if only his would meet them.

Erik suddenly became aware that her hands had come up to rest against him, one on his chest, the other at his waist. Her eyes were dark, her lips tantalisingly parted, a slender line of rich darkness and glinting ivory just visible between the lush, fruit-pink curves.

Erik recognised this attitude with a heart-stopping jolt; it had reigned his mind for the past forty-three hours.

This was invitation.

The lesson was over. The line that divided his distinct roles of tutor and lover blurred, and disappeared as the sight of her bosom rising and falling stole his breath. He drew his right hand with a shaking, but elegant touch up the slope of her shoulder. Trailing it tortuously along her collarbone, he finally took that errant lock of hair which had distracted him during their lesson, let the kinks of burnt umber silk run through his fingers, and lifted it delicately over her shoulder, allowing his fingers to graze her skin¹⁷.

Christine gasped, not out of surprise or shock, but something else which seemed to correspond to that pleasant tightness which spanned from her ribs all the way down to her thighs and everywhere in between.

She was quivering like an aspen as Erik allowed his head to dip, closing that last inch required for his mouth to meet hers, and enveloped her sweet, full upper lip between his. He tilted his head to the right so that, when their noses inevitably brushed, hers would be met with warm flesh, rather than the cold ridge of his mask.

He gripped her shoulders firmly, and she craved the pressure.

Erik, almost vibrating with the surreal exhilaration of Christine soliciting his kiss—the second time in as many days—brought his hand to the side of her neck, and it curved, moulding itself to the elegant column where he could feel the rhythmic, tangible song of her blood rushing in her veins. God, but it was more beautiful than he'd even imagined, to feel that beat racing under his hand! His thumb traced the smooth line of her perfect jaw and he felt it drop slightly as, breathless, she began to take action by gently sucking his lower lip.

His recollections of feeling Christine kiss him, of feeling her blessed mouth grace him with the tenderness which he craved so desperately—which he had, until yesterday, believed would be forbidden him forever—were the most precious moments in his unhappy life. He had an excellent memory, and they were but two days old, yet already they had faded, and failed to do justice to the actual experience. He'd thought them still fresh, still vivid, but he realised now, feeling her mouth, both active and yielding against his, that nothing would ever compare to the pure joy of feeling her there, leaning willingly up to him.

No doubts regarding Christine's motivation now intervened to subdue Erik's passion; the hot yearning in the pit of his stomach spurred him on. The hand cradling her neck pulled her closer so he could kiss her with an urgent force, and he felt his blood rushing downward, an ache beginning to throb in his loins.

His mind was briefly overtaken with a scene his lust had often conjured: pushing her up against the stone wall and hitching her leg around his waist. Pinioning her there, thrusting his hips into hers, and letting his building erection rub against her whilst she whimpered with pleasure and clung to him... But Erik—even with his head swirling with her air as she sighed against his lips and leaned eagerly up toward him—had not yet completely lost hold of the good end of his reason*.

This Christine, the one he held, was not the same as that girl in his imagination, however avidly she received his attention.

Not just yet, at least.

Whatever passion had her in its grip, she was no more experienced than she had been on that morning in the cemetery. Her desire was without question; but it was delicate, tender, still budding.

Abandon, aggression, could end in disaster. Christine was a good girl, and he had reason to believe that she would not appreciate being introduced to physical love by his suddenly using her as something to rut against, like a beast. He did not want to use her like that, whatever images his aching loins were feeding his brain.

When he finally took Christine, he thought with relish, she would be his wife... and it would be perfect for her.

He was glad that his hand was still firmly braced on her right shoulder, for that was the arm which she had around his waist, and with which she seemed to be trying to pull closer to him.

She didn't know what effect that would have on him, while her lips, warm and soft, moved in tandem with his; how it would make his member pulse and strain in its confines with desperation. It took a mighty effort for Erik to suppress the blatantly hungering moan building inside his throat as her fingertips dug into the silk of his waistcoat.

He would give Christine as much pleasure and love as he was able to, through only a kiss; though it was a mere drop in the vast ocean of adoration in which he wished to submerge her. And for himself? He would take his pleasure in the miraculous blessing that she, by some mysterious working of her enigmatic heart, wanted this. But he couldn't allow her lower body to be pressed against his own, and so shifted his left hand to her shoulder blade, pulling her closer to his chest, but no lower.

