#vampire terzo

[eggfriedghool2]

Hey ghouls, since Papa 3's entire mask is based off of Bela Lugosi's face, and ik Copia is more associated with vampires because of his cute lil' cape... but...

What do y'all think about vampire Terzo???? Anybody??????

[lucifixion-pose]

Silent Star

Huh, that's weird. The guy in this old silent film looks just like the guy I met outside- heywaitaminute

It's Vampire Terzo.

⚠️EXPLICIT, 18+ CONTENT⚠️

Minors do not interact!

AO3

This technically is linked to my Vampire Perpetua fic, but there's no meaningful overlap between these two.

Little over 15k words. First person POV, protagonist has a vulva and vagina and is spoken to as feminine ("girl" is used a few times).

CW: Bloooood drinking and blooooood loss, captivity, vampire hypnosis, Terzo being dommy, Terzo being a bastard, Terzo being sweet sometimes, Terzo trying to be a therapist but ending up being a bastard about it, a whole lot of edging, just so much edging and teasing and denial, kinda face fucking with some gagging, a little angst, a whole lot of grinding and dry humping-

and because this is written by me on a day that ends with Y, lots of dirty talk and dubcon. And the dubcon could be interpreted as noncon.

Look, it's basically "What if Beauty and the Beast but it's Vampire Terzo who held you captive," okay? Consent here is gonna be dub as hell.

I can't believe someone actually asked to be tagged?! I guess lemme know if you want to be added to this list 🤷‍♂️@beels-s1ut-lunar

A very big thank you to anyone who reads this 💚💜 I dearly hope at least one person jorks it to this

A woman is running through the woods, terror written on the stricken features framed by perfect black pin-curls. Her wispy white gown is being caught and torn as she races through bare branches and bushes. Moments later, a devilish-looking creature follows. Something like a man, staggering but steadily gaining; soon it will have her.

It stops and casts its head side to side, piggishly working its nose to sniff the night air.

     "THE BEAST...

          ...SMELLS BLOOD!" the intertitle screams.

When they're finally close enough to share the screen, she trips and falls in her panic, thrashing wildly as the creature tries to pin her down. When she faints the creature tilts its head to the sky, mouth lolling open in the exaggerated fashion typical of silent films, leaving no question that it was indeed howling at the moon.

It looks around with a fiendish grin, twiddling its clawed fingers with glee before lowering itself to her helpless body.

     "AND NOW...

          ...IT WILL FEED!"

Surprised titters sweep across the theater when the creature draws its teeth to her neck. Even as someone who enjoys practical effects —the older and more obviously homemade, the better— it does look a little silly. Then the beast rears back with blood pouring down its chin.

"Woah," my date says, and he's not the only person having that reaction. When it cuts to the woman lying limp and glassy-eyed on the forest floor with blood spattered all over her neck, huge splotches staining that white gown, he leans over and says, "I didn't know violent movies were even a thing back then."

"Pre-Hays Code," I say, my eyes glued to the screen. The creature was picking up her body and carrying it offscreen.

The film ended abruptly; the lights came on and the theater burst into applause. The host announced a ten-minute intermission to prepare the equipment for the final film of the evening.

"How did they do blood effects back then? They didn't have chocolate syrup then, right?" Dave, my date, looked perplexed.

"Well-"

"Do you think they used real blood?"

"Maybe. Sometime they would use stuff like beet juice or paint, but they definitely used animal blood sometimes."

He frowned and crinkled his nose in disgust, "You'd think back then they wouldn't be throwing away anything edible. Wasn't this made during the Depression?"

"Circa 1917," I read from the program.

"Still, pretty surprising. I can't believe..."

I tuned out his chatter, looking around the room as I sipped my wine. He was a nice enough guy, but this was definitely going to be our last date. There were nearly a hundred people crammed into the tiny theater, and the alcohol combined with my dull companion and all the bodies crowded together was suddenly overpoweringly stifling.

"...Guess I thought they were, I dunno, classier back then?"

"Excuse me for a moment," I said, unceremoniously shuffling out of my seat.

The theater's ancient air conditioning system couldn't do much against the August night, but it was a little easier to breathe in the lobby. I flapped the collar of my shirt, fanning myself as much as I could before the final film.

The smell of tobacco wafted in as someone entered the lobby from outside. I looked over, just out of reflex, and found my eyes immediately locked onto those of the man at the door.

Not much taller than me, slicked-back black hair, slight build wrapped in a neatly-tailored black suit. Mid-to-late 40s, maybe early 50s. Handsome. Nothing out of the ordinary, until I saw the heterochromia.

I didn't usually notice people's eye color, to be honest, but one having practically no color at all was more than distinctive enough to catch my attention. When our eyes met he stilled for a moment, then tilted his head slightly, curiously, and walked closer.

"Buonasera, signora," a low, husky voice, charmingly accented.

"Hi. I mean, hello," I said, "I...Sorry, but have we met before?"

"I do not believe so. You, I feel, I would have remembered."

I felt myself blushing and just hoped the summer heat would conceal it.

"You enjoy the old movies?" he gestured to a poster for the festival.

"I'm here for my job, actually," when I saw a flash of disappointment I added, "I do like them though. And seeing a completely unknown collection like this, it's...It's just really cool."

He smiled at that and my face grew hotter, "It is fortunate someone found all these, eh?"

"Very fortunate, yes," I agreed, feeling like a complete dunce. Maybe the wine had gone to my head. I was finding it very difficult to string an intelligent sentence together.

"Well, it is a great pleasure to meet a fellow cinephile," he said. "Especially one so lovely." He bent slightly and reached to take my hand, and while a strange man grabbing at me was not something I typically enjoyed, I found myself allowing it.

Full lips brushed delicately against my fingers, strangely cool in the summer heat. The lobby had emptied out and my heart was racing; for some reason it felt like we were the only people in the world.

"Ah, perdonami," he said, swiping his thumb across my ring finger. "Signorina, not signora. Surprising." I hadn't noticed before that he was wearing gloves as part of his ensemble. Smooth, soft, black leather.

My heart thumped when he looked up at me through long eyelashes, those mismatched eyes peering curiously at me. Was he holding my hand too long? He seemed to be lingering, but time also didn't seem to be running quite so normally in his presence. He released me and stood straight again.

"I, um," I swallowed hard, "I didn't catch your name."

"Perdonami," he repeated, politely inclining his head, "Terzo. Terzo Emer-"

A voice crackled over the lobby speakers announcing the last film of the evening was about to begin.

"I...I guess we'd better go," I managed to say, despite my interest in the cinema rapidly plummeting.

"Perhaps I will be seeing you after," he smiled and gestured for me to walk with him, then opened the door for me.

"Y-yea...I'd like that."

That smile widened so pleasantly, and then our paths split as he walked to the other side of the theater. I lost sight of him in a cluster of people.

The host was standing to the side of the screen, rattling off information that I couldn't focus on at all until-

"-Terzo Emeritus," there was some applause before she continued. "All of tonight's films were donated by Mr. Emeritus, and we're just so honored to be able to screen all of them here tonight. So much early cinema was tragically lost to time, so you can imagine how shocked we were to find he had discovered such an incredible collection. A treasure trove like this...Well, for a film historian it's like finding the Holy Grail," she gushed.

I caught a brief flash of a gloved hand across the theater, waving in acknowledgment of her praise. Someone was blocking the rest of him from view, but now that I knew where he was sitting I kept glancing in his direction.

Just before the lights went down, he leaned forward in his seat, looking directly at me for just a moment, as though he already knew exactly where I was. A wave of goosebumps swept over me. Even in the dark room it was as though I could still see his eyes. I squirmed in my seat, unexpectedly and almost uncomfortably aroused.

I had to focus. I was here for work, after all. All my staring made me miss the opening titles but it appeared to be a detective serial. Not like the typical grizzled noir detective though; it appeared to have some science fiction elements. Some kind of dastardly villain was threatening an entire city. There were sections missing from the film, which didn't help my already-torn attention. Then something grabbed me completely.

The detective character hadn't been clearly shown on screen yet, but now he was creeping down a dark alley with a gun drawn, stalking some unseen threat. I thought I was imagining it until his face filled the screen.

It was Terzo. Right down to the striking pale eye.

The detective swiveled his head around, checking his surroundings, then slid around a corner onto the dark sidewalk.

I sat in a daze, absorbing nothing of the story, only looking at the impossible face. It wasn't a resemblance. It was him.

When he wasn't onscreen for a minute I managed to breathe again, until I saw someone moving in the theater. The person who had been blocking Terzo from my view jerked to his feet, walking stiffly up the aisle and out the doors.

Even with most of his face turned away, he matched the man flickering across the screen. I was snapping my eyes between him and the film, then jolted when I saw he had turned more toward me. In side profile, looking at me just out of the corner of his eye. I thought I saw a sly, knowing smile before he looked away again, just in time for the cliffhanger ending to lure moviegoers to return for the next installment.

When the lights came on people were standing and applauding and I lost sight of him again. As soon as I could move I tried to make my way over, ignoring my date's inane questions, but he was gone. I scanned the room, profoundly off-kilter and pushing rudely through groups of people, madly searching for a phantom.

The next day I called the group that had organized the screening to ask how one could fake a film from that era.

I was flatly told that in this instance, it couldn't be done. Terzo Emeritus' entire collection was on a unique kind of film, only produced for a few years. The odds of finding any intact, along with the kind of projector needed to run it, were next to zero. It was a miracle they'd been able to screen them at all.

When I asked if they could put me in touch with Mr. Emeritus, I was told that couldn't be done either.

It took me a week to finally track him down. The Emeritus family occupied a special niche of wealth and solitude that kept them almost hidden from the world, but I did find him.

Terzo Emeritus, immigrated here 1871.

Born 1852. No death listed.

If that birthdate was accurate, he would have been nearly seventy years old when the serial was filmed.

The estate was tucked deep in a dense forest of oak and pine about two hours away. The gates loomed over me, shiny black iron glinting in the sun. No intercom or guard. When I got out of my car to see if there was a way in, the gate creaked open at my touch.

