
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/579201.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Phantom_of_the_Opera_-_Lloyd_Webber, Le_Fantôme_de_l'Opéra_|_Phantom_of
      the_Opera_-_Gaston_Leroux, Phantom_-_Susan_Kay
  Relationship:
      Christine_Daaé/Erik
  Character:
      Erik_(Phantom_of_the_Opera), Christine_Daaé
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Humor, Explicit_Language, Modern_Era, Teacher-Student
      Relationship
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-12-01 Completed: 2013-12-12 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 2884
****** After Class ******
by violentdarlings
Summary
     Christine Daae is Erik's worst student, but keeping her after class
     for punishment doesn't exactly go to plan...
***** Chapter 1 *****
Warning: very, very, very M. Underage, maybe even a little dub-con. Filthy
language abounds, and a desk. Seriously, this is thinly veiled smut with a
flimsy veneer of plot. But I'll let you come to your own conclusions.
Disclaimer: Just so you know, I don't own Phantom. I thought we'd clarify that.
===============================================================================
After Class
 
Erik is a man of many talents and almost limitless patience. He had to be,
taking a high school teaching job instead of composing operas and_building
palaces. But teaching is steady work, and he knows his students would dislike
him regardless of the usual reasons people are usually uncomfortable around
him. So he bears it.
But this one... this one beats them all.
"Miss Daae," Erik snaps crossly, examining his student's blank workbook with a
scowl. "I set homework for a reason, you know."
Christine Daae, the bane of his year eleven English class, snaps her gum at him
insouciantly. She's late to class for the third time this week - and it's only
Wednesday. She hasn't done her homework for months and calling her parents has
no effect. Something has to be done about her. "Whatever, Mr Destler," she
replies, eyes defiant, and turns back to her coterie of giggling friends. "So I
said to him - "
"Enough!" Erik growls, slamming one hand down hard on her desk. She looks up at
him, wide eyed, one plump pink lip caught between her teeth. The very picture
of the scolded schoolgirl. "Miss Daae, you will remain after class." He turns
rapidly back to the rest of his spellbound class, always enthralled to see
their icy English teacher show a hint of human emotion. "Back to Shakespeare,
people," he snaps as he returns to his desk, and there is a flurry of movement
as his class returns to Macbeth once more.
The bell rings and half his class is out the door before it stops its shrill
whine. He sighs. He knows his mask and cold manner frightens some of his
students and intimidates others, but his results are unquestionable. Half his
students are on an A average and there is only one student failing - the
irrepressible Miss Daae.
Speaking of the girl, she remains in her seat, examining her textbook with
bored disinterest. Erik closes his eyes momentarily, steeling himself for the
moment when he has to deal yet again with this obnoxious child.
"Miss Daae - "
"Finally," she interrupts, thunking her head down on the desk. "Damn, Mr
Destler, you're a tough nut to crack. My Spanish and maths teachers would have
starting holding me after class weeks ago."
Erik is utterly confused. "Language, Miss Daae. Please come into my office."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," she replies, following docilely, spitting her gum into
the bin as she passes it. Erik is repulsed. At least, that's what he tells
himself. Her bare legs beneath her school skirt are sin gilded and glimmer in
the glaring fluorescent light. Damn it, that skirt should not be that short.
"Miss Daae, I thought we could have a chat about your issues with learning - "
"Oh, let's cut the bullshit," Christine snaps, and his voice dries up in his
throat. "Sir, you've been watching me. All the time. Out in the courtyard, in
class, wherever we see each you. You stare at me."
"Miss Daae, that is completely incorrect - "
"Just admit it, sir! You watch me."
Erik found his throat closing over. Visions dance in his head of sacking, of
disgrace, of never finding work again. He croaks out, "It's important to keep
an eye on one's problem students - "
"That's fucking ridiculous, sir. You're deliberately unfair to me. You ride me
harder than anyone else in our class!" she exclaims, folding her arms. Erik
tries desperately to ignore the way her breasts push together lewdly at the
motion. A girl that young shouldn't have endowments that appealing. "Well, I
want to return the favour."
"I'm sorry?" Erik asks, bemused.
"I want to ride you harder than anyone else has in your life, the way you do to
me." Almost as an afterthought, she adds, "Sir."
"I don't think you understand exactly what that means," Erik begins, but she
leaps onto him, crushing her soft little body against his hard unyielding one.
Even in her platform school shoes, she only comes up to his shoulder.
"I don't think you do either, sir," Christine purrs, her little hands working
at his belt. Numbly, he falls back into his office chair and she straddles him
calmly as the leather drops to the floor.
"Don't touch my mask," he blurts out, and she shrugs.
"Whatever floats your boat, sir," she replies, unbuttoning his shirt and then
her own with a businesslike air. Her virginal (how deceptive) white brassiere
comes into view, and he catches his breath. He doesn't realise he's been
staring until he hears her giggle, and his ears burn. "You can touch them, you
know," she laughs.
He doesn't know how, but she takes his hands and guides him. Her skin is warm
and soft and Christ, his trousers feel like they've shrunk three sizes. He
aches to be closer to her.
