Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The corridor was silent but alive with the echoes of the night’s triumph.

Behind Raoul, the theatre still pulsed with soft applause, laughter, and the clink of champagne flutes.

But here, outside Christine Daaé’s dressing room, the air was thick—oppressive with scent and silence. Roses wilted on her table, perfume hung faintly in the hall, and the ghost of music still trembled in the walls.

She had smiled at him with the warmth of memory when he found her backstage—wide-eyed and breathless, Raoul had called her name as if he were still a boy and she, the girl in the red scarf.

The reunion had felt like fate.

She had looked stunned, almost frightened, then softened into something fragile and sweet.

But when he asked her to dinner—to talk, to laugh, to remember—she hesitated.

Her voice dipped, low and apologetic. “I’m rather exhausted from the performance” she’d said. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”

Then she closed the door gently, leaving him in the dim hallway with the echo of his own heartbeat and her fading perfume.

He turned to leave.

Then he heard the voice.

“You let him in here” came the sound of a man, deep and furious, not shouted—but lethal in restraint. “You invited him in.”

Raoul stilled.

The voice did not belong to a stagehand. Nor a patron. It was cultured, precise, and laced with a venomous intimacy.

“I didn’t invite him” Christine said softly “He found me.”

Raoul pressed closer to the door, breath shallow. A creeping chill traced his spine.

He knew that it was considered improper and he would most definitely be reprimanded by anyone who saw him.

Then again, it didn’t seem like what was going on behind the door was very proper either.

“He stood in this room” the man growled angrily “Where I watch you. Where I touch you. Do you think I did not feel it when he looked at you? When he looked at what is mine?”

Raoul’s heart twisted, slow and heavy.

What was this?

Who was this man who dared to speak to Christine in this manner?

“He’s nothing to me Erik.” Christine’s voice had changed—low, coaxing, almost teasing.

Wildly different from the sweet-charming voice he had heard shortly before.

“He’s a memory. A boy who doesn’t understand the world he’s stepped into.”

A stabbing pain. His pride wounded.

“And what am I?” Erik asked bitterly.

“You are the one who made me. The voice in my blood. The man I sing for.”

The silence that followed was dangerous.

“You said you loved me” Erik whispered, voice trembling. “But tonight, you looked at him like you used to look at me.”

“That’s only because I was afraid” Christine said, moving closer.

Raoul could hear the shift of her skirts, the soft breath against his ear.

Was she in danger?

“I was afraid you would see it, see him, and become angry. Like this.”

Maybe this was his time? Maybe he should burst through the doors and demand that the man leave?

But something stopped him.

“And you like me angry, don’t you?” Erik murmured, voice darker, thicker. “You like to watch me burn.”

“Only because I know I can soothe you” she replied.

That sound in her voice again…low…quiet…Raoul could barely hear as she continued to speak.

“Because I know how to put out the fire…let me please you maestro”

Raoul’s gut twisted.

Her tone—it was intimate. It was dangerous.

It was… familiar, but not the Christine he remembered.

This was a woman who knew what her body could do.

Who knew what power she held in her voice, her touch.

“Then do it” Erik growled. “Please me.”

“Gladly” Christine purred, and her next words came in a whisper that slid through the cracks in the door like silk.

“But you mustn’t stay angry with me. I hate it when you’re cruel. I want the soft Erik. The one who holds me close in the music.”

“That Erik dies when you lie to me.”

“Then let me revive him…”

There was the sound of movement—quick, fluid.

A stifled gasp.

A low, desperate groan from the man.

“You always know exactly what to say.”

“And exactly where to touch” she whispered.

Raoul felt sick. He could hear the hunger in her voice. It wasn’t fear, it wasn’t coercion—Christine was teasing him.

Touching him. It wasn’t performance. It wasn’t innocence.
This was possession. Desire. Something real.

The boyhood dream inside him—of sweet Christine with wide eyes and shy affections—died behind that door.

Died to the sound of Erik’s breathing, to the sighs she offered him in the dark.

He stepped back, nearly tripping over his own boots.