My parents had always said I was too curious for my own good. They were the ones who encouraged me to become a journalist in the first place, and this...Well, there could be a story here, right? Either a strange man was making hoax movies for what, fake philanthropy? Or that was really him. At this point the simplest explanation —that he simply looked like him because they were related or something— somehow felt the least likely for reasons I couldn't explain.

A long gravel driveway twisted through the trees, ending at what would have been considered quite the mansion in the old days, and today...Well, probably still a mansion, but a more modest one by modern standards. It looked newly renovated, only showing its age in its design and details.

I parked in the driveway and stepped into the hot sun, heading to the front door with its shining bronze knocker, when I heard a faint quacking. Off to the side of the house I could see a small pond with someone sitting nearby in a wooden lawn chair. They were shaded and mostly covered by a large umbrella stuck in the ground.

Crossed legs in white pants, rolled-up white sleeves; then their arm moved and I saw white gloves.

He was tossing seed to the ducks with one hand, occasionally bringing a cigarette to his lips with the other before flicking the ash into the grass. He leaned past the rim of the umbrella to watch me approach for a moment, then sat back.

Large sunglasses kept his expression unreadable as he casually said, "Ciao, bella," as if my showing up at his secluded home was perfectly normal. He waved at another chair next to him, "Here for work?"

"Good guess," I sat down, trying to keep my voice steady, "I don't know yet."

"I read your review of the festival," he tossed out a handful of seeds, smiled at the sight of two ducks squabbling, "You have done better work, I think."

"You know my work?"

"You reviewed an art gallery last month. That one, I liked." He tucked his sunglasses into the collar of his shirt and turned to me, that colorless eye holding me motionless again, "It is not difficult to find old newspaper articles. And I thought to myself that I may be seeing you again."

"Why is that?" I managed to say, color already blooming on my face. He smiled as if we were both privy to an inside joke and turned back to the pond.

"Do you have a question for me, bella?"

How did you fake that movie? Did you fake that movie? How old are you? How many Terzo Emerituses have there been? Are you related to the man in the film? How old are you? When were you born? How did you come across those movies? How old are you? How old are you?

He let out an amused little breath and for a moment I thought I'd said all that aloud. Or that he had heard my thoughts. He spun the bag of seed around to twist up the excess and tied it shut.

"Come, it's much cooler inside," He stood and held out his hand to help me up, "Easier to talk, sì?"

Cool to the touch, even in the summer heat, even through the gloves.

As in the theater, his fingers clung to mine for a few seconds longer than necessary, lingering as though we were on a lover's walk. We entered the house through a large brick patio shaded by a vined pergola, into the cool, dim interior. He led me to a dark sitting room, surprisingly small and modest for a house this size, then excused himself after cracking opening one of the curtains.

The window faced a wooded area with evidence of recent landscaping. The brief walk through the house had shown that there was still a lot to be done inside, but but this room at least seemed finished, albeit dark.

I opened the curtains a little more, just to be able to see. They were thick and luscious in the hand, similar to the fabric on the loveseat. Maybe the room wasn't so finished: the loveseat was the only seat in the sitting room.

He returned bearing a wooden tray with a pitcher of what looked like iced tea, then poured a glass for each of us and sat at the other end of the seat, relaxing with his arm slung around the back. I took a sip; Bitter and over-steeped.

"So," he said, "you have come to my home." The shaft of light from the window caught his eye —the normal one, and it flared a lovely green before he blinked and moved his head. There was a faint smile playing around his face as he studied me.

"I...I was wondering..."

I just wanted to look at him —the graceful motions of his hands and body, the shapely, inviting curve of his lips, so easily imagined on mine, on every part of my body-

"Wondering?" He raised an eyebrow. It seemed almost mocking.

"Wondering," I echoed. Why was I so tongue-tied?

"You came here to ask about my movies, sì?"

"Yes, your movies," I said faintly. What had I been talking about?

Had he moved? Had he always been sitting right next to me?

"Are you...Are you..." I tried to remember what brought me here, tried to remember why I would feel so hot all of a sudden, "How...How old are you?" I finally asked.

"Not something you should ask a lady, I am told," he winked at me, "I think it is also not something to ask a gentleman." His arm was around my shoulder now, somehow.

"You..." I swallowed hard, shook my head to try and clear it, "are you related to that man?"

"Which man, cara mia?" he asked innocently, "I am related to a few men."

"The man in-" I blinked hard, felt myself returning a little, if only for a moment, "the man in that movie."

He tapped a finger on his chin and looked up toward the ceiling as though deep in thought, "If you can be related to yourself, yes."

A tiny whimper choked in my throat as I tried to lean away from him, but there was nowhere to go. He leaned a little closer and in a conspiratorial tone said, "Truth be told, bella, I only gave those movies away because I could not bear the thought of my film career rotting away in a moldy basement somewhere."

It made no sense. It defied logic. Yet in my bones I felt the weight of the truth crushing me.

I believed him.

"How?" I whispered.

His cool fingers closed around mine for a moment as he took my glass from my hand, placing it on the table with his own. So smooth and intentional and genteel in his movements, like time simply moved differently around him.

He had drawn so close, and the knowing smile that crept across his face made the way his eyes roamed over my body feel...obscene. Exposing. I shivered when his hand touched my knee.

"That is a boring story," he said, "I am more interested in writing new ones." He looked down to my thigh where he was slowly tracing his fingertips in loose spirals, nearing the hungry ache between my legs.

"How?" I repeated, "How can you-" I faltered when he fixed his gaze on mine again, letting out a shaking breath when his fingers brushed across my belly, teasingly moving up my body, just grazing my breast.

His fingers slid around the side of my neck and he tilted his head, considering me, looking at my mouth, my throat, my heart, as though he could see through me.

My heart was pounding hard enough that he could surely feel it. As if he knew my thoughts his fingers moved to my jugular vein and rested a moment, feeling my blood racing madly under his touch before moving his fingers along my jaw. He brushed his thumb across my lips, pulling them apart to allow a breathy sigh to spill.

All I was capable of was breathing, and even that was getting more difficult. The tip of his thumb slipped between my teeth, so cold against my tongue even through the gloves that I flinched. He drew nearer, so close I could feel his cool breath on my face when he pulled his thumb from my mouth, wetly dragging my lip down and leaving a slick trail on my chin.

Utterly transfixed, no longer capable of moving under my own will, I felt my body going limp, sinking under him when he tilted my chin up to face him.

His tongue ran along the inside of his mouth, making my whole body throb, and his lips had just brushed against mine when he turned my head to the side. I dimly felt him undoing one, two, three buttons, pulling at my shirt collar. Cold breath against my neck.

Then pain.

I felt something pierce my neck, felt lips and tongue and teeth, felt a strange loss as if I were draining away.

"N-n..." I tried, "N-no..." so weakly I wasn't sure I'd spoken at all. I managed to bring a hand up and tried to slap or pull him away, but in my state I couldn't have pushed a baby mouse.

He gripped the back of my neck and pulled me closer, wrapping his other arm around me, and for a brief moment I felt like a solid being in the material world again. When I tried to push myself away again I saw my hand was smeared with blood. My neck was numb, my fingers and toes prickling, my head swimming.

And I could hear him: the wet smacking sounds of him gorging on me, the satisfied exhalations of someone getting their first drink on a summer day, the muffled moans of his open mouth on my skin, lewd and ravenous and obscene.

"N-no..." I whispered.

The room was spinning, dimming. Was it night already? Why was it so dark?

"The...the sun..."

He pulled away from me with a deep, satiated groan, bright red streaks running from his mouth.

"What about the sun, myszko?" he smiled at me, so kindly, and licked the remainder of my blood from his lips.

"'S goin' out," I slurred, "ss-...sun..."

"The sun will not go out for a very long time, darling girl. You can sleep now."

"Don' wanna sle-"

The light had indeed gone out, but I was awake. Awake in darkness so total I thought I'd gone blind, but my eyes adjusted and I found myself in a dark bedroom, so large I couldn't see the walls. Maybe there was an afterlife after all and this was some strange plane of existence consisting solely of a large, soft bed in a black void.

But I could feel a breeze, and hear the soft hum of the fan that was blowing on me. I started to sit up but could barely move. My arms and legs felt...well, they didn't feel like much at all, other than cold. As if they were attached to me only as a courtesy; not there to serve me any longer.

I tried to roll onto my side and it only made me dizzy.

I managed to raise my arm but it flopped uselessly onto my belly.

I could bend my knees a little but when I tried to brace and push myself my feet slid uselessly across the sheets.

I whimpered in fear, then tried to call for help, only managing to push out a weak, rasping little wheeze.

It had to be a nightmare. Ever since I was little, I could never scream in my nightmares. My mouth would open and air would silently pour out, just like now.

If I know it's a dream, that means I'm lucid. I can control this.

Okay. I can move. I can fly if I want to. And I do want to. I need to.

I took a deep breath and shut my eyes, trying to focus.

Then started to cry.

I would not be flying anywhere. It all felt terribly, terribly real: the bedding, the fan, the pain in my neck-

My neck. Something happened to my neck. I limply dragged my hand toward the ache, wincing when my fingers brushed against two small wounds. No, four.

My skin wasn't tacky or dried out; I felt clean. I sniffed at my collar. No blood smell. An unfamiliar scent. Like someone else's laundry detergent.

I felt around my shirt and realized it wasn't actually mine. It was a man's shirt, and when I moved my legs again found that my pants were gone.

"H-help," I managed to breathe. Where was I?

I remembered driving somewhere. A long drive through a forest looking for...something. Someone? I was looking-

"...to meet another cinephile..."

A man with strange, dreamy, half-closed eyes and a sly, knowing smile. A smile that had drawn so close, so close I could feel his breath. My eyes widened, useless in the shadows surrounding me. Cold breath.

"Terzo," I whispered.

Taking the glass from my hand with silken grace as he leaned closer, his thumb brushing across my lips, then...the blood on his mouth.

I tried to push the bedding away. I wasn't any stronger but the fear helped me move. The room felt sickeningly, feverishly hot, even with the fan blowing on me, even with my limbs chilled from blood loss.

But even with the adrenaline flooding my body I couldn't rise. I laid there, heart hammering, breathing hard and trying desperately to think. Now that Terzo had reappeared in my mind there wasn't room for anything else.

