She was in Erik's arms and falling before she realized that Raoul's warm hand was no longer clasping hers. His body was hard and rigid against hers as the air left her body and she found herself staring up into that horrid mask, Red Death. It wasn't far from his actual face, the irony wasn't lost on her but forgotten quickly as she realized they were falling downward. The silks of his costumes were hard to get a grip on and she was sure her sweaty palms would leave marks and wrinkles in the expensive material. In slow motion she watched as his feathered hat fell away and revealed his balding head, challenging eyes dared her to protest this exposure but she did nothing but hold herself tighter to him.

Screaming would serve no purpose but to anger him more at her mistreatment of her instrument, so Christine kept her eyes locked upon his brown ones even after they landed and her mouth shut tight. Looking up at the fastening trap door, she realized they couldn't have fallen further than to one of the first cellars of the opera house, but once the wood was bolted above them and the chaotic screaming was snapped away, the silence and darkness closed in on their intimate position. Never before had she been curious to know how far from the real world they were, but now looking up and knowing that Raoul was running about in panic and she was only a half hour walk away from him anxiety was bubbling in her stomach.

He set her on her feet slowly, seemingly unabashed in the way he dropped her lower half first and clutched the material of her dress tightly, so that she was pulled flat against his body. Her breathing was shallow and quick as a quivering hand fixed the curls at her face and slid down to adjust the glimmering material of her dress. It occurred to her suddenly that she had not seen him in six months, and she had missed him. The way his eyes caressed her skin and ensured that he had not hurt her, even through the fire burning so fiercely in his eyes, her well-being was his first concern. Christine lifted a quivering hand and pulled at the bottom piece of his mask, forcing his mouth and jaw into exposure as the wooden jaw splashed to the ground.

"I'd thought you'd be screaming by now, begging to be taken back to your precious Vicomte." He did not comment on her action or wait for an answer, but gathered her small hand in his own and led her further into blackness.

Six months and she had not forgotten what it was like to walk so deep into blackness that it felt as if she was walking in space, silence pressed in on her ears until she felt as if she was growing crazy, thankful for his hand wrapped securely around her own to weave her in and out of tunnels that twisted down, down, down. His breathing was loud and shallow, for the first time he seemed more of a mortal man, although he looked the part of a demon. The red billowing silk costume was bulky yet he walked easily on, the skeletal mask revealed his bloated and deformed lips yet he hummed as he rowed them across his lake. Finally they stood in the darkness and she awaited her punishment, a feeling of inevitable doom washed over her as she realized he would probably never let her go. She was his now, he had taken her from her life, plucked her neatly and literally out of the Vicomte's hands, and now he was pressing her against the damp wall of the catacombs.

The rock was cold and hard against her back so she couldn't help but revel in his warmth, in the feeling of his costume pressing flat against her until there was nothing between them but masquerading material. Their material was thick and unyielding, both with buttons and clips up the back, but still as he pressed her against the wall she could feel his arousal hard against her thighs.

"Erik?"

"Christine?" Voice haggard and hoarse, lips distractingly close to her own and eyes scorching with passion she hoped she could match. The rest of the world had faded away until there wass nothing but the suffocating blackness and Erik's hands crawling up her bodice to lay at the tops of her breasts. Her breath hitched and he growled in satisfaction, lips finally seeking hers and groaning at her acceptance.

It was a dance she'd never been taught, to walk backwards in the throes of passion as a man worked desperately at undressing her. Her tiara went first and was snapped in two before it clattered to the floor, then her gloves were delicately pulled away, next he fumbled at buttons and clasps until the dress swooshed to the floor in a sea of pinks, purples, her childhood. His room was big, with high ceilings and a large door that he slammed behind them with a deafening roar. She was standing in nothing but her camisole and pantaloons and could think of nothing else to do but smile at his beige coverlet and pillows on his grand bed. Fiery eyes follow her gaze and he smiled a true, honest, smile that caught the breath in her throat. If he was in his day-to-day mask she was sure that the exposed side of his face would have looked quite handsome; even then, the way the smile reached his eyes made him glow in the dim lighting of the glowing embers in his fireplace.

"Christine?" Her eyes shrunk away from the mirror at the side of his bed and turned to him, where he was staring hungrily at her nearly nude body. She'd never felt so exposed in her life, to see his artist's eyes taking in every imperfection and cataloging each blemish and flush into memory for later. She sat upon the bed, awaiting instruction, as she watched him undress himself. First the bulbous jacket fell away to reveal a white shirt with suspenders holding the heavy pants into place. Once the suspenders were unbuttoned, and the white shirt was undone, he was left in nothing but his underwear and mask. It was startling, to see his arousal so obvious against the straining material of his underpants, and even more startling to feel the heat that radiated off of him as he stepped nearer and nearer to her.

"Are you angry with me, Christine?" The huskiness in his usually angelic voice was new and sent tingles down her spine as warmth filled her until it felt like she could quite possibly melt into his mattress.

"Not angry, no." Her shaky voice sent a flush up into her already hot ears as he stalked closer with smooth, elegant steps. He was not what she expected to see beneath his clothing, the trimming black suits and swooshing capes failed to reveal his broad shoulders or curving thighs, and the very thought of running her hands over his smooth chest was alarmingly attractive to her clouded mind. With some sort of spell over her, he encouraged her willowy arms to remove the last of her clothing and position herself so that she laid along the width of the bed. Reaching out, she clasped a pillow tightly as she anticipated his final undressing and then suddenly they were both nude and shaking against each other. He crawled over her and was almost undone by the softness of her body beneath him. She was smooth and sweet and gasping for air, blushing and politely pretending not to notice his arousal teasing at her wetness.