Christine seems to notice (of course she fucking does, the evidence is pressed
right against her) because in one quick movement she slips off his lap,
slithering down until her lips hover over his clothed erection. "Well, Mr
Destler," she murmurs, and he leans forward to better catch her words, "You've
always been rather... hard on me, but this is setting new standards even for
you." She unzips his trousers.
How did he get himself into this situation? he asks as he lifts his hips and
the material bunches around his ankles. His very obvious arousal strains
against his boxers, and Christine lifts one dark brow in amusement. "I pictured
you as a briefs man, Mr Destler," she taunts, but he can't reply because her
hand is there and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. "All... tense, and... restrained."
Oh yes, he's tense, he's tense, he'll be even tenser if she doesn't fucking
move her hand -
He growls, and her bright eyes sparkle in delight. "Patience is a virtue, sir,"
she says pompously, fingers teasing the waistband of his boxers. "That's what
you're always saying in class, sir. Not one to take your advice?" She waits for
his answer, but he's too busy trying to keep breathing. "Oh, all right. Would
you like me to - "
"For God's sake, girl!" he growls. "Get on with it!"
"I'll take that as a yes," she chirps. His underwear are around his ankles and
her lips are nibbling up his inner thigh and - fuck, he works one hand into her
hair because it might be the only thing anchoring him to the universe. No one
has ever done this to him before, he never could have imagined the way it feels
to have her lips stretched around him, her tongue exploring every inch of his
cock like - no, he is not that far gone, he will not compare it to sucking a
lollipop. For Christ's sake.
It lasts forever and not long enough; she releases him with a pop that makes
his ears burn, her lips wet and shiny. He is still hard and has no idea what
she's going to do next, but as she settles herself happily onto his desk, he
recognises he has absolutely no say in the matter. Christine does what she
wants. She pulls him up from his chair and flips up her skirt, somehow manages
to look both tempting and enchantingly innocent. Meanwhile, he can't help but
look between her legs, considering she has them spread as far as they'll go
while her perfect arse rests on his fucking marking. He thinks he might pass
out from lack of blood flow to his brain and - oh, Christ. Wait, is that...
Hello Kitty underwear? For God's sake, he's nearly forty. She's, what,
seventeen?
"Next month," she croons, slipping down her underwear. Erik is caught between
slapping his hand over his eyes and dropping to his knees for a better look.
"Oh, God."
"Close enough," she shrugs, pulling a condom from her pocket. He stares.
"Why the hell do you have that in there?"
"You never know when you'll need one," she giggles, and rolls it onto him with
experience that is more than a little disturbing. "What? I pay attention in Sex
Ed," she says defensively, and despite himself he grins a little.
"I bet you do." She laughs joyously.
"That's more like it!" she hums, as though proud of him, and guides him into
her.
"Fuck, fuck, oh holy fucking God - "
"And I should mind my language, sir?" she teases breathlessly, and he pinches
her hard on the hip in punishment. She gasps, pushing against him with more
ardour. Experimentally, he brings his hand down firmly on the flesh of her
arse, a solid thwack echoing around the office, and she bites his ear. "More,
sir, please," she whimpers, and he really tries not to think about how fucking
inappropriate all of this is, but she nibbles at his throat with her pretty
little teeth and he stops thinking about anything except the way she feels
underneath his hands.
"Did you...?" he asks when it is done, pulling his slacks up from where they
have fallen around his ankles. Christine grins, a wolf-smile, perfect and perky
and utterly naked on his desk.
"Twice. Didn't you notice?" He looks down at the desk, ears burning. "Oh my
God," she breathes, and he knows she's figured it out. "Was that... did you...
was that your first time, sir?" Anger wakes up inside him, a caged animal
stretching slowly and roaring awake. She has done this to him, woken the old
anger and the ancient shame up from down in the dark where he'd caged it for so
long. He feels all of fifteen again, asking Maria Thorne to prom and being
punched in the face and de-masked by her boyfriend.
"Do you think I wear this mask as a fashion statement?" he asks bitterly. "I'm
hideous, Miss Da - Christine. No woman wants me, not even whores - just my
student with a deeply inappropriate Oedipus complex!" He is disgusted, but not
at her; at himself. How could he do this with a student? He turns away. He
feels dirty. He feels like he's violated her and he feels like he's been
violated and he just wishes he could crawl into a deep dark hole and never come
out again.
She launches herself at him like a tiny, rumpled missile, flinging her soft
arms around his bony form and pressing her pretty cheek against his heart. Erik
stares down at her, stunned. For all the intimacy they have just shared, this
is far more tender, more closeness than he has ever known.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, and he finds himself stroking her hair wearily. He
is tired, so much more than he can ever recall being, and maybe she's not
apologising for seducing him but for all the sadness and pain in his life.
Maybe. Who knows? She is a teenage girl, after all. "I'm sorry, sir."
So is he.
***** and then what follows *****
Chapter Summary
     A drive, and a revelation.
