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Black Angels	By : Provocateur Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 12725 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Black Angels

Chapter 4: In Dreams He Comes

A/N: R-Rated chapter ahead, nothing too explicit though, that’s for later!

If one ever thought it impossible to drown in a sea of faces, they were sorely mistaken. Sometimes the identical smiles and stiff voices overwhelmed the senses and robbed them of their sharpness. Christine had always dreamed of a beautiful wedding day in a magnificent medieval church flowing with flowers, silk gowns, debonair suits, and overjoyed hearts. She envisioned pink and white roses surrounding her as she walked towards her waiting husband while clasping the trembling arm of her tearful father. She would see only happiness on the faces of the guests, mirroring her own joy with the sparkles in their smiling eyes. The sun would shine as it had never shone before, reaching down from the heavens to bathe the gray stone walls in magnificent light, filling the ancient building with warmth and visions of blissful beginnings. She wanted to feel as though the angels themselves walked behind her and her father, their feet never touching the floor as they spoke to her promises of a beautiful life, one free from suffering and pain. The glaring sunlight would allow the stained glass windows to radiate their brilliant colours, bathing the white walls in a menagerie of magnificent shadings. The elegant rainbows would spread across the floor, making her path to matrimony one of startling beauty. All of the crystal tears flowing down the faces of the guests would be tears of joy, sparkling and pure.

Such juvenile dreams of splendor were just that though, dreams. The English sky was dreary this day, the rain threatening to pour down at any moment. Faint drops had already been unleashed, smattering pathetically upon the roof of the gray and brown church. One rebellious and hateful drop managed to work its way through the wooden shingles and land unceremoniously before Christine’s white silken shoe. It sunk through the wood at her foot, leaving an ugly brown stain in its wake. The angels that were supposed to guide her were crying now, ugly brown tears of anguish. She walked down the aisle alone, the eyes of the guests somber and cold. Most flipped absently through their prayer books, avoiding watching her as she walked towards her smiling fiancée. Some men coughed loudly into their balled fists while women tastefully cleared their throats while examining the fascinating shapes of their fingernails, picking at seemingly engrossing dry bits of skin. How she longed for her father, he would have held her close and smiled sweetly at his only beloved child. The only smiles she received were from her husband to be and Madame and Meg Giry. Raoul’s family looked annoyed at being forced to attend the inconvenient and rushed ceremony, they cursed their propriety inwardly and wished to be elsewhere. Philippe tried to remember the last time he cleaned his decorative dueling pistols and tried to envision the dust and dirt that must have been collecting on them.

Christine walked towards Raoul; she could not help but smile when she set her eyes upon his glowing face. He had recovered wonderfully from his prior ordeal, his disposition no longer withdrawn, his countenance no longer furrowed by unpleasant thoughts. She felt like a mere street urchin this day. She had no time to even purchase a proper wedding gown, Raoul was in such a rush to be wed that he said that minor details should be ignored. Why he was so frantic to make her his wife puzzled her, but she often saw fear grace his normally tranquil features whenever she left to go to the stables or to bathe. Every time she left his sight she knew that he could not help but fear that he wound never see her again. He would imagine her being whisked away once more, right before his eyes while he watched helplessly from afar, crying out in horror. If they were bound together by wedlock they could live with one another, sleep with one another, bathe with one another. They would never be parted again, for God himself would protect them, as they would have promised themselves to one another in his home, under his watchful eye.

Christine wore a light blue gown that belonged to one of Philippe’s long forgotten mistresses. His English estate was lavish and beautiful, but it remained distant to her. When she entered it she felt as though her mind began to close, she no longer felt like herself. She felt as though she was watching her lifeless body drift about aimlessly, not seeing, hearing, or feeling. The haughty servants mocked her, their judgmental eyes and gossiping lips painting grotesque pictures of her and hanging them in front of her to look upon with helpless resignation. The lair of her ever-present Phantom offered more warmth and acceptance then the aquamarine bedroom in which she slept. The white Persian carpet felt soft beneath her feet, but the coldness of the stone floor still chilled her. The lovely paintings of angels and fruit baskets tried to create serenity, but they only looked ordinary and simple in their formality. The white oak bureau was lovely to behold, but it was empty. No personal items decorated its shelves; no unique scents escaped its doors. She mused over the literal and metaphorical surroundings for three days, never feeling so alone. She smiled when spoken to, and kept her voice polite and agreeable at all times. She did not come here to form friendships, which she had a snowballs chance in hell of achieving anyways, and she did not come here to marvel at her newly acquired wealth. She came here to heal in solitude, to stop the fierce bleeding of her wounds and allow the scars to fade.