"Is this what you want?" He hadn't thought to ask. It was what he wanted his entire life, before he even knew her he had been striving toward this moment, and now he was giving her the opportunity to snatch it away from him. The very idea of her dressing now and demanding to be taken back up to her world was so disgusting it made his stomach lurch. Her stiff nod of acceptance was adorable, her little chin tucked to her chest as she lay submissive beneath him, but he wanted his Christine responsive. He wanted to make her love him and make love to him the way she made music: easily, passionately, and soulfully.

"Christine, I need words."

"Yes, Erik, yes I want you."

And then he allowed himself to take her in, all of her. The curls atop her head that had once been of his utmost fascination were practically forgotten as he delighted at the pale nipples that hardened between his lips, and the little freckle that contrasted the curve of her hip bone in the shape of a little crescent moon, and the dark curls that hid the one pleasure of the world he had never experienced. In Persia, he had seen the act done many times, but to hear her words of want and feel her trembling, warm body beneath him was much different than watching courtesans' swaying skirts and bare feet hooked around hips of men he had bargained with in public courts.

To hear those shy words escape from brave, little Christine's mouth forced a mysterious confidence he had never known to overcome him. Long fingers were spreading her plump thighs as she held fearful eye contact with him, and then he was tasting the sweetness of the world he had never been allowed and she was writhing with pleasure. From him, from Erik. His Christine! Moaning his name and digging her dull nails into the skin of her shoulders as breathy whispers of pleasure racked her chest and forced her head to fall back upon his blankets. Suddenly she was a shaking mass of long limbs, dancer legs were bent and clutching him to her, pale arms were wrinkling the sheets in her knotted fingers, and she called his name with such passion that he believed she had made actual music out of an disgrace.

He was upon her before she had regained full control over her body again, lips devouring her in a heated fury she failed to keep in time with. She should have been humiliated and ashamed of how willingly she was succeeding her body to this masked villain who had tortured her life for months on end, but he was music. As his composer hands flew across her body, consuming her and torturing her with pleasure, she could not help but feel humbled that these were the same hands that had created such beautiful masterpieces of genius. Suddenly her body had transformed into a harp and his elegant hands were plucking and stroking and manipulating until she was left singing and vibrating under his menstruations.

"Please, Erik!" She could take no more of his taunting tongue at her neck, or firm hands on her breasts, or knee rocking between her legs.

It was a moment he would never forget, thrusting into her with such a firm clasp on her hips that when she fell back onto the sheets with an agonized sigh, he held her like putty in his hands. Her warmth enveloped him but all he could do was stare down at the flexible woman in his hands who seemed to recline with ease against the bed even though her hips were held tight to his own, practically suspended in the air. And then he broke. Unable to restrain himself anymore he thrust deeper, faster, harder, relishing in the way her pained gasps turned to coos and moans of excitement. Christine's entire body was the pink of spring rose, and her kindness and willingness to allow him so close nearly finished him far before he was ready to be done. His eyes met his own in the mirror on the other side of the bed. It was something he had ignored until Christine came into his life and he had been forced to remember how vain and shallow women were about their looks, and the looks of their partners.

A laugh barked from his lips at the image before him. His own hideous body pumping meticulously into the body of a little princess, a princess so lost in her own pleasure that she was only weakly meeting his thrusts with breathy grunts and sweaty palms on his wrists that held her tight. She had never pleasured herself before, that much was obvious when he had first touched her, and to be gifted with her first orgasm was one that drowned out all self-hatred and instead brought tears to his eyes. Continuing toward his own pleasure, Erik reached up and slowly removed his mask to reveal his own skeletal face. Christine did not comment, but moaned louder in the aftermath of her pleasure as Erik thrust harder and faster, finding pleasure but watching his own face in the mirror as he collapsed upon her tiny body. The epitome of a monster, he kissed at her sweaty face with appreciative lips. They laid in silence, her little hand finding his and squeezing it tightly before she turned on her side to look down at his hideous face.

"Thank you, Erik."

"No, thank you, Christine. You were magnificent, a performance I'll never forget and always favor." Her blush was still one of the innocent ballerina he had deflowered months ago in his mind. Now there she was, naked in his bed with a little hand splayed across his chest tapping along to the beat of his racing heart, smiling.

"Am I to stay here…We-We are not married in the eyes of God, Erik, I know your opinions on him but-"

"I will not be married in a church, Christine. If you believe your God will condemn you for hell for one night of pleasure with a man who loves you then that is your burden to bear." A long silence fell between them, where Christine took the time to rest her head on his chest and Erik took the time to pull the blankets around them, in the center of the bed.

"Am I to stay here?" Her question was shy and whispered against his chest, pink lips brushed his still-burning skin and he nearly gasped at the contact. Erik's eyes remained on the ceiling as he answered,

"If you would like, but I won't do with you disappearing before my opera debut." He knew that things would not be easy for them, that this night resolved nothing for them but perhaps complicated their relationship even more as she struggled between happiness and her duty to a God that had forgotten Erik years ago. Then there was the Vicomte who would no doubt wish to fight to the death for Christine's childlike hand in marriage; Erik was willing to meet the Vicomte's wishes in that matter. Christine said nothing, but knew he needed no answer, not as she felt him relax into sleep beneath her and felt the slight rustling of her hair that was his soft snoring.