All I could think of was him parting those soft lips, tilting his head as if angling for a kiss as he drew nearer, intoxicatingly close, his strange, discomfiting eyes flicking between mine and my lips. The delicacy with which he ran his fingers from my knee to my neck.

The warm, sympathetic smile with lips stained by my own blood.

Still some distance away, but their approach announced by the wooden floors: Footsteps.

Please, please, please, no...

They stopped outside the door. I squeezed my eyes shut, quaking at the sound of the turning doorknob. Footsteps on wood again, then muffled by carpet. The metallic kachink of a lamp's pull chain, the faint flare of light against my eyelids.

"Bellissima, you are awake," the back of his hand brushed against my cheek, making me whimper and flinch away. The bed shifted under his weight and I flinched again when he touched my shoulder.

"Here, bella, let me help you," he said gently. I whimpered again when his hands slid under me, pulling all my dead weight into a sitting position next to him as easily and delicately as if I were made of paper.

Once the room stopped spinning I kept my head turned away, trying to control myself, trying to stop the quiet, terrified whimpers escaping with nearly every trembling breath. He brushed my hair away from my face, then touched my chin and turned me to face him.

"Open your eyes, please."

I managed to shake my head the tiniest bit.

"Now."

A voice that echoed through my whole body, curling up and around my spine until it shook my eyes open.

In the soft, moody light, some of his hair loosely arcing toward his cheek, he looked like a different man. His mismatched eyes were warm and he tapped his thumb playfully across my chin before letting go of me.

"What are you doing?" I whispered.

He either ignored me or didn't hear as he turned to the nightstand. His little wooden tray again, this time with a glass of water, a glass of orange juice, a small dish of fruit, and a smaller dish with some crackers. He shifted so closely that our legs were touching, balancing the tray on a bent knee.

"Can you drink?"

"Why...why are you doing this?"

"You are my guest," he said lightly. He brought the glass of water to my lips.

"I-I'm not thirsty," I lied.

"You are." His tone was so matter-of-fact. Simple truth.

"Drink," he handed me a cracker, "I am sorry to say you lost a lot of blood today. I was careless. Forgive me."

"I didn't lose blood," I managed to say, "You...You drank my blood."

He hummed in agreement as he gave me a sip of orange juice, "I did. Eat." He nodded at the cracker in my hand and I choked it down. Dry.

"So...why am I still alive?"

He pushed a grape between my lips. "Because I did not want to kill you. As I said: I was careless today. Waited too long between meals, you see?"

"Meals," I echoed, my voice hollow.

"I had already put it off longer than necessary. Planned on finding someone the night we met, but then...Well. We met." He held my gaze as he helped me drink some more.

"And sometimes it is more fun when dinner delivers itself," his mouth quirked into a smile when I breathed out a soft, fearful sound.

"I thought you might seek me out, and you did," He took my hand, gentle again, and brought it to his soft, cold lips, "I spoke to many people that night. You were the only one who noticed the man on the screen was me." He was rubbing his thumb across my fingers, the fabric of his glove so smooth and soft.

"I heard your blood racing so clearly when we first saw one another, then again when you saw who I was." He slid his hand along my wrist and I could only stare, transfixed again by his smooth, refined movements.

"In a room full of beating hearts, yours was loud as thunder," he pressed his thumb into the bend of my arm and I felt my pulse against it.

"Just as it is now."

Involuntary heat washed over me. I hadn't realized how hard my heart was beating until now, but he was right.

"You-" I swallowed hard, "you're doing it. You can control me somehow. It's not...It's not me."

"You think so?" he murmured. The hand that had been at my elbow moved up the back of my arm, making me shiver, then returned to my wrist, "Even across the house I knew you were awake because I heard your blood rushing through your body. Did I do that as well? When you were alone?"

"How could I know that? I don't know what kind of..." I paused, trying to sort my thoughts in the face of unreality, "what kind of powers you have."

He gave me another sip of orange juice and set the tray back on the nightstand, then leaned across my legs. He rested his hand on the bed, his wrist against my outer thigh a reminder that I didn't have any pants on.

"Well," he said, "I cannot control your heartbeat," His eyes wandered down my body to my bare legs, "and despite what you may think, I cannot control your mind, either. I can only...push." His fingernails were grazing my skin as he traced unknown patterns on the fragile skin of my wrist.

"Push?" My voice sounded so small.

“Sì,” His hand drifted to my thigh and goosebumps raced over my skin, "Some people yearn for oblivion, cara mia. They cry out for it but will stand at a cliff's edge forever, waiting for someone to help them take the final step. And some," he stared at me intently, "some just want to give up control to someone else."

He flattened his palm on my thigh, "To take decisions away from them," and moved up while holding my gaze, sliding his fingers across my hip and under the waistband of my panties, pulling at them so quickly they ripped. I had barely cried out when he moved closer, up onto his knee, his cool palm still on my leg.

"And you, słoneczko, why did you come here?" He planted his other hand on the headboard next to my shoulder as he leaned in.

"I...I just..."

His lips were so close to mine when he pushed his knee between my legs, pressing his thigh right up against me. With half-closed eyed he searched my face, then grazed my cheek with his lips, moving along my jaw.

When his lips brushed against my neck I whimpered anxiously and heard the smile in his voice when he said, "I have already eaten, darling girl. You should worry more about this, I think." He nudged me with his knee and a soft moan escaped me.

Next to my ear, in such a smooth, silky voice: "Tell me why you sought me out."

Even in my weakened state my body was responding, still moving just enough to continue the stimulation of his leg pushed against my cunt.

I had an answer. Just not one I wanted to give. I didn't want to admit the instant attraction, the jolt of electricity down my spine the first moment our eyes met, the fact that when he walked me to the theater doors I was already wet.

Or that every night since then I'd only been able to sleep after making myself cum while thinking about him.

He nudged me again and I whimpered again, trying to suppress it, trying so badly to not want this, want him, to wake up from this nightmare where a monster was making me ache with desire.

"Why did you come to me?" he asked quietly before biting down on the outer ridge of my ear. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to stay silent and still.

He raised himself up a bit and grabbed my chin, looking down on me with parted lips, running his tongue over his canines. Letting me see their sharpness.

"Tell me," he said in that strange echoing voice. I mewled and tried to shrink away, but sinking back into the cushions pushed my cunt harder against him. I gasped and tried to sit back up but he held me in place with a hand against my chest. My hips were rocking slowly in spite of myself, maddeningly incapable of moving as fast I wanted.

His other hand moved to the remains of my underwear. Cool fingers brushed against my hair and he smiled at the needy whine betraying my thoughts.

"If you tell me, bella, you'll get it," he slid a finger along the ruined waistband, flicking his eyes to mine as it fell away, almost exposing me completely, "what you came here for."

"No," I whispered tremulously, even as my hips continued to twitch against him.

He pulled away, chuckling when another whine escaped me. He tore the remains of my underwear off, almost too quickly for me to see, then held them out, crumpled in his palm.

"I will bring you new ones. These needed a wash even before I tore them, eh?" His smile was mocking as he showed me the obvious wet patch on the cloth. He tucked them into his pocket and rubbed his gloved fingers together. Then sniffed them.

He twitched an eyebrow up at me but said nothing as he walked away. He stopped in the doorway and looked back to me.

"You think about your answer, pretty girl. I will ask again later."

Every few hours he would return. He would refresh my drinks and snacks, ensure I was comfortable —as much as I could be under the circumstances— and torment me.

More than once I woke up feeling his cool fingers running along my body. Sometimes his lips were grazing my neck, murmuring strange, quiet things into my ear, Italian keeping it a secret from me.

When I finally managed to roll onto my side, the next time I woke he was laying behind me. His body was pressed against me, a heavy arm draped around my waist, keeping me pinned in place with his head on my hair. Breathing softly. Sleeping next to me.

Warmed by my body, he almost felt like a normal man until his fingers twitched, the icy little taps against my belly making me jump. He let out a deep breath and mumbled something. Pulled me closer with that cold hand.

I stared into the darkness. My hip was sore and I needed to roll over, but I was unwilling to let him see me struggle to move. I tried to relax but could only think about what he'd said. Even in the dark I knew my face was pink remembering it.

"You think about your answer, pretty girl."

Every time he returned it was the same: he would get close enough for his lips to touch me, delicately explore with his fingers, never do more than graze me.

When he brought me a new pair of underwear he looked me in the eye the whole time he was putting them on me, until the very last moments when he lifted my hips and saw what he wanted. He had flicked his eyes back to mine with a smirk on his face.

The next time he returned, he tore through them. Then apologized, saying he'd have to make a trip to buy more.

In a few days.

When he would slide his knee between my legs he kept his eyes on me and would always look down at his pants before he left, making sure I saw the wet patch inevitably left on his leg.

"Is this all you came to me for?" he would murmur, his voice husky against my ear, "Are you sure this is all you want?"

"I can give much more, amoruccia, much more." He had flicked his tongue against my neck and laughed delightedly when I moaned into his shoulder.

It was almost worse when he left. In the dark my limp body had nothing to do but think, and all I could think of was him. I would lay there for hours, shifting uncomfortably as my body burned. Feeling how wet I was and being too weak to touch myself long enough to cum. I could slowly rub myself for maybe thirty seconds at a time —too much for rest, not enough for release.

By the time he would return I would already be soaking wet, longing for him between my legs and desperately trying not to think about how long I could possibly maintain this.

He couldn't not feel my heat, see my flushed skin, hear my hurried breathing as soon as his lean body moved over mine.

He always knew.

"You are awake?" he mumbled into my hair, pulling me from my thoughts. I said nothing, just tried to stay still and pretend he couldn't hear my heart pounding. He let out a sleepy grunt and moved a cold hand up near my neck.

"Sleep."

"How long have I been here?"

The curtains were open for the first time since my imprisonment began. It was a miserable rainy day outside but it was good to see something other than a dark room.

He speared a cube of melon and held it to my mouth, "A few days."

"Someone will come looking for me." I reached for my juice and managed to drink it myself, albeit with a trembling hand. He smiled at the sight, something like pride in his eyes.

"Perhaps," he said, "Did you tell anyone you were looking for me?"

"Will you kill me if I say no?"

