A/N: Starts slightly dub-con, but know Raoul is an eager participant from the get-go. Takes place within the six months of Erik's disappearance.

"What's this, a Vicomte in my seat?"

Raoul turned at the sudden voice in his ears, startled despite having expected it. He squinted into the darkness but saw nothing. Uneasily, he turned back to the performance, though keen ears attempted to listen for movement.

He knew this would be a mistake; trying to catch the Phantom. If he tried to think why he decided to invoke the spectre's wrath by taking his box, he wasn't entirely sure himself. All he knew was that something about the fabled presence absolutely intimidated him in all the right ways, and he desperately needed that man all over him.

Many times now the Phantom had let the company know clearly that Box Five was to be reserved exclusively for his use, and he most assuredly knew that Raoul knew this too. Really, this was a desperate and foolish attempt at catching him at last, solidifying him as a mere man that bleeds just like others.

A hand touched his thigh and he gasped, promptly jumping up. A strong hand on his shoulders pushed him straight back down.

"Move, and I will slit your throat without second thought."

His heart skipped a beat at the threat and he stilled, his pulse nonetheless quickening. Briefly he closed his eyes, settling himself with the knowledge he had the attention of the Opera Ghost, Christine's angel of music, at last. "There is no need for threats, monsieur," he whispered into the darkness, body tense at the ever-present hand on his thigh.

"No?"

The velvety voice purred straight into Raoul's ears and he fought the urge to melt into the hand inching closer to his groin. Really, he should be fighting this treacherous advancement on his person, but his gut had heated the moment he had heard the spectre's voice, and the hand was bound to touch upon the growing hardness in his pants as proof.

"Explain the blade, then, Vicomte."

With a smooth schwing the dagger on Raoul's waist was unsheathed, a dark shape in his peripheral vision pulling the glistening iron into the darkness. The hand on his thigh was gone, but the hand on his shoulder dug painfully into the skin still. He hissed when it stirred at his lack of response and he exhaled. "Protection, monsieur. From a certain Opera Ghost."

"You believe those pesky rumours?" The voice was back at his ears, hot breath on the skin, and it took Raoul every bit of willpower he possessed to not look at the man so close to him.

"I do believe I am in his box, monsieur." Raoul bit his lips when the hand returned to his chest instead, feeling over the smooth fabric of his waistcoat and touching idly at the buttons. With a burst of heat on his cheeks he looked down to see the hand void of gloves.

A dark chuckle rumbled behind him and Raoul swallowed thickly. "I have warned you." The hand moved up towards his neck and tightly grasped the cravat, pulling it away from him and constricting his throat.

"Yes," he choked out.

"And yet here you are."

He closed his eyes, exhaling hotly with his heart pounding rapidly in his chest. He simply nodded.

"You silence yourself, Victome?" Another tug of the cravat, tighter. "I wish to hear you, monsieur."

His voice was raspy when he asked, "What would you have me say?"

A contemplative hum, then another mischievous chuckle, dangerous. "My dear Vicomte," the Opera Ghost breathed on a whisper, and Raoul could hear the wicked smirk in his voice. "I wish to hear you sing."

His heart skipped another beat and he glanced at the stage beneath him, bustling with activity of the performers, of Christine. In truth, he should feel guilty for this, but the anticipation of the man's touch had him weak-willed as soon as his voice had rang out. Still, he needed to pry further, try to understand the reasoning of this man who, as far as Raoul knew, was eternally bound to the soprano they both loved. "Mademoiselle Daaé seems to have done just fine so far, monsieur."

She sings not what I want."

The cravat was let go and then Raoul's chair was pulled into the darkness of the box, away from prying eyes. Raoul's heart pounded in his chest as he desperately tried to discern a person—anything—into the darkness that had seemingly come with the presence of the Phantom. All of a sudden his death felt a little too close for comfort, and yet the threat of it barely had him wanting to flee. He stuck to the chair, challenged the Phantom himself, and silently begged.

A flurry of black and then his eyes were truly unseeing, a smooth fabric tied around his head and covering his eyes in place of the controlling hand. His mouth dried and he gasped softly, chest heaving and groin aching painfully. "I do not sing, monsieur. No blindfold will change that," he tried on a raspy breath, heat building evermore in his body.

"No, Vicomte, you do not."

Deft hands took Raoul's, and before he could do anything his wrists were pulled behind the seat and swiftly bound together. He practically salivated. He tried the constraints, but knew very well the Opera Ghost's skill with a rope. All he could do was listen now. Listen to Christine's angelic voice, the orchestra, and the man moving through the box.

"Spread your legs, little one."