Her handsome prince and devoted knight linked his fingers through hers as the priest spoke. He ran his thumb over her hand, trying desperately to warm the cold flesh, to give life to her limp fingers. He looked so wonderful this day, his pale skin radiant and as a smooth as that of a young boy, his light brown brows shaped immaculately, his gentle jaw relaxed, his full lips turned upwards. His eyes glittered with joy, his pupils dancing in excited delight. His baby soft hair was pulled back and tied in an elegant navy blue ribbon that matched his jacket and waistcoat. His matching trousers and ivory silk shirt emphasized his slim build. She watched as throat constricted with emotion as he pledged to her his undying devotion, his mannish throat rising and falling. Men’s and women’s necks were so very different in both texture and appearance. Christine found her eyes dropping to look into the hollow at the base of his throat, it was partly concealed by his high collar, but she could see the top half and realized with slight disappointment that it was shallow and only truly distinguishable when he moved his head to one side. She thought back to the deep hollow of another man, a far darker man. His was well defined and smooth, giving his neck a graceful yet strong appearance. In her most private and sinful thoughts she imagined dipping her tongue into that tantalizing indentation, feeling his pulse beneath her full lips, hearing him groan from deep in his throat. She mentally struck herself for her perversity. She watched as Raoul’s eyelashes brushed against his skin as he closed his eyes for but a moment when he leaned over to innocently hold her shoulders as he pressed a modest kiss to her cool lips. His lashes were not long or dark; they did not cast alluring shadows against his skin. She still loved him though. Her heart began to beat with girlish excitement as her childhood suitor brushed his sweet lips against hers and whispered that he loved her against her slightly parted mouth. She smiled against him and placed her hand against his satin cheek, seeing nothing but devotion in his eyes.

***

They had come together awkwardly that night. Nothing about the evening had been smooth, for that matter. The reception was quick, the speeches clipped and unfeeling, and the dances stiff and forced. Philippe and Raoul’s uncles scowled in corners, watching the dancing women with a mix of amusement and boredom. The ladies sipped wine gingerly, talking to one another of unimportant matters that held no interest for any of them. Every smile seemed force, every raised glass a chore. Christine knew that they though her unworthy, a spoiled harlot who had a dalliance with a murderer. A mere showgirl who corrupted the mind of an innocent and naïve Vicomte. Only Madame Giry showed tears of happiness, only Meg offered heartfelt congratulations.

They had returned to the estate tired, unfulfilled, but relieved. They could start a new life. They could enjoy their honeymoon free from the vicious truths of reality. They did not think of their return to Paris, Raoul’s condescending relatives, or the unspoken past that haunted them in silence. They had changed and readied themselves for bed. Christine felt timid as she pulled on the thin white nightshift left in her bedchambers by the maids. It was adorned with lace above the breasts and left her arms and shoulders completely bare. She heard Raoul step into her chambers and come behind her, his breath catching at the sight of his blushing bride in her virginal silk negligee. She was most embarrassed when his gaze fell upon her breasts, her pink nipples showed vividly through the near-transparent fabric, they jutted against the material shamelessly.

“Oh little Lotte, what a wonderful day this has been.” Raoul spoke softly, his voice filled with emotion, his tone lucid and content.

“Yes, it was beautiful.”

“There is no sight more beautiful than you.” He ran his hand through her thick locks, pulling them from her slim neck and pressing a soft kiss to the pulsating flesh. She closed her eyes and let him lead to her to the bed, their bed. They made love clumsily that night, he often stopping to ask her if she was comfortable. She was shy about her naked flesh, and he about his. They kept the covers over top of them, never forgetting about the importance of modesty and the false comfort that it offered. She felt the pain of his invasion, but said nothing, merely gasping in shock. He moved slowly and carefully, his face a mask of inhibition and restraint. She kept her hands pressed to his upper back; he kept his against her hips. They kissed to ease the tension as he moved once more, grimacing as he struggled to push forward. Once they finished they held hands and began to giggle like children.

“Lotte, if you never want to do that again, I understand.” His tone was playful, but she could see genuine fear in eyes.

“I have heard that first time is never pleasurable, especially if both parties, are, well, inexperienced.”

“Yes.” He felt his shyness creep over him once more, limiting his ability to speak. The discomfort cloaked the room; it heated the air uncomfortably so. The silence in the air was akin to the atmosphere created when one breaks wind and hopes that no one associates the foul stench with him or her. Something felt foul all right, but neither had the audacity to say it aloud.

“I’m going to go get some fruit, would you like some?” Raoul grabbed his blue silk robe and shrugged into while his lower half still remained under the sky blue coverlet.

“Yes, I would like that. I wonder if the fruit will look just as appetizing as the fruits in that picture.” Christine pointed to the pastel oil painting of the luscious edibles that adorned the far wall.

“I would not eat a pare that had pink spots on it.” He looked at the painting with moderate distaste, but his eyes showed some relaxation and good humor.

“I think that the pink gives it character.”