He took the glass from my weak, shaking hands before it could spill. He cocked his head to the side and studied my face —a mannerism I found myself growing fond of, then looked away to choose another piece of fruit.

"Do you still think that? That I will kill you?"

"You're a man with a lot of secrets," I shrugged, "Big ones. People with fewer bodies in the closet than you have killed to keep a secret."

"I could have killed you already if I wanted to, myszko."

"Maybe this is easier than hunting down a new person every...week? How often do you eat?"

"A few times a month. And no," he quietly said, "this is not easier."

"Then why am I alive, Terzo?"

He was peeling an orange, deep in thought as he drove his thumb under its skin.

"I do not know," he said finally, "This is not something I have done before." He held out an orange segment, pulling it back when I reached for it. "Did you tell anyone about me?"

"No," I admitted. He offered the orange slice again and I took it, "I thought about telling my boss but it seemed...silly, I guess. I wanted to see if there was anything here first."

"And did you tell anyone you met a handsome, mysterious stranger at the cinema who immediately bewitched you with his charm and wit?" That smug, knowing smile was back. When I looked away without answering he laughed quietly.

"You are blushing," he said, leaning closer, "You do this a lot around me, I have noticed." An orange-scented hand trailed along my neck, his thumb making its usual journey across my bottom lip. Terzo liked doing that.

I liked him doing that.

A few days later he had a newspaper tucked under his arm when he brought my breakfast. He set my food down and opened the paper as I ate. So quickly our strange little version of domesticity had become normal to me.

"You made it to page three, cara mia."

"Page three of the paper I worked at, after being missing for over a week," I muttered, "And they used my fucking employee ID photo." I reached for the paper, "What's on the front page?"

"The mayor is having trouble getting his new budget approved." There was something like sympathy on his face. I swallowed hard and looked down at my food.

"Do you..." he trailed off, looking out the window, thinking, "don't you have family?"

"I have a brother somewhere, but we haven't spoken in years. Last I heard he was out on the west coast somewhere."

"Friends?"

No one to raise hell for me and hold a good picture of me in front of news cameras. No one to put a spotlight on my absence. If I hadn't had a job I went to every day it could have been weeks before anyone even noticed I was gone.

"No one close," I said.

"Dispiace," he said softly after a moment. When I looked at him curiously he explained, "I am sorry for you. That this has happened to you."

"It didn't just happen, Terzo," I said, my mouth twisting unhappily.

"You are right, yes. I only mean that...I am sorry to cause this," He briefly met my eye, then looked back out the window, "For you to feel this way." He looked almost ashamed.

The only sounds were the birds singing outside. A lull descended between us until I finally said, "If I asked to leave...Would you let me?"

He looked back to me, searching my eyes. Tilted his head a little, the way he usually did when trying to make a decision.

"I think I would," he said softly, "But do not know if I can."

He stayed away unusually long that day, not returning until after dark. He fed me, quiet the whole time, barely meeting my eye. When I finished he moved the tray to the nightstand as usual, this time keeping his hand on it with his brow furrowed.

He looked like he wanted to leave already, but when he stood he slowly walked to the other side of the bed and sat next to me, our bodies just barely touching. He was looking down, restlessly tapping his fingers on his thigh, deep in thought.

"Terzo?" my voice wavered slightly. When he said nothing my skin prickled with alarm.

It's happening.

He's going to kill me.

But when he reached for me, he put his arms around me. Pulled my body to him, making me straddle his lap and face him. He settled back against the pillows, looking up at me with an enigmatic smile.

"What are you doing?"

He said nothing, only took my hands and placed my palms on his chest, covering my hands with his own. He brushed a thumb across my skin and stared intently into my eyes. His voice was low and curious when he finally spoke.

"The night we met. There was a man with you, yes?"

"Uh, yea. Dave. Why?"

"A date?"

"Yes."

"Did you like him, this Dave?"

"No," I said, after a moment.

"Why?" His thumb had slid under my palm, just the faintest embrace as his fingers stroked the back of my hand.

"He was boring. And bossy. He was annoying. Even on our first date."

"Did you fuck him?"

The plainness of the question caught me off guard and I laughed, "What? No."

He shifted under me. Just a little; just enough to remind me where I was sitting.

"Would you have?"

I opened my mouth to say no, of course not, I would never, but the words caught in my throat. Dave had tried on our first date. Casually suggesting we go back to his place after we left a mediocre movie following an even worse dinner.

"Tell me."

I had refused him that first night, hadn't even intended to go on another date with him. But when he asked me out again, I just...gave in.

Looking back to that night, I think I had already accepted the fact that when he asked me back to his place I would go with him.

"...Yes."

"Why would you fuck a boring and annoying man?"

I had been trying to keep a distance between us but my legs were tiring. I was slowly sinking onto his body and he shifted under me again, just bumping his hips against me.

"Because...Because he was there," I said. Terzo squeezed my hand and the words, "Because no one better wanted me" tumbled from my lips before I even thought them. Tears sprang to my eyes.

"Did you think I was better?" A hint of a smile pulled at the side of those sweetly curved lips.

I knew you were.

I bit my lip. He moved his hand up my thigh, around to my butt, and pulled me forward. Still so weak, my arms folded against his chest and brought our faces so very close. He studied me for a moment with half-closed eyes before continuing.

"What would you do at home, when you were alone?"

"...Nothing," I said quietly, "I...My whole life was work." His hand was slowly moving between my back and my thighs, lingering near my ass each time, caressing my skin with cool, gloved fingers. He moved his lips tantalizingly close to mine, then looked intently into my eyes and asked,

"What were you living for, darling girl?"

He wiped a tear from my cheek and moved his hand between us, brushing against the inside of my thigh. His gloves today were smooth, cool, almost satiny.

"I didn't even want to work there," I sniffed, "I didn't want to work in journalism at all." His other hand left mine and caught another tear, then wandered to my neck, worked into my hair, gently brought my head to his chest.

"So why did you?" As he stroked my hair I finally gave in, letting myself fully relax onto his body, my eyes fluttering shut at the soft, soothing pleasure of it. Of him.

"My parents," I murmured, "They always said I should be a journalist so I just...did."

"Hmm..." He went quiet for a moment, then asked, "How many decisions have you made for yourself, perełko? Real ones. Big."

"I picked out my apartment."

He tapped his thumb against my shoulder, counting: one.

"And my car." Another tap.

Silence stretched between us.

A sort of panic flooded in to fill it.

Surely there had been something.

College had been decided by my parent's finances. The job I hadn't wanted was the only paper that I interviewed with to offer me a job. I chose what I ate and wore, and what little I did with my free time.

That was it. Unless...

"Did I choose to come here?"

"I did not push you then, so yes. If you do not count my being devastatingly handsome and charming as an influence."

"So three, then," I took a deep breath, "and I don't know how one of them will turn out yet."

"Having second thoughts about your car?" he said lightly. One hand was still stroking my hair, the other rubbing my back, "Do you know, myszko, I saw a documentary once on the television. It was about sea creatures. The ehh...the tiny ones. Plankton."

"What about them?"

"They are so small, most of them, that they cannot swim against the current. That is what makes them plankton, you see? They are pushed wherever the ocean takes them," he paused, then helpfully added, "You are plankton."

"I got that."

"Just making sure."

"I'm an insignificant bug that gets pushed around by the world until I get sucked up and eaten."

"No, bella," he said, an unusual warmth coloring his words, "plankton are not all tiny, not all helpless. Some jellyfish are plankton. And ehm...other fish. I think. I did not see this recently. But jellyfish can sting, yes?"

"Yea."

"And they are too tough to be pleasant to eat."

"You ate me."

"I drank, bella. When I eat you it will be very pleasant for both of us." He laughed and rubbed my back, "It is so easy to get your heart racing, eh?"

It wasn't fair that he could hear my heartbeat.

"You say 'when' as if it's a foregone conclusion," I said, silently cursing the flutter in my chest.

"It is possible you will resist my charms long enough for me to give up," he sounded amused at the very notion, "How long did it take you to find me?"

"A week."

"And how soon after that did you start driving?"

I chewed my lip in irritation, my silence earning a gentle laugh.

"It would be a waste of a trip, sì? To not get what you came here for."

"Then what am I here for, Terzo?" My voice was rising, "You seem to know everything about me already," I tried to push away and sit up, tiring of his mocking arrogance, "Answer your own fucking questions if you know so much."

With just a hand on the back of my neck he kept me in place. I struggled for a moment but it was obvious it didn't require even an ounce of effort to hold me there.

"Let me go," I said quietly.

"No."

"Please."

He reached for my leg, pulled it over his, then pushed me firmly against his knee.

"I will let you go in a few minutes," he said, "When I feel like it." He pressed his hand to my lower back, making me rub against his thigh.

"Asshole," I said through gritted teeth.

"That is a 'when,' too, darling girl."

I tried to jerk my head up, so mad I wanted to spit right in his smug face but I was locked against him, trying to stifle any sign I was enjoying it.

"Good," he murmured, when a soft whimper finally escaped me, "Good." He kept pushing my cunt against him and it wasn't long until I couldn't keep any sounds in anymore.

"Doesn't it feel nice?" It felt like his voice was in my head, "It could be even better." He was pushing me against him faster, barely allowing me to think. I was chained there, only my wet, needy cunt making decisions. Keeping me in his thrall.

He grabbed my face, making me look at him.

"What do you want?"

I whimpered and tried to shut out the echo, tried to look away but still he held me. With two hands. How long had he had both his hands on my face?

I was panting and desperately grinding against his leg on my own.

I gasped and pulled away and he released me with a smirk, "You do not want any more?"

Rolling away from him, trying to crawl off the bed and leave, I've had enough of this, I can't stay here with this nightmare-

His hand clamped around my wrist and pulled me back. He was on his knees behind me, one arm around my waist and the other holding my hand away to keep from clawing at him.

"You have been humping my leg like a horny little bitch for days now." His voice was low and breathy in my ear, "You think I do not know how wet you are every time you are around me? You are aching for me to fill you, amoruccia." The mocking laugh I'd come to know so well rang out when I whimpered.

"And that just turned you on even more."

He pushed me onto my back, pinning my hands above my head when I tried to slap him.

"None of that," he jeered, "All I want is to please you and you try to hit me? You wound me."