Christine, for her part, longed to be pressed against him as fully as possible. His hand on her neck was rough and warm and the slight pressure with which he dug his fingertips into the back of her neck made her feel limp, but she wanted his other hand on the small of her back. She wanted him to hold every inch of her tightly against him, like he had in the cemetery. Like Raoul never had. And yet, though Erik held her to his breast, he did not move the other hand to mimic his motions at the mausoleum.

Still, he seemed to lavish her all the more with his mouth by way of recompense, easing the force of his lips against hers, brushing his tongue lightly across her upper lip, and then sucking on it luxuriantly. He released her for a brief moment, catching a deep breath, and within a heartbeat he was bearing down upon her again and rubbing the pad of his thumb languidly against the hollow below her ear.

Someday soon, he thought with devilish delectation, he would kiss her there; it would be the tip of his tongue caressing that little furrow. The thought of how she would moan made him ache obscenely for her, but he was a patient man, and he would control himself.

The effect of this action on Christine’s senses was potent, and she found herself swaying, her mind hazy and full of his touch and his rich, bittersweet scent. Her hands, almost numb, tingled to the very tips of her fingers. Had she ever felt so great a felicity as this?

On the rooftop, with Raoul, she had soared with elation; the kiss she had shared with Erik in the cemetery had been epiphany, almost more spiritual an experience than physical; this... this bliss was so all-encompassing she felt entirely swept away, floating, almost powerless, in its thrall.

A little clock somewhere in his work area began to chime; two in the morning.

The lair having been completely silent, save for the ambient drips of water and the soft sounds of their mouths taking enjoyment of each other, the unexpected sound made Christine start, effectively ending their kiss without either of them having to make the hated decision themselves.

Slightly disorientated, she glanced over his shoulder in the direction whence the chiming issued as if she had never heard such a sound before; and Erik, his eyes surveying her pink cheeks and reddened lips with a mixture of veneration and satisfaction, hummed.

The time he had so precisely allotted for their lesson had expired. And probably, though he did not like to admit it, for the best.

He lifted his thumb to her chin, and Christine's eyes returned their focus to his; they were radiant with that indescribable joy which she was certain they had only shown once before—and only to her. She basked in that radiance.

Her lips remained parted, breaths shallow, as he brought his hands to her shoulders once more.

"It's time I returned you," he murmured, his voice husky in a pleasing way that sent a shiver down Christine's spine. Reluctance was apparent in his shining eyes, but his expression brooked no negotiation, so she could not but agree.

There was but one thing that Erik needed to attend to before they began the lengthy trek back to the dormitory.

"Christine, pray, excuse me for a moment. Make yourself comfortable," he indicated the bench. "I won't be long."

"Of course."

Christine sat as he went up the steps that led to his bedroom, she assumed to use the lavatory.

About half a minute had passed after he disappeared into his boudoir, when Christine stood again, feeling too effervescent to sit still on the bench. She wandered over to a music stand and glanced at the sheets on it: original compositions, some incomplete. She didn't want to touch those. She had a notion that artists didn't like their works-in-progress to be perused uninvited. Then her gaze slid over to the faded gold and red curtains between the platform and the steps to the bedroom.

This was the one difference she'd noticed upon her arrival that evening: the curtain was drawn over that alcove. For a moment she considered wandering over to examine the gown; but, as it was covered, she dismissed the idea—she had sworn off trespassing; it would be better if she asked him to show it to her again some other evening. They had many before them. She decided instead to examine his organ in greater detail.

Several minutes passed and Christine realized Erik had been gone quite a long while. She was beginning to wonder if he would be much longer, and went to the steps, stretching her neck to see if he was coming. As she did so, she caught sight of something she had not noticed before.

On the high platform beyond his bedroom, there sat, what could only be described as, a throne; ornately carved and gilded, with sumptuous cushions of darkest red velvet*.

Christine felt a little burst of mirth as she recalled what he had said on that first night, about bringing her "to the seat of sweet Music's throne." She had thought he was being entirely metaphorical; merely poetic. Now, however, she could see that his sense of grandeur had a far more literal bent.

She visualised him sitting there broodingly, on the grand chair hidden in its dark corner, and her amusement suddenly drained from her. It was all too easy to imagine that he'd occupied it in that attitude often over the last several months, and the vision weighted her heart with regret and empathy for his misery.