Without second thought he obliged, breath coming out in short and eager puffs as he spread his legs as far as the chair allowed him. His skin dug into the wood but he paid it little mind, instead trying to discern where the Opera Ghost was.

He had his answer when two strong hands pressed on his shoulders, the ungloved left touching his neck, cool fingertips ghosting over the bare, heated skin, tracing down the line of his Adam's apple. He could feel the threat in the movement, yet he whimpered at another painful twitch of his cock straining in his slacks. The bony hand wrapped around his neck and squeezed enough that Raoul gasped and dropped his head back onto the chair's back, eyes fluttering and hips instinctively bucking up.

The hand moved to his chin and kept him in place, and then cold and bloated lips were on his in a kiss more teeth than tongue. He whimpered into the paralysing heat of the other man's mouth—starkly different from his icy chill skin—eyes drooping shut and arms straining against the constraints, wanting to touch.

He could feel a line of spit follow the mouth of his captor when they parted, and a gloved finger wiped his lips. The Phantom groaned quietly, the hand on Raoul's chin feeling tense.

"Monsieur?" His voice was shaky with want, trembled with the need to know what the Phantom could possibly be thinking, wanting to do.

"Shush, Vicomte."

And then there was a hand on his cock, palming him through the coarse fabric of his slacks, pressing on the eager and stiff bulge and rubbing over its length.

"God—" Raoul gasped hotly, shamelessly bucking up into the hand and grinding against the pressure, swaying left and right to try and find the perfect angle. Fingertips swiped over his leaking tip and he positively mewled, inhaling sharply and bucking up once more.

A firm hand stilled his hips and he whined a frustrated exhale of air. "Monsieur..."

"Next time I will bring a gag."

That shut him up. His minds very well reeled at the words and he harshly chewed his lips between his teeth. Next time.

With practiced ease his slacks were undone, and Raoul didn't need encouragement to lift his hips to allow the incriminating fabric to be removed at last. The clothing slid down to his ankles and really, he should be absolutely mortified to be in this position—with another man no less!—but all he could focus on were the hands currently tugging at his undergarments. "Please, monsieur—"

A thumb was pressed past his lips, palm at his chin, and without thinking he started suckling on it like a man possessed. He could easily imagine it as the Phantom's cock, and it only made him more eager to lick at the skin and finally get something to do.

The Phantom between his legs made a noise and swiftly stood from the floor, pressing closer to Raoul once more. He nudged his knee against Raoul's erection and leaned forward as he angled the Vicomte's head back once more, hand cradling the back of his head. He removed his thumb, and before Raoul could complain, his mouth was on his once more, tongue easily finding its way inside and the fameed mask pressing against his skin.

Raoul whimpered into the heat and bucked up against the friction of his captor's knee, moaning shamelessly into his mouth. He leaned forward as much as the rope—or was it silk?—allowed him, neck strained upwards into the Phantom's grasp and desperate for more.

A belt was undone and Raoul stiffened, eyes flying open against the darkness.

"Scared, Vicomte?" came the sultry voice onto his lips, teeth tugging at them before they moved away.

Wordlessly he shook his head, all the while gasping for hair.

"That's a good boy."

Hands seizedhis hair and easily pulled him off the chair and down to his knees. He winced when he bumped painfully against the carpeted floor, feeling dizzy and overwhelmed. Still, he was fairly certain of what could come next, his mouth already salivating at the thought. He could still taste the Phantom on his lips, and he eagerly licked them.

"No teeth." His voice was threatening enough, though there was a certain hoarseness within the dark baritone that had Raoul whimper and not even think about using his teeth. He wanted to hear his voice like that again—to be the one who stripped the Phantom of his imposing voice and reduced him to lust-filled hoarseness.

A hard heat pressed against his lips and he eagerly parted them, suprresing the lewd moan that threatened to escape as soon as the Phantom's thick cock slid inside his mouth. Without waiting the man pushed in all the way to the hilt, hair tickling at Raoul's nose and a musky scent all around him. His eyes fluttered and he gagged, tears springing to his eyes.

The Phantom pulled away enough that the Vicomte could breathe, Raoul inhaling sharply through his nose and calming his throat from the sudden intrusion. Yet as soon as he felt ready, he moved back down and elicited a surprised grunt from the man grasping his hair. His own cock twitched almost painfully so and he whined onto the cock inside his mouth, wiggling his hands and desperately needing release.

"Settle, Vicomte," came the dark and velvet voice above him, a heat on its intonation and a gasp at the end when Raoul shamelessly licked up the shaft and suckled on the tip. "In due time," the man grumbled, and fisted hand in hair pushed him back down to the base.