His mind screamed to stay, to listen, to hear her prove him wrong—but his body rejected the sound of her laughter, too close to a moan.

“You like it when I beg” Erik said, voice strained.

“I like it when you need me” Christine whispered. “And you always do.”

That was it. Raoul turned and walked—no, ran—down the corridor, his footsteps swallowed by the velvet hush of the opera house.

He felt humiliated, betrayed, furious at a man he didn’t even know.

But most of all—he felt the deep, aching grief of realizing that Christine Daaé had already been claimed.

And not by him.

Chapter Text

The lock clicked.

It was a small sound—but in the silence that followed, it split the air like a thunderclap. Final. Deliberate. Like a ritual beginning.

Christine didn’t move from the door right away. Her hand hovered near the latch, fingers trembling slightly—not from fear, but from something deeper, more dangerous. A heat curled beneath her ribs, familiar now. Anticipation.

Her breath came shallow. The tight lacing of her bodice pressed against her lungs, constricting each inhale like a second heartbeat. Her skin still shimmered with the aftermath of the stage—rouge warmed by sweat, powder scented with roses and candle smoke. And her eyes—dark, wide, rimmed with painted lashes—remained fixed on the shadow at the far end of the room.

Erik had already stepped from the mirror.

Already crossed half the space without seeming to move at all. His presence was like that—weight without motion, fire without flame.

“You let him in here.”

His voice struck like a bow drawn across a violin string: sharp, resonant, vibrating with fury restrained by control. The floor beneath her slippers felt colder. The wallpaper seemed to pulse with his emotion.

Christine turned slowly.

Her gown whispered with the movement, silk sighing across skin. Each fold shifted with the rhythm of her breath, her body still poised like the final pose of an aria. This, too, was a performance—but one meant only for him.

“I didn’t invite him,” she said, her voice soft. “He found me.”

Erik stepped further from the shadows. Candlelight licked the edge of his mask; the rest of his face remained veiled in gloom. He looked beautiful and terrible, like something carved from shadow and sound. His gloved hands flexed at his sides. His mouth was drawn tight with restraint.

“He stood in this room,” he said, each syllable clipped, shaken with something that bordered on revulsion. “Where I watch you. Where I touch you. Do you think I didn’t feel it when he looked at you? When he looked at what is mine?”

Christine’s breath caught. Not from fear. From excitement.

Something sharp and satin-smooth passed through her. That exquisite tremor that always came just before Erik shattered—and she was the only one who could gather him back together.

She stepped toward him.

“He’s nothing to me, Erik,” she said.

She let the truth slide into her voice—low, coaxing, intimate. A whisper just above a hum. A sound she knew would undo him.

“He’s a memory,” she continued. “A boy who doesn’t understand the world he’s stepped into.”

He paused mid-step. Her words struck him—not with comfort, but like a sword turned aside. He inhaled through his nose, sharp and ragged. But he didn’t speak.

“And what am I to you?” he asked finally, his voice bitter.

Christine didn’t hesitate.

She closed the distance slowly, deliberately. Her skirts brushed the floor as she sank to her knees before him—not in shame, not in surrender—but in offering.

“You,” she said softly, “are the one who made me. The voice in my blood. The man I sing for.”

Her fingers found the leather of his belt, tracing it like it was an instrument she was about to play. She leaned in, pressing the side of her face gently to his hip. The scent of him—warm, spiced, edged with metal and wax—made her pulse stutter.

“I was afraid you would see it,” she admitted. “See him. And become angry. Like this.”

His hand snapped out, gripping her wrist. The touch wasn’t cruel, but it was absolute.

Possessive.

“You like me angry, don’t you?” he asked. His voice cracked with strain.

Christine’s lashes fluttered. Her smile was slow, secret. Her lips, hovering just above the heat of him through his trousers, curved.

“Only because I know I can soothe you,” she whispered.

With gentle precision, she worked his belt loose. Her hands were steady now—confident in their purpose, fueled by the tremor in his breath.

“Let me please you, maestro,” she said.