By the time they pull themselves together, it is nearly four thirty and only
the cleaners remain at the school. The staff knows better than to approach
Erik's office when the door is locked, and thankfully Nadir, who he shares an
office with, is off visiting his family in Iran for the month. Even after he is
back to his usually tightly wound self, Erik is conscious of Christine, settled
in the spare office chair, spinning aimlessly with a cola ChupaChup firmly
between her lips.
And damn, if he hadn't just come hard enough to give him whiplash, that sight
would be giving him something to think about.
But instead, mechanically, he marks assignments. Wading through the year nine
poetry papers is enough to make him long for scotch or whisky or vodka straight
out the bottle - anything to burn away the memory of an adolescent boy trying
to rhyme 'tits' with 'bacon bits'. 'My Favourite Things,' indeed.
Five pm on the dot and Erik's setting down his pen, listening to his joints
crack as he stretches fingers locked too long in the same position. There are
streaks of red ink on his hands and Christine Daae is napping with her head on
Nadir's desk. She hasn't said a word since she'd realised she'd deflowered him.
Fuck.
He should offer her a lift home. Should he? He doesn't fucking know. Other
teachers give students a ride every once in a while, but not him. His students
all shit themselves when he approach - sitting in a car with him for more than
five minutes at a stretch might give them a coronary event. But Christine,
bless her, is utterly unruffled, if eerily silent. Usually shutting her up is
the problem.
"Er... Miss Daae?"
She starts awake with what can only be described as a grunt. "Back to that, are
we?" she snarks, and he sighs.
"Christine."
"I get it, Mr Destler," she says quickly. "I'm just your student with a - what
was it? Deeply inappropriate Oedipal complex?" He sneaks a glance at her. Arms
folded, back slouched, shoulders tense and lips set in a scowl, she is the very
image of a wounded teenager. He doesn't know how to make this right.
"I suppose," he finally murmurs, minutes too late, "you have more of a fixation
for authority figures, than a - than a, Oedipus complex." Her eyes are curious,
brows a question mark. "Oedipus complexes are more to do with, well, parent-
child relationships." He is stammering like a schoolboy, well aware nothing
that he is saying is adequate. The silence stretches on, punctuated only by the
raw hum of a vacuum cleaner in the distance, until -
"I know," she says softly. "I'm in Psychology."
Well, it's not an olive branch, but he'll take it.
He waits in the parking lot while she fetches her schoolbag from her locker,
feeling as though his deeds are written on his face - well, mask - for all to
see. The last time he stood here, by the gate, he was a virgin. And now? What
is he now, aside from thoroughly ashamed of himself and still a little weak
kneed from the rush of pleasure through his body?
A bloody fool, that’s what he is.
Christine slips into his car with the awkward adolescent grace he is used to by
now, working among teenagers as he does. Some too big or too small for their
growing bodies, lanky boys and girls shooting up overnight.
She gives him directions to her house, and dutifully he follows. He can see her
shooting glances at him out of the corner of his eye.
“Yes, Miss Daae?” he queries, and sees red flags of embarrassment on her
cheeks.
"How bad is it?" she asks after a silence that stretches thick, like strands of
toffee. He winces, and is glad she can't see it.
"Bad," he offers shortly, and she snorts.
"Well, duh," she replies. "If it was just like, a tiny little birthmark or
whatever, you wouldn't go to all the trouble of putting a mask on it."
"No," he agrees, turning into her street.
"Then how bad?" she persists. "Freddy Kruger bad? Ugly Betty bad?" Erik smiles
in spite of himself.
"Sufficiently bad," he adds, but Christine doesn't give up.
"Like - "
Erik snaps. “I look like something that's spent too long in a grave!" he
snarls, and Christine physically recoils.
"Ew!" she says with the air of someone unable to repress her disgust, and Erik
nods grimly.
"Exactly." Christine is shaking her head in disbelief.
"Wow! I mean, what happened? Did you have an accident?" Erik chuckles darkly.
"The accident was being born, Miss Daae," he replies, but Christine bats away
the use of the formality for further interrogation. He really does like her.
"Seriously, Mr Destler?"
"Seriously, Miss Daae," he echoes. "I have always looked this way." Christine
looks fascinated. God damn curious fucking teenagers.
"So when you came out as a baby, you looked like you were kind of... rotten?"
Jesus.
"Something to that effect, yes," Erik snips out, voice taut. Christine, to her
credit, seems to look a little repentant for her interrogation of him. So she
bloody should, Erik thinks savagely, his affection for his smart-arse student
momentarily washed away by the tide of his own self-loathing.
"That... that really sucks. Sorry to hear that, Mr Destler."
He has long since been parked in her driveway, but she hasn't seemed to notice
it. "Yes, well, we all have our crosses to bear, Miss Daae."
"Christine," she corrects, hauling her schoolbag up onto her lap. "Thanks for
the lift, Mr Destler."
"You're welcome," he replies, and watches her lope up the driveway, all
confident enthusiasm, all easy grace. He's never had that security, that
gravity of self-assurance surrounding him.
He isn't entirely sure whether he's envious, or admiring.
And later that night, alone in his bed - just as he’s always been - he
remembers the glory of her, the youth upon her brow and sweetness in her eyes
and her skin seeming to go on forever -
Yes. He feels like a monster. Just as he’s always been.
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