I spat at him. It landed short, hitting his collar.

He tugged at his shirt to look at my handiwork, then sucked disapprovingly at his teeth and said, "You have been so well-behaved until now."

I spat again. This time it hit his chin.

"Stop talking to me like I'm a fucking dog."

He wiped my saliva off with a finger and looked at it for a moment, then into my glaring eyes before grabbing my chin and pushing his finger into my mouth, so quickly I couldn't react. I tried to bite but he squeezed my face, keeping me from closing my teeth on him.

"Lick it clean."

When I just glared he put a second finger in, the fabric of the glove dragging across my tongue as he pushed deep. When I gagged he smiled and pulled back for just a moment.

"Clean."

He made me gag again and stayed there, nothing but entertained at my tears, by my throat's attempt to reject him, only retreating when I moaned around him. Helpless against him and my body both.

"Will you obey or will you make me keep choking you?"

All I could manage was a soft whimper.

"Makes your figa hot no matter what, eh? I am already in your mouth, cara mia. I am happy either way." His soft smile and kind eyes were so familiar now, but he’d never given those while touching me directly.

His fingers were sliding easily between my lips, and whenever he reached the back of my tongue I couldn't help but moan. Soon he slowed.

He held my gaze as he released my face, then slipped in a third finger. He would pause every time his fingers got back to my lips, as if considering stopping altogether, then he would slowly push back in as our eyes stayed locked.

It was humiliating, the way he looked at me. The way he kept me where he wanted, the way my body shook, the way I couldn't help but moan when he got deep enough for his knuckles to hit my teeth. He had to notice how my hips kept flexing toward him, the way I was squirming, but he kept it to himself for once.

"Nice and wet up here, too," he said sweetly, then he slid all the way back into my throat. When I didn't gag he held there, letting out a pleased sigh.

"You are feeling calmer now, yes?" There was a dark, hungry cast to his eyes, only deepening at the soft sounds I was making around him.

"Get your tongue in between my fingers. Just because I'm nice enough to fuck your mouth doesn't mean you don't have to clean my gloves, sì?"

A satisfied breath rumbled from his chest when I obeyed, "Good," he said, "It is better this way, don't you think so?"

His condescension was irritating but when I narrowed my eyes he pressed down on my tongue and made me gag again.

"Ah, perdonami, for a moment I thought you were making a face at me," he said lightly. He finally took his fingers out of my mouth and patted my cheek with his wet hand, "You would not do that, of course."

He tilted his head to study my face as he liked to do, when something seemed to dawn on him. His face brightened, an impish grin spreading. He raised his hand to my lips again, but said, "Bite." He saw my confusion and added, "The glove." I bit down on the fabric and he pulled his hand free.

"Hold it there," he said. He wasn't even looking at me. He was looking down as he rolled up his sleeves, exposing forearms surprisingly hairy and vascular.

"Do you know, bella, I think I have been asking you the wrong questions."

He looked back to me, smiling at the sight of me lying still with his wet glove between my teeth. He grabbed me around the waist and smoothly pulled me further down the bed, away from the pillows, flat on my back.

He moved his body over mine —with his excited eyes and delighted smile he would have looked sweet under much kinder circumstances, but it made a hard core of dread settle in my stomach. He drew agonizingly close, a whisper away from kissing me as always.

"I have been asking for you to explain, sì?" he looked a little too pleased with himself as he pulled the glove out of my mouth. For the first time he really touched his bare skin to mine, running his fingers along my lips, "But those are complicated, explanations. And you are stubborn. It is much easier to get a simple yes or no." He grinned when my eyes widened.

He pushed his thigh firmly against my cunt, then gripped my chin and kept me in place as he fixed his eye on me.

"So then, cara mi- you will keep your eyes on me," his hand moved to my throat and lightly squeezed when I shut my eyes. I shuddered from the very bottom of my spine when I looked at him, and when I whimpered softly he smiled and began.

"Tell me: did I ever leave your mind after we met?"

"Nnn-" I tried to look away, tried to lie, tried to say nothing, but it was as if the hand on my throat went into my windpipe and physically pulled the word from me.

"No," I gasped. He smiled triumphantly and continued,

"Did you think of me every night?"

"Y-...ye-" I mewled desperately, tears welling up in my eyes as I squirmed with effort, but I couldn't keep it in, "yes."

My squirming hadn't stopped, my hips continuing to move on their own, rubbing against him, already swollen, already aching, only intensifying under his mesmerizing gaze and the barrage of questions.

And did you touch yourself while you thought of me? Did you think of me every time you came? Was your cunt wet in that theater, after only a few minutes of talking to me? Did me drinking your blood make you wet? Did you dream of me? Did you dream about my cock inside you, sliding into you and fucking you senseless? Am I the first thing you think of when you wake up? Were you wet for the entire drive here?

Did you come here because you wanted me?

Your cunt aches for me every time I enter the room, doesn't it?

You liked when I tore your panties off, didn't you? Do you like spreading your legs for me? You like showing me your cunt, so wet and needy, don't you? Do you want me to fuck you whenever I feel like it? Do you want me to use you however I want?

You like me keeping you here, don't you?

Do you miss me when I leave you alone?

You want to stay here, don't you?

Question after question. He knew the answers —didn't need them— but wanted to hear them regardless. Wanted to pull them from me over and over, reveling in my humiliation as I got more and more turned on, as much by his words as his body against mine. More and more delighted each time I degraded myself with a needy whimper, each time my hips jerked in response to a question, each time I managed to shut my eyes and would then moan loudly, wantonly when he'd squeeze my throat.

When he'd had his fun he reared back and put his hands on my knees, his cold, strong grip preventing me closing my legs even if I'd wanted to. He looked over me —over his work— admiringly. Panting, trembling, wet, wanting.

"If you want me to stay, perełko, all you have to do is ask," he said, a scornful cut to his words, "I am a giving man." 

His hands were sliding down the inside of my thighs. "You will forget all about the world out there," his nails grazing the flushed, sensitive skin, "You will scream so loudly that it will drown out all the past noise of the life you pretended to be living. I promise you." He ran a finger along the crease between my leg and my lips, smiling at the soft, needy sound it caused.

He fell forward, propping himself up with his hands on either side of my head, grinning smugly when my legs closed around his body. His gaze was steady on mine as he slowly, intentionally moved his hips into place, his frame solid and insistent as he pinned my legs open.

Once again he drew near as if he was going to kiss me. I felt the lightest, briefest touch of his lips against mine and let out a shaking, anticipatory breath.

"Try not to miss me too touch."

Those sweet lips curved into a taunting smile, and then he left.

The sun was setting, the western-facing windows painting the room in crimson and pink and gold. The colors turned his face into stained glass when he pulled back onto his knees and looked down at me. Both of us were breathing heavily, both of us fighting for control over ourselves.

Something had shifted in the days since his interrogation. It had always been obvious he wanted me, but he had managed to keep a level demeanor before. Tormenting me so cheerfully, always in control, always cool-headed.

He was still showing immense restraint, hadn't taken his gloves off or touched me directly again, but when he left me his hair would inevitably be out of place, his clothes needing adjusting, deep breaths taken as he pulled away.

His lips always lingered near mine now, reminding me that I hadn't even kissed the man I was grinding my cunt against multiple times a day.

It was maddening.

Every time he reminded me that I need only ask for what I wanted it became more difficult to stay silent, my resolve eroding with each slow, torturous touch of his hand. It felt like years since I first asked myself why I was bothering to resist in the first place, and now the question was if I remembered the reason at all anymore.

He took a deep breath and raked his hair back into place. The look in his eyes was one I'd come to recognize: he was close to leaving. Maybe close to losing control. But still he remained.

Even when I looked him in the eyes and started to roll my hips, slowly rubbing my cunt on his leg on my own, just letting him watch me. His breath hitched as mine did, again when I closed my eyes and just focused on grinding against him, sick of the denial and teasing. Just craving release after so much torment.

I cried out softly as I looked in his eyes again, and something dark settled behind them. He lowered himself to me, slowly pressing his full weight onto me for the first time. The new angle brought him right up against my clit and I whimpered at the sudden shock of stimulation. When I tried to slow he started rocking his hips against me, making me cry out louder, maintaining his control over me and my body with his own.

And for the first time I felt him, straining his pants, hard as a rock. Every few thrusts he would hold for a moment and press into me, hard enough that I could feel his pulse.

Another first: finding out he had a pulse.

My interest in pretending I didn't want this faded rapidly as he kept moving. His face was buried where my neck and shoulder joined, shuddering cool air against my flushed skin.

Neither of us were hiding, letting the room fill with our breathing and whimpers and needy, hungry moans for more.

He snaked an arm under me and reached for my hair, pulling my head back, and when I cried out at the unexpected jolt of pleasure his cock flexed against me.

My panting cries were coming closer and closer together, heat building and gathering and spreading through my body when he bit my earlobe.

"Tell me what you came to me for," he breathed, "Now."

I gasped as his sinister influence butted up against the flagging remainder of my resistance.

"I...I wanted..." I tried to shake my head clear and couldn't focus on anything but my aching body. He pressed a firm hand down on my hip to slow me, ignoring my desperate whimper.

"Tell me, bella, what did you do you when you got home that night? When we met," he said breathlessly. I looked away and he gently closed his teeth on my neck, adding, "Now."

My mouth opened and, "I thought about us fucking and made myself cum twice," tumbled from my lips.

A breathy laugh in my ear, "And the next night? You kept thinking about me."

"Us in the theater," I breathed, "You eating me out. I had my legs up on the seats and...and..."

"You are wondering if I know how to use my tongue? I do," he bit down again, just a little harder, "and I like doing so, perełko. The next night."

"You...in the theater again, I'm looking for you after you disappeared and you come up behind me. You-" I whimpered when his fingers tightened in my hair, "you pin my arms to the wall and...tell me to get on my knees."

Something like a growl rumbled in his chest and he thrust hard against me again.

"Fantasizing about me fucking your mouth?"

When I nodded he panted, "Say it."

"You told me to get on my knees and fuck...fuck," I moaned, feeling the first jolts of climax approaching, "you fucked my mouth, fucked my mouth hard and, and..." I gripped his arm, buried my face in his chest.