Misery, she reminded herself as she sank onto the organ bench again, that she had compounded with her cowardice.

Just then, Christine heard his footsteps on the flagstones and tried to rearrange her features into a happier expression. She thought of the kiss they had just shared; the joy with which his tenderness had filled her, and the satisfaction and comfort her alacrity seemed to have given him. She recalled his excitement, his pride, his smile as he extolled her during their lesson, and the shadows that pricked her conscience, for the moment, receded.

By the time he reached her she was (almost) all ease and smiles. Seeing the light in his eyes, glittering like blue topaz as he beheld her, solaced her still further, yet she thought he looked a little flushed. Christine attributed this to residual excitement from the evening's achievements and thought no more of it.

"I apologise for taking so long," he said, as he retrieved his jacket and pulled it on. Once done, he offered Christine his hand.

Her lips stretched into a lovely, almost bashful little smile as he did this, and Erik felt himself smile in kind. She grasped his outstretched hand and followed him down the steps.

He assisted her in boarding the little gondola, then swept his cloak around his shoulders and tugged his gloves on, the creaking of the leather as he flexed his fingers audible even from where Christine was sitting. It was a pleasant sound, she thought.

Erik stepped lithely into the boat and Christine settled into a comfortable huddle on the pillows at his feet as he pushed away from the shore.

