27
The more he tries, the more Raoul begins to realize that he cannot go back. The coal lifts, but dirty gray remains to distort the beauty of the image. A vision he cannot keep. He distantly wipes his messy hands on a clean white sheet, and wonders what the hour is. It is late, in blackest night, he can imagine. He does not know, because in almost a year he has not seen a sunset, or rise. He remembers the sun, what it feels like when it warms his skin, and when it burns, and blares.
The painting moves, and Raoul instinctively ducks beneath Erik's arm as he turns it over to face the opposite wall, barred by the braces of the easel. Raoul did not even hear him enter. He is a criminal in his own territory, and breaks into Raoul's space. He stares at his prisoner, and after a long moment of looking over him, around him, into him, he averts his eyes, and pauses to catch his breath. He swallows hard, eyes fixed and intent, and flattens a hot palm against Raoul's chest, square and firm, pushing him slow and uncertain into the uneven rocky wall. Jagged points dig into Raoul's back, and his side, and he turns to look at the painting. It is closed.
"You won't replace her," Erik says, almost entirely to himself, low in his throat, a breathless shadow of a prayer. "I don't want you."
"Then go," Raoul whispers, dry as it ever has been, eyes still turns to the back of the portrait. It is unchanging, blank, and stiff with wooden braces. Nothing. "Go now, and give me your misery. That is what you do want."
Erik shakes his head, once, and moves in. Both of his hands flatten onto the wall, behind Raoul's head, and the boy feels the heat close in around him. He does not know what Erik wants of him, or how he is planning on getting it, but Raoul knows fighting is futile. He is only fortunate enough not to mind, entirely. Erik's mouth lingers, in hesitance, beside Raoul's jaw, but he does not kiss. He will not kiss. Raoul understands that, and such understanding is heavy, penetrating. He lifts his chin, and as Erik's body molds into his he closes his eyes. How lonely they both are. There is such sadness in the way they move together. Erik is not naked, not bare, he leaves his clothing on, but his body is so hot beneath his shirt and his pants that he need not be.
Raoul is hard against the other man's leg, and his thoughts descend with each shift of Erik's hips against him. Erik can feel Raoul's reaction in his own, a shudder that spreads from his center and meets the creeping sensation that crawls up from his hips. Erik feels it harder, and Raoul imagines how much more sensitive Erik's body must be than his own, and his friction sends waves of guilty, stricken pleasure over his thighs, up into his abdomen. In the dim light his hands move to hold on to Raoul, around his shoulders, beneath one of his arms, to get a better angle. He is rough, and moves hard and quick. Raoul's breath is shallow, and his abdomen caves against the cold hands sliding beneath his shirt, exploring. Erik knows the male body; it is no mystery to him.
Raoul grimaces as his tormentors hands become warm, and then hot, and he reaches between their bodies, opening his shirt and letting Erik in. Raoul's skin is soft, so soft, almost feminine and like velvet beneath Erik's hands. The distance between them is short and frequent, only enough for Erik to move back and shift, hard and harder into him, against. It is soundless, save for the scrape of clothing, shallow gasps. Erik grits his teeth, he concentrates, and crushes Raoul, merciless, against the wall, and the boy cries out, hardly able to breathe. His arousal is intense, to the point of pain, even, throbbing. His is so close now. He did not imagine the possibility of finding such release without making actual contact, but he knows he is close.
Erik bucks, once, twice, and his arms close around Raoul so tight the younger man goes entirely rigid in his grip. A stripe of pleasure strikes through him, and Erik bucks again, hands moving to hold hard onto Raoul's flanks. He is first to come, and arches, presses hard into him with a sharp cry, releasing his fingers from Raoul's skin and leaving sloppy bruises, shameful bruises. Hot wetness soaks through the front of his pants, and spread onto Raoul. His breath is ragged, as is his victim's, but before Raoul can relieve himself Erik is finished. He tears away again, and leaves Raoul aching to let go.
Raoul whispers a pained plea, barely audible, and curls within himself. He is unfinished, and shaking. Erik curses, loud, and he swears viciously at his own weakness, such weakness. He runs his hands through his hair, swearing and spitting curses. He kicks something over, Raoul cannot see what. He only sinks to the floor, slowly, against the wall, weak and red-faced, flustered. He watches through heavy lids as and strings of gold hair as Erik glowers over him, teeth bared, angry. Raoul just closes his eyes, hard, and breathes, raggedly. He tries to understand.