"And how many times did you cum thinking about that?"

"Ah, t-two again, I...oh fuck, Terzo," I groaned.

His hand squeezed between us and I heard the jingle of his belt buckle as he undid his pants. His fist was pushing into me as he thrust into it a few times, then he hissed and grabbed my hand. He wrapped me around his cock then his hand around mine, groaning into my shoulder as he used me.

"You want to feel my tongue, bella? Want me to lick your cunt until you can't think anymore?" He panted, laughing breathlessly at my moans.

"Dillo. Just say it and you won't- ah, merda, won't be able to walk for a week from how hard I fuck every hole you have."

I cried out —soon now, so close, and felt him harden suddenly in my hand, then a wet warmth as he burst between us. He slowed, repeating with a ragged voice,

"Say it."

I kept rolling my hips but I was tiring, my shaking legs unable to continue much longer, and then he was pulling away...

Already tucking himself back into his pants, and when he withdrew his leg I grabbed at him, desperate to continue. All he offered was a derisive, lopsided grin.

"All you have to do is ask," he said sweetly. He watched me reach for him for a few moments, then left me with nothing but mocking laughter.

Maddening.

Using my hand to jerk off and leaving his fucking jizz on me.

Disgusting, I thought as I touched the filthy puddle he'd left on my stomach. It was still warm, somehow. Did he actually have a heartbeat still? Body heat?

Every time he used that commanding voice it became harder to resist, harder to think straight, harder to want anything but to obey him. He said he couldn't control me, but each little push made me want him, more and more, to control me. Like he was pushing not merely a thought but me —my mind— aside.

I jolted with shock when I realized my fingers were in my mouth. Covered in him.

Disgusting, I tried to remind myself, he's just playing with you, just using you. Controlling you.

The thoughts faded when I took a second taste.

If he was so disgusting, what did that make me? Licking the cum that he just left on me made me want more.

What was wrong with me?

His footsteps were approaching. I recognized them now. In so little time I'd already been conditioned to push the blankets away, to ready myself for him as I shivered in anticipation.

"Buonasera, mio sole," he ran his eyes over my body laid out for him and smiled.

"Terzo," I said quietly, clenching at the flash of his teeth.

He brought a knee onto the bed then stopped, studying my face. His eyes narrowed slightly as he cocked his head to the side. Opened his mouth to say something, then paused and furrowed his brow. He could hear my heart, beating fast but steady, hear my blood rushing, pulsing between my legs.

"Well," he said, "Well, well, well."

His lips parted into the knowing smile I'd come to crave, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"Terzo," I repeated, a whining edge to my voice.

He stood back from the bed, keeping his eyes trained on mine as he undressed. Hairier than expected, less muscle definition than expected, uncut cock half-hard and red against his pale skin.

He looked at me expectantly, still as a statue, a hint of a smile on his face.

I reached out to him, "Please, Terzo," mindlessly sliding my hand between my legs, my breath hitching as I started stroking myself.

"Say it," echoed out. His tongue flicked along his lips when he saw me shiver.

"I...I want you," I breathed. His cock twitched when I added, "Please. Please."

He moved onto the bed and took my hand away from my cunt, laughing softly at my needy displeasure.

"And why did you come here, mia amata?" His strange pale eye boring into me, almost glowing in the dim room as a victorious smile crept across his face.

"Because...Because I..." I swallowed hard as he brought my fingers to his lips, inhaling their perfume deeply before slipping his cool tongue around and between, sighing happily.

"Because I wanted you to fuck me as soon as we met," I said shakily, "I thought if I came here, if I came to you, I'd get to feel you inside me, get to taste you..."

He moved his lips to my palm and started trailing wet kisses down my wrist. "Go on," he murmured.

"When we...when you walked me back to the theater I wanted to pull you into the bathroom and-" I shivered when the cool skin of his thighs touched mine, burning hot, "I was...I was already so wet, you could have just- I wanted you to just pull my pants down and fuck me," I breathed it all out in a rush, whimpering softly when he spread my legs and shifted fully between them.

"You wanted me to take you."

"However you wanted." When he looked at me I kept going, "As hard as you wanted, as many times as you wanted, for however long you wanted."

His lips brushing against my neck, "You wanted me in control of you," he nipped gently at my ear.

"Yes," I breathed.

"You wanted to give yourself to me to use as I pleased."

"Yes."

Tracing my jaw with his nose, "You liked how I used you earlier."

"I loved it," I shivered. His cock was brushing against me, hard and ready. Without knowing why, I whispered, "I loved the taste of you."

He groaned happily into my neck and reached between us. He was sliding his cock through my folds, slickly rubbing the fat head up and down, making me moan whenever he rubbed against my clit or caught himself on me.

He brought my hand to his cock, and I was sure that even now, he would only fuck my hand again —leave me wanting as usual, but once he'd wrapped me around him he moved to my breast, tugging at a rock-hard nipple.

"Tell me what you want," his lips against my ear as he thrust the tiniest bit against me, "I want to hear you say it again."

"I want you," I breathed, then adjusted myself and wrapped my legs around him, guiding him into me as I pulled him closer, "I want- fuck," even soaking wet and aching for him I whimpered at the stretch, at the hard pinch on my nipple, and when I gasped, "I want more," I felt quiet laughs puff against my neck as he obliged.

"However I want," he whispered.

It felt like it should hurt, like it would hurt later, but I had no thoughts to spare for tomorrow, could barely think in the present. He filled me completely, giving me no time to adjust before he started thrusting hard, groaning as much at the tight fit as my nails digging into my back.

"Does it hurt?" he purred.

"A-a little..."

"Good," he said with a breathless laugh. He brought his face close to mine, "You deserve it, sì? Making me wait all this time to fuck your pretty cunt."

"Yes," I whimpered, "I-I should have let you fuck me whenever you wanted."

"That's right, słoneczko. You just needed to learn, eh?"

He pulled hard on my nipple and laughed, "Makes you even tighter," when I cried out. He pulled again, harder, and twisted, "You like being a toy, mia puttanella? You like being my plaything?"

"Fuck," I gasped, clamping down so tightly I swear I could feel every vein and ridge on his cock, "Yes, yes, I love it, Terzo, I love it."

He reared back onto his knees and pulled my hips up over his, driving into me more deeply. The entire world seemed to fall away, reduced to nothing but his cock pounding into me as I blissfully, mindlessly begged for more. Impaled, insouciant, intoxicated.

When I started rubbing my clit he swatted my hand away and brought his palm down onto my inner thigh with a hard slap, laughing at my yelp, "You play this game with me for two weeks and think you get to cum?" He slapped the other thigh and I felt him harden inside me, "Maybe you don't get to cum for another two weeks, maiala."

He thrust hard a few more times, emptying into me with a blissful, satisfied smile at the sound of my despairing wail.

"Maybe four weeks," he sighed happily.

He nearly collapsed on me when he finished, catching his breath as his hips weakly thrust against me a few final times.

"What a delight you are, mio sole," he murmured. He kissed my neck and added, "I am going to have such fun with you."

He tried to pull away but I still had my arms around him. Even soft it still felt good to have him inside me, and I still wanted him, still wanted more.

"Terzo, please," I whispered, pressing my face into his shoulder, "Please..."

He tilted my chin to look into my eyes, "Please what, my darling?" he asked sweetly, "You know what I want to hear."

Admitting to both myself and another person that I had wants, let alone specifying what they were —twice in one day, no less— seemed impossible.

"Please..." I whimpered desperately, only managing, "more. Please."

"More what?"

"I...I want..." He was smiling innocently as I tried to push the words out. My eyes widened.

Push.

"Push me," I said. He raised his eyebrows. "Please. I...I can't say- I still need help with it. I...Please."

"You had no problem telling me that should have let me fuck you when I wanted to," he grinned, "or that you liked the taste of the cum I left on you."

I groaned and he laughed, gently, "This makes you blush? Hearing your own words when I am not fucking you?" He finally pulled out of me and I whimpered sadly at the loss.

"It is a shame," he sighed, "to waste this when it wants so much more. Needy cunts are my favorite," he kissed my neck again, "but it is also a waste to use my abilities on something you can do. And something I like so much to watch you do."

"But-"

"No, bella. I will not push you. I want to watch you squirm and blush every time you beg for my cock," he laughed softly at my whimper, "Nearly always I am willing to give, but you will beg still."

He kissed my cheek, so close to my mouth, "Won't you?"

A high, soft sound escaped me, dragged out by something I didn't understand.

"Your heart is racing." Our foreheads were touching, his lips so close to mine when he murmured, "Will you beg for me?"

I swallowed hard and nodded.

"Tell me," he said softly.

"I'll beg," I whispered, "I'll always want you. I'll always beg for you."

After so many weeks, his lips finally found mine.

"Here, mio sole," Terzo handed me some folded clothing, "We are going out."

"Where?"

He leaned close and stroked my hair for a moment before saying, "It is a surprise," in a strangely subdued voice, "I will be in the kitchen. You remember how to get there?"

"I think so..."

"Bene," He patted my hand and left.

I had already showered —we both had, and my cheek still hurt a bit from being pressed so hard against the tile wall as he hammered into me. We'd nearly used up all the hot water today, but the sweet ache between my legs said it was time well spent.

The clothes seemed like mine at first: black jeans, a simple button-up shirt, a thick cardigan —the things I wore in my old life, but they felt new. New underwear, too. Terzo had been out to eat recently and left me alone longer than usual. He must have bought them for me.

It was my first time walking through the house alone —Terzo had always been with me. It wasn't frightening but I had an odd sense of trespass, as if my status as a...what, long-term guest? didn't qualify me to wander on my own. It was dim and quiet, the only sound a vague murmur of voices from downstairs. I heard a deep, throaty laugh. Not Terzo.

He was leaning back against the countertop when I found him. Arms crossed, he said, "Ciao, bella," with a slight smile. The same subdued tone as before. I jumped when someone cleared their throat to my left. The second voice I'd already forgotten.

His brother Secondo, a short, bald man with a pencil mustache and a suit as neatly tailored as his brother's.

"Ciao." Even inside he was wearing sunglasses. He nodded toward the door and started pulling on some leather gloves, "Andiamo."