As the boat sailed out of the cavern, Christine turned and peered around the curtain of his cloak, back at the lair, excited to think that she would be coming back here again the next night. And the night after that... and, she hoped, perhaps every night for the foreseeable future.

~~~ Author's Notes

[lord-valery-mimes]

The Phantom of Manhattan - A Painful Recap

When I read a brief bulleted list showcasing all the craziest things in this book, I knew I had to read it. I was 42% of the way through it at the time I wrote this paragraph, and good grief, it's all more ridiculous and terrible than I could have ever imagined. So of course I decided that I should write a full recap of the whole horrible  thing. Strap yourselves in tight folks. This is a bumpy one.

The book opens with Madame Giry narrating the story, even though she's supposedly drugged up and in horrible pain on her deathbed. Those French women are made of strong stuff. She confesses to rescuing Erik from the freak show where he was imprisoned (so that's where the 2004 Phantom film got that idea). She then brings him back to her flat that she shares with a seven year old Meg, and proceeds to nurse him back to health. Because yes, any working single mom with a young daughter at home would of course be totally down with bringing a strange, disfigured, mentally unstable teenage boy into their home. She proceeds to talk about how she eventually smuggled Erik into the opera, and how he was able to build himself a home and life in the cellars there. Because that makes sense. “Just stick him down there. It’ll be fine!”

His crimes at the opera are glossed over entirely. Joseph Buquet wasn't murdered, he committed suicide, don’tcha know? And Piangi? Oh that was just an unfortunate accident (simply an accident!), Erik only wanted to keep him quiet! His only crime was FALLING IN LOVE. Jesus Fucking Christ. Madame Giry dies, but not before paying someone to go to NY, find Erik, and give him a letter.

Chapter two and suddenly it's Erik himself who is telling his story. About how Madame Giry stuck him on a boat after the events of the musical, and how he spent four weeks crossing the Atlantic. Also how he managed to jump overboard in the middle of winter, and swim FOR AN HOUR without getting hypothermia and dying, just so he could bypass immigration. He finally drags himself ashore on Coney Island, where, conveniently enough, there is an entire gang of disfigured, down-on-their-luck types sitting around a fire, and they don't give a rat’s ass that some bedraggled guy with a messed up face just came out of the ocean like the most disappointing mermaid.

This group makes a living cleaning fish, but Erik is SO smart, and SO clever, that he quickly finds a way to amass a small fortune and make his way up in the world. He even gets a sidekick, a random teenaged boy named Darius who we find out was a sex worker, which in this story makes him the literal embodiment of evil. With Darius as the face and Erik as the brain, they scheme and thieve their way to fortune. Yay, America!

I almost forgot the best part. Because their scheming and thieving requires Erik to sometimes be out and about in the daylight, he has someone make him a latex clown mask (something that Google informs me wouldn't be invented for another twenty-odd years), and he hits the town dressed up as a literal clown. Just… close your eyes and picture the Phantom, full clown face, complete with red nose and oversized shoes, casually strutting around Coney Island. This is no angel of music!

Before you know it, Erik is building the tallest skyscraper in all of New York and designing himself a cushy penthouse suite at the top so he can take off his clown mask and relax in peace away from prying eyes. If he's this clever and good at making money, why didn't he do the same in Paris and live somewhere other than in the dank and dark basement of the Opera Populaire? I’m just sayin’…

Chapter three and we’re shifted to yet ANOTHER character. The poor bastard who’s been tasked with Madame Giry’s dying wish: to deliver her letter to Erik. This man is SO angry, and SO French, and SO unhappy to be in NY where there is no good food or wine, and I honestly wish the whole story had been about him instead. He can't find this Erik Mulheim, even though he was assured that it would be so EASY, given the weird name, and the fact that he was told to look for a guy with a messed up face. Frenchy is about ready to give up and go back to France when…

Chapter four! Yet ANOTHER narrator, this time a reporter for a newspaper, who is just trying to enjoy a hot fudge sundae, when he happens upon our angry Frenchman. The reporter makes the mistake of wishing him a badly pronounced “Bon-jewer Mon-sewer”, and instead of recoiling with disgust at this butchering of his native tongue as any good Frenchman would, the man starts lamenting in French to the unsuspecting reporter, who instead of politely excusing himself so he can eat his sundae in peace, rushes to find someone who can translate for this clearly overwhelmed guy. Somehow the reporter manages to find someone who not only speaks French, but who also has a guess as-to who this mysterious Erik Mulheim might be. Could it be the mysterious man who just built that big-ass skyscraper? The guy who no one ever sees but is a multi-millionaire and an extraordinary entrepreneur?

Now the reporter and Frenchy are buds, and they head to the skyscraper together, because the reporter is hoping he could be the first person to unmask this mysterious character! What a scoop! Unfortunately Darius intercepts them both, and insists on taking the letter to its owner. Frenchy is just happy he can finally leave, and get back home where his wife's ample buttocks are waiting for him to snuggle into. Yes, he literally says that.

Then stuff starts to get REALLY weird. The narrator shifts to Darius, who is literally high as fuck and having a conversation with a god. I’m not joking. Darius is worried because Erik has suddenly gone opera crazy, paying millions of dollars to have an opera house built, and staying up all night writing music. WHAT COULD HE BE UP TO? Darius is worried that this might affect his chances of inheriting Erik’s wealth someday. The god tells him to chill out, but is also like, “But kill him if you think you gotta.” Alright then. Nothing at all ominous about that.