Raoul gagged once again, pulled back against the hand, and then whimpered when he instead was shoved straight back down. His eyes rolled back and he coughed onto the cock until he was pulled back and allowed a moment of respite, wheezing, but rapid pulse thrumming through his veins.c

A foot pressed against his cock and he gasped around the tip of the Phantom's, moaning and whimpering when the pressure slid up and down his hardened length so neglected.

"Shameless slut," the dark voice grumbled on a heated whisper, hand moving from Raoul's hair to his jaw, gliding over the smooth skin as if revelling in it.

Raoul didn't need to see to know the look in the Phantom's eyes, gazing down upon the all too wanting Vicomte on his knees.

"One would think you are enjoying this," he purred cruelly, emphasising it with a press of his foot.

Raoul gasped and spluttered, unable to find any words in his scrambled brain. Instead he moved to suckle and lick at the tip near his mouth, to be busy and full, unable to answer.

The Phantom allowed him with a pleased and soft gasp, pressing deep into his mouth without second thought.

His spit coated the Phantom's cock at this point, slicked the whole shaft with every thrust forwards and backwards and sinfully wet his lips. He groaned, futilely trying once more to fight against the constraints. And then the Phantom picked up the pace, ignoring the Vicomte's protesting whines, and properly fucked his mouth.

Raoul's eyes rolled back and his throat burned, the Phantom's cock thrusting into him with reckless abandon, his tongue pressed up against the salty skin and tasting the precum of the man fucking him. His body ached on its knees, arms tense within their binds and his knees protesting the pressure of his body. Every thrust forwards shifted the Phantom's foot on his cock, and he eagerly thrust his hips against the pressure, moaning shamefully around the thick cock inside him.

With a strangled gasp and a last press of face to hip the Phantom stilled at last, hand tightly fisting the Vicomte's blond hair and keeping him still.

His toes curled and his cock ached as he felt the Phantom's seed in his mouth, salty and warm with every burst of its release. Raoul desperately breathed through his nose, swallowing whatever he could and sloppily drooling past his cock what he couldn't.

He was pulled away from the now softening heat and he suppressed a whine as he panted, reflexively looking up but meeting nothing but darkness. A gloved hand, cool, touched his cheek, swiping over his plump and wet lips. Lingered. "Good boy."

His eyes fluttered and he could feel heat travelling up his cheeks in embarrassment as he stammered, "M-Monsieur, my— I beg of you—"

Though he feared begging may do the opposite of what he wanted, his cock ached painfully so and he was desperate for even a semblance of release. He could feel an uncomfortable growing wet patch upon his drawers where he had been painfully pressed, and his gut felt so heated it felt like pure fire within him.

"Ah, yes."

The foot ground heavier against him and he doubled over, gasping and trembling at the intensity of the sudden and unexpected pleasure flaring hotly inside him. Heavily he leaned against the moving leg, riding the friction with his hips while his wrists ached against the rope binding them.

"Come for me, Vicomte."

With a cry Raoul shot forward and finally tensed, feeling the warmth of his seed against his drawers as he finally released his pent up desire. Chest heaving, he leaned against the still moving leg, whimpering and then hissing when the pleasure changed to overwhelming sensitivity and all he could do was writhe beneath the unyielding pressure. "P-Please, monsieur—" he gasped, tears springing to his eyes. "Enough, I beg you—"

The foot relented and he gasped once more, mind reeling and heart about ready to leave his chest.

Before he had truly recovered, strong hands gripped his bretels and pulled him up to his shaky feet. Heavily he leaned into the touch, feeling almost delirious after what just occurred. He didn't fight as the Phantom pushed him back into his chair, instead simply slumping into the surface and humming sleepily.

"This is no time for sleep, Vicomte," the Phantom purred close to him, hands making quick work of the rope holding his wrists. "You have a fiancée to congratulate on another well-received performance."

His wrists ached and he winced when he flexed them, angling his head up to the source of the velvet voice. Perhaps emboldened by the whole ordeal, he leaned forward. "Kiss me, monsieur."

Instead, a gloved hand touched his lips, swept at the bottom, and his heart ached wanting to see what the Phantom's face looked like right now, the look in his eyes—anything to understand him. The hand disappeared.

As quickly as it had gone it was replaced with what felt like a handkerchief, wiping at his still slicked and messy lips and chin. Then that disappeared, too.

His blindfold was pulled off and he squinted at the sudden light entering his vision. Immediately he swivelled to behind, hoping he would be able to lay eyes upon the masked spectre at last.

There was only darkness around him and he couldn't sense anything of the imposing presence that had been all over him not even a minute ago. Then, a whisper of a voice drifted onto the air.

"And Vicomte… The name is Erik."