His brother walked ahead of us, stepping outside into the sun before we had even reached the foyer. Terzo had his arm around my shoulder and guided me to a small bench near the door.

He took a knee in front of me. I heard the sound of a car starting, the crinkling of a paper bag under the bench.

"I would have bought you a new pair," he pulled out my shoes and moved my foot onto his thigh, "but I have always hated shoes other people bought for me. They are never comfortable, you know?" He gently slipped them onto my feet, then rested a hand on my ankle when he'd tied them for me.

"Terzo?"

His forehead was creased as though he was deep in thought, but he said nothing.

"Terzo," I tried again, "are you okay?"

He looked up to me and smiled brightly. "I am fine. Come, mio sole."

His voice was strained, and when he took my hand to help me stand he gripped my fingers so tightly it almost hurt.

The brother was waiting outside, leaning against the hood of a rumbling old sports car, smoking a cigarette. Terzo squeezed my hand and opened the back door for me, then sat in the passenger seat.

Down the long, winding driveway, through all the trees I had seen only once before, on my way in. How long ago had that been? It had been August, I remembered that much. Plenty of trees were bare now.

"Where are we going?" I asked quietly. The two of them were chatting in the front seat; indecipherable Italian. The brother was doing most of the talking. I caught a glimpse of Terzo's eyes on me in the rearview mirror. He quickly looked away.

Alone in the back seat, I felt oddly exposed, like I was a child again and the car was much too big for me. The grown-ups were talking and I was only bothering them.

I hugged my elbows tightly, feeling the need to shrink in on myself as I looked out the window. We were on a proper road now and the landscape blurred into grey and green and brown. Every time Terzo spoke I looked at the mirror, hoping to catch his eye. He was ignoring me.

Had I done something wrong? Was he...

I felt a chill and swallowed back a lump in my throat. Was he getting rid of me? He hadn't seemed upset or angry lately —the opposite, if anything. He had been incredibly sweet with me for days. Tears gathered, threatening to spill.

Had he just been making our last days together nice ones? He had replaced my clothes, and now we were driving back to civilization.

"Mio sole," his voice, a little hoarse. He looked at me in the mirror. His gaze softened, tinged with sadness as he said,

"It will be okay."

He was. He was done with me.

I looked down at my lap and chewed at a fingernail, letting the tears fall.

A few rolled to my lips; one stung. He had nipped at me yesterday and accidentally broke skin. Apologized while his eyes flicked to the droplet of blood. I think that was the last time he'd run his thumb along my lip; looking at the small red smear on his skin before licking it off.

I was replaying the past few days, searching for any hints he may have dropped that this was coming when the car pulled to a stop, the engine still running. I wiped away my tears and looked outside. Already? This wasn't the city.

Terzo opened my door and held out his hand. When I didn't move he took my arm and pulled me out. Gently, but insistently.

I couldn't look at him, could only close my eyes and tremble when he hugged me to his chest, his arms so tight around me.

"Mio sole, forgive me," he whispered, resting his head on mine, "Vita mia. You can go home now."

I opened my mouth to say you are home but couldn't choke the words out. I whimpered quietly when I felt his hand gently stroke my hair.

Somehow I heard him over the roaring in my ears, "There is a police station a block away. There is a shopping center across the street. You can find help. Someone will get you home." He squeezed me tighter when I couldn't hide my shaking anymore.

"Or..."

Or?

"I will be back later."

I finally managed to look up at him. Into sad eyes below a forehead lined with worry. The soft lips I cherished, set in a hard line. He brought my hand up to those lips, brow furrowed as he kissed my fingers for the last time. He held my hand there as he searched my eyes.

"Do you understand?" he said quietly.

I shook my head, not trusting that I wouldn't burst into screaming if I dared speak. He smiled sadly and stroked my cheek, then pulled away from me.

"Decide."

I reached for him but he pushed something into my hands. My bag. I let it fall but he was back in the car already. I glimpsed him rubbing his forehead, covering his eyes as the car pulled away.

It seemed like I should run after them, scream for him to stay, basically do anything but stand there numb and dumb, staring at the car until it turned out of sight.

A pair of teenagers were walking by, looking curiously at me. When they passed I picked up my bag. There was a small park nearby where I sat on a cold bench.

Inside my bag, the remainders of my old life: wallet, keys, sunglasses, loose hair elastics and sticks of gum. The little notepad and pens I'd used for work.

And my phone. I stared at it, wondering if it would even turn on. This wasn't a spontaneous thing; he would have charged it. What if turning it on alerted someone? I was still a missing person. Would there be a little ping in an office somewhere, letting someone with a badge know that my phone was on and near a cell tower?

"I will be back later," he'd said. But when? Ten minutes? An hour? A week?

A cop car drove by. I put on my sunglasses. I probably wouldn't be recognized, but...

Would he come back to take me home —to him? Or would he just take me to my old life if nobody else helped me? I winced at a sudden pain in my hands. I was gripping the stone bench so tightly it hurt.

The mall seemed better than the police. I wandered around, avoiding clusters of people, until I found a drug store and looked at a newspaper.

October. A Sunday. I'd been with him for over two months. Someone bumped into me and laughed a "sorry," then kept chattering with their friend. The low music playing over the scratchy speakers was digging into my ears.

I left and followed the smell of food. Terzo didn't cook, as far as I could tell. One of the brothers did, and I'd had some well-made meals in the past two months. I never went to bed hungry —not for food, but walking by all this made me realize I wasn't exactly well-fed, either. My wallet still had some cash in it. I bought as much Chinese food as I could with twelve bucks.

The food court was busy. Loud. Screaming kids. I walked off and sat by a fountain to eat.

Everything tasted so sweet. Even the broccoli that came with my chicken was coated in a syrupy sauce. I hadn't had much sugar in a while, I guess.

Except for fruit. Little cubes of melon and pineapple. Slices of nectarines. Terzo liked to have me sit on his lap, and he would feed me like our first nights together when I couldn't move. Sometimes he would position me so I was straddling him, and on those days he would give me his sly smile when he undid his pants and slid inside me. Gripping my hips to keep me in place, he would scold me when I tried to move.

"So impatient, perełko," he would smugly say.

Most days, though...Most days he would simply pull me across his legs and hold me with an arm around my waist. My arm would be behind him, and when I ran my fingers into his hair and grazed his scalp with my fingernails his eyes would slowly close as he sighed contentedly.

The clatter of a dropped shopping bag yanked me back into reality. My food was cold. It was loud here. Tears blurring my vision, I managed to throw my food away and went back outside. Back to the little park, where I sat down again.

The sun had gone down. He'd told me to decide and I had, so why was I still waiting?

Maybe there was only one decision he'd accept, and I hadn't chosen correctly.

I thought it over and over: that I'd made a mistake, that he left me there with no intention of returning. I cried off and on for hours until it felt like I'd run dry. Eventually I just curled up on my side, stretching out the soft cardigan he'd bought for me by tucking my knees into it for warmth. Eventually I dozed off, somehow.

I woke up to a cold hand on my shoulder. No warmth next to me, but his familiar scent.

"Terzo?" I said hoarsely.

"Are you sure this is what you want?"

I craned my head back to look at him. Staring down at me so tenderly. He brushed my hair back from my forehead and touched my cheek.

"I decided."

His eyes were shining, reflecting the streetlights as he carried me back to the car. His brother was standing idly nearby, smoking again, still wearing sunglasses. Terzo set me down on my feet and opened the door, rattling off something in Italian. His brother seemed to protest, and they argued for a moment before he threw up his hands and walked off down the street muttering to himself.

Terzo followed me into the back seat and pulled me across his lap, bringing our lips together, both of us sighing together at their soft reunion.

"Forgive me, mia amata," he murmured. He rested his head against my neck, slowly running his hands up and down my arm, "I am so sorry. I wanted to be sure. I needed you to be sure."

It was so easy to fall into him, to let the day's anxious sorrow melt away with each touch of his hand, fading into the background when I twined my fingers into that inky black hair and breathed a quiet moan at the feel of his teeth and tongue on my neck.

By the time I moved so he was between my legs, the memory had stopped hurting.

The quiet breaths that rumbled from his throat when he entered me and the soft sounds we made together were a kind of music, drowning out the day, the doubts, the outside world.

Thank you for reading 💚💜

You are all beautiful, perfect pearls and I am very grateful to everyone who reads this.

If you enjoyed Terzo edging someone for a full fortnight and can spare some cents for a broke bitch, I have a tip jar

Part II

Customary kudos to DeepL translate:

Italian:

Buonasera, signora: Good evening [married woman]

Perdonami: forgive me/excuse me

Signorina: miss/young, unmarried woman

Ciao, bella: hello, beautiful

Cara mia: my dear/darling

Bellissima: literally “very/most beautiful,” used here as good/great/awesome

Amoruccia: a mocking way to say “lover” or love, can also be actually affectionate I think

Dispiace: Sorry, but I’m sorry for you, like “Sorry you didn’t get that promotion,” as opposed to “Sorry I’m late.”

Figa: pussy

Dillo: say it

Merda: shit

Mio sole: my sun

Mia amata: my beloved

Puttanella: little whore

Maiala: slut

Piacere mio: my pleasure (old-fashioned)

Vita mia: my life

Polish, because I found out Terzo canonically spent many years in Poland and I'm making it everyone's problem:

Myszko: little mouse

Słoneczko: little sun

Perełko: little pearl

[lingenmustdie]

the concept of an old grumpy vampire Terzo, locked in his castle for centuries, fed by ghouls; one day you become his prey, but somehow he spares you and slowly you get to know him from another, more humane and vulnerable side, melting his cold heart with your care and tenderness

[vespattilia]

🦇

[katherinacomb]

#newpfp 🦇🩸🖤 ft. vamp terzo xo

[do2faj]

Wtf satanic little pope??!