This gimmick of every chapter being told by a different narrator is jarring, but I’m willing to deal with it, if we get to hear more from Gaylord Spriggs, who writes an enthusiastic column about gossip around New York opera. You see, when the Met refused to give Erik a private box, he went, “Oh yeah? Well I’ll make a whole new Opera house then! So there!” And not only is he building his own opera, he's paying insane amounts of money for the two greatest sopranos alive to come and sing there. SUCK IT MET! And one of them is none other than Christine de Chagny. Where have I heard that name before?

Then things get really boring as an old Irish priest tells his entire life story to Pierre: Christine and Raoul's son. Do we really need to know all this? Apparently when a fellow cast member of the opera suddenly keeled over of a heart attack during a performance, the Irish priest was summoned to deliver his last rights, and Christine was all, “Hey, wanna tutor my son?” I mean, I guess I can think of weirder ways to get a job.

Another chapter, and another newspaper report, by yet another reporter, this one discussing Christine's arrival with much pomp and detail. Christine reveals that it was the sheer BEAUTY of the brand new opera by an “unknown American composer” that convinced her to come all the way to New York. She also reveals that the opera is set during the American Civil War, something that I’m sure Erik, a French guy with no formal education, knows loads about. I can't wait to hear more about this.

The reporter sees the need to mention that he sees a strange masked figure standing on top of a warehouse, something that I’m sure a reporter covering the arrival of an opera star would totally do. A big to-do is also made about the fact that there is a *gasp* puddle of slush stopping Christine from getting in her carriage, when suddenly a reporter swoops down with a cape that he flings over the puddle, and crisis averted! I always thought the “throwing a coat over a puddle” thing was so stupid since cloth absorbs water, and the second she steps on it, the puddle will just seep right through and get on her shoes anyway. But whatever, I’m not the one writing this stupid story.

We're back to our first reporter, the one who attempted to get in the penthouse to meet the elusive Phantom millionaire. It looks like we'll be hearing a lot from him, so his name is Charlie Bloom. Charlie describes Christine as “big bagels in the opera world”, and I need to find a way to work that into everyday conversation now. Unsurprisingly, he is the reporter who covers the puddle with the cloak that was given to him by a “mysterious person” in the crowd. My god, who could that mysterious person have been? Apparently his puddle act was so GALLANT that of course Christine invites him for an interview.

We’re quickly introduced to Meg Giry who is now lame in one knee and weirdly also Christine’s maid. This is basically all we see or hear from her in this story. At least it's better treatment than she gets in Love Never Dies.

A bellboy comes up at the same time as Charlie with a gift for Pierre, Christine’s son, and it’s our old friend the barrel organ monkey music box. Pierre just starts tearing the thing open with his clever little hands, clearly to hammer home how STRANGE and DIFFERENT he is. When he turns the musical disk inside the monkey over, it starts playing Masquerade and Christine loses it. She demands to be taken to the store that made the music box. Because that… makes sense?

Back to Erik who’s heart is simply aflame after seeing Christine, even from far away. He drops this gem of a description on us, “the face and smile to break a block of granite clean in two.” Sir, what does that even mean? You are describing a sledgehammer. He reiterates that he gave the reporter his old opera cloak to cover the slush puddle, you know, just in case we weren’t able to connect the dots on our own. Clearly the author thinks that anybody who would bother to read this book must be a moron. Sadly, I think he was correct, because reading it is certainly one of my biggest life regrets now.

Erik tells us of the letter he received from Madame Giry, wherein she retells the story of how she apparently met Raoul as a young man, and saw him get his dick or balls (Madame Giry is a LADY so she doesn’t go into detail) shot off after saving a girl from a ruffian with a gun. Madame Giry lets the Phantom know this, because apparently since Raoul has zero dick or balls, that must mean that Christine’s child is the Phantom’s? So like… they had sex and he just never mentioned this in all his narration? Did they go in a hot tub together and an errant sperm just… Swam its way in? Like… what happened here? Erik never explicitly states that they did the nasty together, so we’re left kind of guessing. Is Pierre an immaculate conception?? You know that if they’d done the deed together, Erik would NOT have shut up about it, and would probably have written a full aria just about Christine’s vagina. I refuse to believe that they just had normal sex and then went their separate ways because it makes no sense. But then NOTHING has made sense in this book so far.

Meg’s turn to narrate now. Please Meg, help me make some sense of this madness. She retells the whole story of the music box monkey. WE JUST READ THIS TWO CHAPTERS AGO! Meg just repeats verbatim the end of the musical, how the Phantom abducts Christine and there is an implication that he either raped her, or she “couldn’t resist” him. Ewww. That’s all I will say about that. That, and men need to stop writing stories with gross consent issues.

Yet another narrator, someone named Taffy Jones. I DON’T CARE ABOUT THESE PEOPLE. He is the Official Funmaster of Steeplechase Park on Coney Island. Ok, maybe I care about him a little. He’s been instructed to open the park for Christine to let her see the toy shop and the Hall of Mirrors. Gee, I wonder what could be waiting for her in there? Of course it’s Erik who begs Christine to stay with him, but she refuses. She loves Raoul! Erik demands she give him his son right there and then. She’s all, “Gimme five years,” meanwhile Erik’s creepy sidekick is eavesdropping. Christine leaves and Erik is all, “Five years? Pfft. He’s mine and I will TAKE him.” No bueno, Erik.