“Then do it,” he growled, his fingers tangling into her curls. “Please me.”

“Gladly.”

She pressed forward, lips brushing against him through fabric. Her hand moved in tandem, exploring him with reverent purpose. The heat radiating from him only deepened the thick tension between them.

“But you mustn’t stay angry with me,” she murmured, each word a silken vibration against his arousal. “I hate it when you’re cruel. I want the soft Erik. The one who holds me close in the music.”

His breathing faltered, ragged. His hips twitched forward instinctively. Her name escaped him—gasped, reverent, almost broken.

“That Erik dies when you lie to me,” he hissed.

She lifted her face, resting her mouth at the base of him. Their eyes met.

“Then let me revive him,” she whispered.

And she did.

Her hands moved with practiced grace, her lips reverent. She didn’t rush. She didn’t tease. She claimed.

She adored this part—when the phantom melted.

When the mask meant nothing.

When Erik was only a man, breathless and undone.

“Christine…” he gasped.

She paused only to look up, her mouth swollen, her cheeks flushed. Her hands still touched, still coaxed, still calmed.

“You always know exactly what to say,” he whispered.

Christine smiled faintly, exhaling against him.

“And exactly where to touch,” she replied.

His body trembled. He looked down at her—lips wrapped around him, eyes full of knowing.

“You like it when I beg,” he choked out.

“I like it when you need me,” she answered. “And you always do.”

He tried to speak, but all that came was a broken moan.

She didn’t stop until he trembled like a violin beneath a master’s bow—strung tight, singing. She slowed only when the tension shifted, when need gave way to something heavier. His hand slipped from her hair. His body swayed forward, unmoored.

Gently, she pulled back—not in retreat, but in reverence.

She rose, hands gliding up his thighs, his waist, settling over his chest. His heart thudded beneath her palms. His mask had slipped slightly, his face flushed. And his eyes—dark, wet, gleaming—never left her.

They stood in silence.

The music had gone, but its echo lingered in the space between their bodies. In breath. In blood.

Christine tilted her head, mischief in her eyes. “You look thoroughly undone, maestro.”

Erik laughed—shaky, low. “I should be furious with you.”

“But you’re not.”

He cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing her bottom lip.

“I still might be,” he murmured. “You let him get too close.”

Christine leaned into his touch, lashes dropping flirtatiously. “You forget, Erik… I let you closer.”

A slow smile crept across his face. Dangerous. Beautiful. Like something sharp in silk.

“You think that excuses you?”

“I think,” she whispered, kissing his palm, “you like that I make you jealous.”

He pulled her in then, arms around her waist, one hand threading through her curls. Their bodies aligned—hips to chest, breath to breath.

“I hate that I want you this much,” he said against her throat.

“But you love that I belong to you.”

His grip tightened.

“Say it again.”

Christine smiled, her lips brushing his.

“I belong to you.”

He kissed her—slow, claiming. A kiss that weakened knees and stole breath. A kiss that tasted like shadows, like secrets, like things too vast for language.

When he pulled away, he whispered, “And you—mine.”

She rested her forehead to his, voice soft, steady.

“Always.”

Silence stretched around them, thick and golden.

No more anger. No more ghosts.

Just them—woven into each other like melody and harmony. Dissonant. Divine.

Far beyond the door, long forgotten, Raoul had once stood.

Listening.

Misunderstanding.

Believing Christine was the one possessed.

But the truth was far more dangerous.

She was the one who possessed.

And Christine didn’t stop until Erik’s control unraveled completely—until his breath broke in her hands and his body bowed under hers. Until she remade him, gently, reverently.

By the time she curled against him in the quiet, her body warm with satisfaction, Erik’s hands moved over her like a benediction.

“You disarm me,” he whispered.

“Good,” she replied, eyes still closed.

“You shouldn’t have that power.”

“But I do.”

He laughed softly. “Witch.”

“Siren,” she murmured. “And you’ve already drowned.”

He kissed her again, slow and unending.

And outside, far beyond their reach, Raoul had long vanished into the dark—carrying only the memory of a woman who no longer existed.