Do not forget my children,

Not all vampires suck blood

Some of'em prefer cock something else

[kissingghouls]

🩸 in the suckclub verse? I hope you feel better soon! ❤️❤️

🩸 Patching up a wound

Yessssssss. The drabbles…they heal me. Thank you Douglas! Have some vampire Terzo 🫶

Patched Up (Drabble) Terzo x Reader, vampire!Terzo x vampire!Reader, 500 words tags: implied violence but nothing described, alcohol, character injury, blood, lots of blood, vampires being vampirey

You tiptoe through the bedroom, awkwardly moving through a drunken ballet with a hand pressed to your side while trying to avoid the noisier parts of the floor. It's not your most graceful performance and normally you wouldn’t bother—Terzo slept like the dead anyway—but the Countess had talked you into one too many (or maybe two or five) so your reflexes weren’t quite as sharp as you’d like. And when a group of rogue hunters caught up with you outside the city, they weren't exactly shy about becoming stabby.

Assholes.

The pale light of dawn pours through the windows of the oversized bathroom, revealing the extent of the damage and a particularly grisly blood trail that leads straight back to you.

"Shit," you mutter quietly and settle on the edge of the claw foot tub, carefully peeling away layers of ruined fabric. You hear the disapproving tsk of the vampire before you see him. You may dread retelling the details, but you're grateful he's standing there when you look up, haloed by the morning's golden tones and more handsome than you remember.

"And what part of 'girl's night' is this?" he huffs, arms crossed over his chest like a disappointed parent. "You spend one evening with the Countess and she returns you like this?"

"It looks worse than it is—"

"Baphomet's tits! Is that a fucking stab wound?!"

"Maybe…like a small one?"

"Bellezza. Amore mio, I love you with my whole heart, but you are killing me."

"You're immortal," you remind him flatly.

"And I've only survived this long because I hadn't met you, amore." He sighs heavily and casts a wistful look in the mirror. "You're going to give me grey hairs."

You shrug. "You'd pull it off."

"I know," he purrs. "Now, let's get you cleaned up, bellezza. Omega is going to throw a fit when he sees the mess you've made."

"It's fine, Terzo. I can take care of it."

"I know you can. I want to help."

You don't argue as he moves through the room collecting various first aid supplies, some still left over from the first time he bit you in that motel room ages ago. His forehead creases as he concentrates, leaning close to doctor the offending wound. It will heal quickly, in a few days at most, but if you're not careful the scar will be noticeable for the rest of your eternal life. There are a few that you wear proudly and many more you'll gain over time, but this is one you're happy to let Terzo stitch back together. A mark that will fade into a memory of the softness of his hands on your skin rather than some stupid, violent act against you.

"Terzo?"

"Hmm?"

"Marry me."

He huffs out a laugh. "I've been trying to marry you, my love. Maybe if you stop getting stabbed we can finally set a date, eh?"

"You know they're never gonna stop trying to kill us."

"So we kill them all first. Ta-da! Spring wedding."

[fallen-iii-ghost]

Nothing To Worry About

A vampiric Terzo finds you out alone in the early hours of the morning and decides to have you for supper.

~1500 words of Vampire!Terzo/Reader | 18+ Only | AO3

Horror with elements of non-con due to vampiric hypnosis, non-graphic violence, non-specific smut. Reader insert is almost entirely gender neutral save one reference to shaving their face and a couple of masculine Italian terms.

There's a level of ambiguity to exactly how evil Terzo is in this fic, and whether or not the reader survives this encounter is left up to interpretation, but he's definitely not viewing his meeting with the reader as a romantic connection - so please bear that in mind before reading!

You’re barely awake, despite being up and out of the house already. It’s 6:10 am and the bus probably won’t be here for another five minutes but you’re fucked if you miss it. Your colleagues might be somewhat understanding, but the bosses at head office certainly wouldn’t appreciate you being half-an-hour or more late, even if it really is the fault of the shit public transport system. The street is deserted and dark, save for the small circle of flickering light at the bus stop. You have stood here at this time of the morning three or four days a week for the past few months and have grown used to the atmosphere, but something feels different. There’s a sense, raising the hair on the back of your neck: something isn’t right.

Steeling yourself, you turn.

There is a man, not ten feet from you. He looks— impeccable. His dark hair swept back, suit tailored to perfection (a slightly unusual style perhaps, but undeniably sharp), face painted - another odd choice, but very neat lines. And his eyes— oh, his eyes. Mismatched and somehow mesmerising. The dark circles of paint emphasise his irises. You can’t seem to look away.

“Tell me, caro, what are you thinking now?”

“You have really nice eyes.”

The words seem to escape you without a thought. They sound foreign to you, as if from across the street, or as if hearing them from underwater. He smirks in response. He is so beautiful. His perfection is a complete contrast to you, in your shitty work polo shirt and black trousers that have faded to more of a dark grey, cut still healing along your jawline from your hasty attempt at shaving. Your heart hasn’t stopped racing since the moment you sensed danger. That sense hasn’t left you, but you find you care less and less.

He steps closer; you remain frozen, limbs heavy. Time, for you, feels almost paused. Everything is slowed except him.

“Are you real?”

The question has to be asked. Something— everything about this feels wrong, disconnected from reality. He is so perfect, and so close, and yet somehow sinister and alluring at once. At this distance you begin to smell his cologne, no doubt something expensive: a rich scent that somehow seems specifically designed to appeal to you. You blink and try to collect your thoughts for a moment.

“Do you feel like I am real?” He almost purrs the question as he reaches out, a gloved hand gently tilting your chin. His eyes seem to fall on your jaw, the side where you had cut yourself. You swallow heavily under his gaze. He feels real but you are no longer sure that you are. Maybe nothing is real? This could still be a dream.

He repeats his question, looking into your eyes.

“I don’t know,” you whisper.

“I am,” he says, as he dissolves into a mist before your eyes.

As you lift your hands to rub at your eyes, you feel a solid presence behind you. There is no warmth to it but it feels like a body. Cold air moves past the side of your neck and you shiver. Cold hands hold your shoulders in place. Breath lodges itself in your throat, somehow turned solid and still, and you can’t quite bring yourself to turn your head. He does it for you, lifting a hand to push your face to one side. The cut on your jaw stings as his tongue slides across it. You can see his grin from the corner of your eye.

“Ha! My favourite!”

For a moment your survival instinct kicks back into gear and you try to wrench yourself from his grasp. There is a moment, just briefly, where you think you have a chance, but his hand that was at your face falls to your chest, pulling you back against him. He is strong.

“Your pulse is racing, caro,” he gloats. “Are you excited by me?”

Despite your fear, you can feel blood rushing, and not just to your face. Even if he is, for some fucked-up reason, correct in his insinuation, you’re determined not to tell him. Not to show any more weakness.

And yet, as he turn you to face towards him, looking into your eyes once more as his fingers grip your shoulders, you know he can see your blush. And with his eyes gazing into yours, it is difficult to care. He raises an eyebrow.

“I can smell it, caro. Tell me,” he insists. “Tell me this excites you.”

And as the words escape you, it is like you have forgotten that you were fighting him at all. There is no thought involved, you simply do as he asks.

*****

You’re floating. The street is bathed in the flickering glow from the lamppost but, even though he’s moved in closer to you now, it feels like the only things you can really see are his eyes staring into your soul. It’s peaceful. Perfect.

His hand supports the back of your neck as your head lolls sideways. Stars glimmer above you, peeking through gaps in the clouds, but nothing compares to the brightness of his gleaming white eye. Your own eyes fall closed, but still you see his, ringed in darkness, shining out into the core of your being.

You feel, through the haze, a pressure against your neck. Something, if you focus, that might almost be pain. For a moment, your eyes blink open as you grimace.

“Nothing to worry about,” he murmurs against your neck. And you know he’s right as your eyes fall closed once more, face relaxing, jaw falling open.

As his tongue swipes sensuously across your neck you find yourself recalling the excitement you had felt earlier. The arousal. And you realise it had never left.

A desperate noise escapes you, loud in the silence of the empty street. You should feel embarrassed, you think, but there is only peace and heat and his eyes. And a cold puff of air at your neck as he snickers his amusement.

His tongue takes one more long lick before you feel him pull back. But you can’t bring yourself to move, head still supported by his hand.

For a moment, everything is quiet and you are on edge. Every nerve cries out for him. And yet, everything is still.

“I know, I know,” he grasps one of your wrists and pulls you in to him, settling your head on his shoulder and bringing his arms around you to hold you close against him, “I have this kind of— effect. But perhaps you would like for me to helpyou, eh? While you help me?”

Your head moves lazily on his shoulder - an attempt at a nod.

“Good.”

*****

He drags you several paces, perhaps more. Everything is a little fuzzy. But you remember: there’s nothing to worry about.

His hands are firm at your waist, keeping you upright as you stumble along with him. He eventually pushes you back against something solid, a dull pain blooming in the back of your head as it impacts. Your eyes open and he looks a little less put-together than he had when you first set eyes on him — hints of pink and liquid red at his lips, which had once been painted monochromatic as the rest of him. His hair falls into his face, like ravens into snow, and there’s a sort of beauty in the contrast, the imperfection of him. Everything is clear now. He is everything.

He cages you in, surrounds you, his thigh landing between your legs and you can’t help but grind against him. He grins lasciviously, teeth sharp and stained with red. Nothing to worry about. 

“There we go,” he encourages, “That is better, yes?”

You have no words left to answer him but the sound that escapes you is answer enough for him as he moves his thigh against you. His tongue paints a long stripe along your neck.

“Mmhm, that is better,” he mutters against you. Draws back for a moment. You can’t help a whine of protest as you lose that precious contact. “But I don’t think we are at our best yet!”

He divests himself of his gloves and his hands descend, deftly detaching the ends of your belt before finally, finallyreaching inside your underwear. 

His skin upon yours, cool against your heat, is divine. Some strange alchemy, and the friction of his movement against you, means that he doesn't cool you down at all, only fans the flames hotter. And you want him to burn right through you. You find yourself begging for it. 

"Please, please, please!" 

Barely even audible as words, just a chant of desperate sobs and whimpers. 

And even without specifying, it's like he knows exactly what you need. He promised to help, in return for something, and he is intent on holding up his end of the bargain. —Bargain? But there's nothing to worry about and, even if there were, you're not even capable of worrying anymore. Not in the face of such pleasure. 

He is your heaven, holding your soul within his perfection. 

It's too much. You're cascading, falling off a cliff edge, and the sharp pain at your neck only sends you falling further out of your paradise, until you finally hit the ground and everything fades to black.