There is no warning. Raoul is yanked up violently from his spot on the floor, and held in place against the wall again. Erik is glaring at him still, and with a palm forces Raoul's face to the side, the cheek, keeping his gaze off of Erik's intentions. He cannot see Erik's hand.
"Don't look at me," he growls, and Raoul admits to fear. He cannot see what Erik is doing, and it frightens him. A hand, still hot, slides over his belly and past the waistline of his trousers, below the belt, and closes around him. Raoul gasps, so sharp it is hardly a gasp, and Erik's hand muffles his cry. "You cannot win this."
This is different than before, very different. No kisses, no quiet moment to be dismissed when it passes. Raoul's need for release overpowers his doubt, and regret is a dying ember. Both turn to ash as Erik moves his hand, up and over, down, not allowing Raoul to see, only to feel. He works as if in vengeance, reducing the boy to his own position, a victim of his own body. Erik does not even allow Raoul out of his trousers, and every time he cries out Erik is only further encouraged. Raoul gasps, hotly, a moan, and Erik pumps faster and harder. He is rough, so rough that he forces noises from Raoul that cannot be distinguished as pleasure or pain. Erik is certainly taking his own out of watching him writhe, hearing him whimper, helpless. Erik has always liked it that way. He has found a new method of torture, a new way to make the boy suffer.
Raoul has felt nothing of contact in months, nothing like this, and his entire body reacts with an uncontrollable ferocity, his skin alive with crawling tingles and his hips moving with Erik's hand. He is almost entirely gone, the tension and heat between them thick enough to reach out and seize, suffocating. Erik must sense it, because with a certain sense of deviousness he stops, and his hand moves to Raoul's hip.
He freezes, and turns his head to regard Erik, bewildered, desperate, confused. Erik shoves his head back to where it was, pressing into his cheek.
"What," Raoul stammers, breathless, almost entirely a whine. "What are you-"
"You will have to finish this yourself," Erik whispers, savage, a growl. "Or suffer. The night is long, Vicomte."
"You can't," he shudders, almost to tears. Erik's hand is so close. "Don't leave me like this, you -"
"Monster?" Erik slides his left hand beneath Raoul's chin, and turns his head to face him, taking in the clouded, glassy desperation in the eyes, parted lips, a variation of deep red and pink, dragging in trembling breaths. Raoul tries to speak, but it comes out as a whimper as Erik's other hand nears him again, brushing past. "Would you beg?" Erik breathes soft and cruel into his ear. "Would you beg a monster for this?"
Raoul bites his bottom lip, ignoring the pain, brow contorted, teeth briefly appearing in a grimace, and his mouth trembles as he speaks. Sweat beads on his brow. "Don't do this to me," he says, raggedly, wretched. "Don't."
"I will do anything," Erik snaps. "And everything I want to do to you. So if I want to, I will stop, and I will tie your hands so you cannot even relieve yourself." He squeezes hard around Raoul's chin, and runs a forefinger over his lips, and the look of terror mixed with dread sends a shiver up his spin. "You are my prisoner," Erik growls. "Say it."
Raoul swallows hard, and releases the breath he has been holding. "I'm your prisoner," he says, and Erik moves his hand back, right to where Raoul wants it. He screws his eyes shut, and says it again, and again, and again. Erik is so rough that Raoul hisses in pain, and faint moans escape his lips through the cage of the Phantom's fingers. Hard, fast movements, skin over skin, heat building in the trap of his trousers. In the few seconds of his remaining resilience, the last moments before he loses himself, Erik leans in. His lips move against Raoul's cheek, speaking in a voice void of sadistic pleasure, but possessing such ferocity, and soulful, sorrowful command.
"You are mine," he says, and whether or not the words trigger him, Raoul comes, crying out once, sharp, and spills hot over Erik's hand. Release has been denied for so long, and Raoul's knees buckle from fatigue when Erik tries to move away from him. It is finished, but without thinking Erik holds him up, steady, and keeps him from falling. It is not long before Erik does, however, let him go. With a single stroke of his hair, with Erik's clean left hand, the older man presses a kiss to his damp temple, and he is gone.
Raoul gingerly lifts himself from the floor, perhaps an hour later. His pants are stiff around his hips, and he knows a night of sleep will do no good.