“I cannot believe that we are discussing the characteristics of fruit in an ugly painting, we should be overwhelmed by passion right now!” His indignant response filled Christine with giddiness. The horribly awkward experience left no room for anything but laughter. She wrapped her robe around her and began to chuckle, her back shaking with mirth as she pictured Raoul’s scrunched up expression above her, moving back and forth so stiffly. Raoul soon joined in her laughter, the delightful bellows freeing him of his humiliation, loosening his tense muscles and liberating his troubled mind. Once their last night feast concluded they fell into a peaceful sleep.

***

Christine felt a chill penetrate her skin as she wandered the underground dungeon. She wore her white night clothes, the sheer fabric offering her no comfort from the damp chill in the musty air. She ran her hands along the slick black walls, feeling the ridges and curves beneath her palms. She walked towards the music, it called to her, it touched her in places that she had never dared look upon herself in a state of undress. Her tight corset caged her body tightly, making her breathing difficult and her chest heave. Her skirts blew open, leaving her legs exposed like a common courtesan. Her thigh-slit widened scandalously as she walked barefoot across the cold stone. She could see him now, his dark body bent over his instrument, touching it with reverence and passion. His touch was not gentle or unsure; it was calculated and rough, but so very sensual. His jet-black hair fell loosely about his ears, his tongue slipped out to run across his full lips. She walked behind him, smiling as she saw his form grow soft and comfortable as she sang to him. Her let her hands room across his broad and muscular shoulders, he fell back into her, sighing as she touched his muscled body with curiosity. She reached for the mysterious porcelain mask, but his hands gripped hers swiftly, his grasp unbearably tight.

“You do not touch my mask!” He barked at her roughly.

“What is that you hide from me?” She kept her voice low and teasing, ignoring his brutish reaction to her curious caress.

“I hide from you something that will upset you, I wear it for you.” She walked away, disappointed and pouty. She laid back down upon his elegant golden bed, running the deep red velvet between her fingers. Suddenly her skirts were bunched at her stomach, a sensuous mouth pressed hot kisses against her neck and the tops of her breasts. She gripped the hair of her dark angel in her fists and moaned, letting her eyes close. This was far more fierce and passionate then anything she ever thought she could feel. She remembered his forward touches last night as he sang to her. She remembered how he ran his hands down her body, lingering over her belly and trailing down her thighs. He asked her to touch him, and she had, she felt weak as she fell back into his solid body. He had kept his face tantalizing close to her as he sang, his eyes showing a lust so naked that she was nearly frightened.

Now she parted her legs for his body, wrapping them around his waist and squeezing him between her moist thighs. She arched into him, grinding her most sensitive area against him. He took her mouth in a searing kiss and began to tear the corset, sending the small hooks flying from her body. She pressed her lips to that gorgeous throat, savoring his masculine scent and scrapping her teeth against his rough skin. He began to thrust against her wildly, pressing himself into her body with a ferocity expected of wild animals.

Her shoulders hit the headboard with immense strength. She let out a harsh moan, opening her legs wider, wishing away her undergarments, fighting away to urge to beg him to touch her. She wanted to feel his calloused hand against her wetness. She was throbbing and contracting wildly with each and every thrust, the most brilliant pulsating sensation making sweat break out all over her body. She hit the headboard again, arching her back and screaming out wildly.

“Christine!” A voice from far away called out to her, the fear in it shaking her to the core.

“Christine!” A hand roughly gripped her shoulder and shook her violently. Her masked lover was fading away, his face a mere memory in her mind’s eye. She opened her eyes, slowly, one then the other. She stared at her surroundings. She was in that cold blue boudoir, the pastel fruits staring at her.

“Christine! You were shaking and screaming out, you were having a nightmare.” Raoul gathered her close, stroking her hair softly and rocking her gently back and forth.

“Yes, yes I was.” She waited for her breathing to calm down and the throbbing between her thighs to cease, she prayed that Raoul would not detect her sinful arousal. She gently pushed his hand aside and sat up.

“I must get a drink, I do not want to go back to sleep just yet.” Raoul nodded with concern and understanding as she left the darkened room and made her way down the overly wide hallway. She placed her hand against the wall, relieved that she felt smoothness as opposed to uneven stones. She made her way to facilities and splashed water on her heated skin. She exhaled slowly, willing her body to calm down. She looked up at the mirror and saw something primal in her eyes. Her disheveled hair and reddened skin filled her with a shame so heavy that she felt as though her chest was pinned beneath a rock, or a sinister murderer. She felt nothing but disgust as she stared at her reflection. She hated him. She hated him with such passion that she imagined herself strangling the life from his body with his very own weapon of choice.

“You will follow me until I am dead. You will destroy my soul, and you will laugh as you crush it in your blood-splattered fists! You have stolen my mind, and it will never again belong to me.” She began to walk from the room, but glanced once more in the mirror. She looked intently at her reflection, willing the vision of his masked face behind her to leave, but it would not. It called to her, asking to come to him, his angel of music.
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Black Angels