It’s the Irish priest’s turn to narrate now, and he’s talking to god. Literally. Like we read what God responds to him as a dialogue. Who wrote this garbage? Oh right, Frederick Forsyth, esteemed British novelist. The priest confesses to lusting after Christine and God is all, “Of course, she is beautiful.” Ew! WTF, God? Apparently he was lusting after her while he was listening to her confession, so this is all kinds of fucked up. Then he tells God her confession and God just casually drops that there are lots of gods. Man, this book is wild and misogynistic.

This next chapter is by everyone’s fave, Gaylord Spriggs. He reviews the Phantom's new opera that he wrote for Christine, which is basically a cross between Gone With the Wind and… Well… The Phantom of the Opera. The lead tenor mysteriously starts croaking during intermission, and an “unknown” understudy takes his place for the second half of the opera. I suppose at least the poor croaking tenor was spared being strangled. RIP Piangi.

Another newspaper column, this time by Amy Fontaine. I really am so weary of this multi-narrator format. If this Frederick Forsyth guy hadn't already been a celebrated author, and the Phantom musical hadn't been such a big hit, this overblown fanfic would never have made it past any publisher with more than one brain cell.

Anyway, Amy Fontaine is reviewing the post-opera party for a social column, and the funniest bit is that Christine meets not just one, but TWO United States presidents as Teddy Roosevelt himself shows up along with his niece and future president FDR. Irving Berlin also shows up and it's like the author was trying to cram in as many historical time period big names as he could as Easter eggs, but instead of being subtle and clever like an Easter egg should be, these are neon signs that Frederick Forsyth is shoving in your face while he screams at you.

Chapter sixteen is a literal lecture. It's like the author just keeps making this book as torturous for the reader as he can. And it takes place in the future too, around the end of WWII. You know I started writing this review because I thought it might be funny, but now I am full of regrets and pain. But onward I soldier. If it stops anyone else from having to read this brain enema of a book, it will be worth it.

Anyhow, this lecture is being given by none other than Charlie Bloom, who after years of being a reporter, seeing wars and the Holocaust, has apparently seen NOTHING so tragic as the shit that's about to go down between Christine and Erik. He recaps almost the whole book again, including the part we just heard about in the last chapter where he tosses in yet another celebrity just for good measure, since two US presidents apparently weren't enough. He mentions that Buffalo Bill was there, and just for my own entertainment I’m going to imagine it was Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs. I’ll bet Christine could sing a killer version of Goodbye Horses.

Anyhow, Charlie stole a note that Erik slipped to Christine at the party. In the note Erik begs her to let him say goodbye to his son one last time, and to meet him at Battery Park. With this inside info, Charlie’s able to warn Raoul and the priest nanny guy when Christine and Pierre suddenly are missing. Charlie also apparently wrote something on his cuff in Latin that he didn't understand back when he heard Darius shout something on Coney Island. Charlie is wearing that EXACT cuff again, and of course the priest knows Latin, and it apparently says something like “the son must die!” It's a convoluted mess of Deus ex machina that any third grader could have improved upon.

Charlie, Raoul, and the priest all rush to the park and Charlie is literally like, “I’ve gotta explain this all to you in SLOW MOTION”. They get there just in time to see Pierre run to his mother's arms just as Darius fires a pistol at him. Surprise, surprise, he winds up shooting Christine instead. Gee, I didn't see that coming.

Somehow Erik has managed to add crack-shot to all the life skills he’s acquired since his opera days, as he pulls out his own pistol, takes one shot and hits Darius square in the center of his forehead.

Christine is literally dying in her son's arms and she's all, “That's not really your dad, see that freak in the mask? THAT'S your dad. Sorry ‘bout it!” Then she croaks. Not even exaggerating. The next line is literally, “Then she died.” Way to give your kid more PTSD, Christine.

Piling on the PTSD, Raoul decides to tell Pierre “Yep, I’m not your real dad, I’m gonna take your dead mom back to Paris. You are now a man, so come with me to bury your dead mom, or stay with your freaky-masked real dad.”

Charlie’s narration takes a weird detour mid-scene where he suddenly talks about going to interview the priest. Apparently the priest decided to move to the slums of the lower-east side after all of this nonsense happens? I mean it's not the weirdest thing that's happened so far in this book, so I’m not sure why this detail irritates me so much, but it does. But apparently he told Charlie that when all this shit was going down, as he prayed while Christine was dying, he heard the Phantom's soul screaming like an albatross. I take back all my negativity, I love this book now.

Pierre goes to Erik and removes his REAL father’s hat and mask. Charlie says that he's seen drowned corpses and bodies in every manner and state of decomposition, but never has he seen a face like THIS. Despite the face though, of COURSE Pierre decides to completely forget about the guy who's raised him as his son his entire life, and go live with this stranger with the fucked-up face,  in a country thousands of miles away from the one home he’s ever known. Because what thirteen year old wouldn't do that?

Erik never wore his mask again. The end.

I thought nothing could top Love Never Dies for sheer inanity, but this certainly takes the cake and drops a whole chandelier on it. RIP Christine, and my entire brain.