trust my rage

It’s late, you’re sitting on Terzo’s bed reclining against one of his (many) decorative pillows, and he’s fixing you with a gaze so infuriatingly cocksure you’re tempted to get up and leave just to spite him. But. You’re here for a reason. He smiles at you.

“For example,” he continues, “I do not mean to be presumptuous but I am already sensing a distinct aura of you wanting me to pin you to this mattress and fuck you senseless.”

“I don’t think you should be putting words in my mouth like that,” you say. “I think that’s cheating.”

“I am sorry. Is there something else you would prefer me to put in your mouth?”

You’re feeling worse about your chances by the second. This hadn’t been on your bingo card for today, but escapades with Terzo were rarely predictable. You’d been happily minding your own business at lunch when, without so much as a hello, he’d dropped into the seat opposite you and said, “Would you like to make a sexy little wager in the name of self-restraint? More specifically, would you like to see who can keep their hands off the other for the longest?”

As most atrocious ideas do, it sounded great at the time. Of course your self-control is better than Terzo’s, a man who has never paused to consider resisting an impulse in his life. Easy. But now you’re face to face with him, your friend and occasional lover, and you swear he usually has his shirt buttoned higher and it’s strange, actually, that he’s wearing fresh paint this late in the evening. You’re not complaining, mind, you always joke about how you fancy him more with the papal paint on and- Ah. He’s playing dirty.

There’s a part of you that wants to skip the pretences and just get underneath him. Terzo is a busy man, with no shortage of nocturnal offers from Siblings (and he, in all of his charity, is committed to giving everyone a turn) and it’s been too long since he’s had his hands on you. You should make the most of the night, right?

No. You’re not losing to Terzo. If there is one thing you value more than getting laid, it is retaining your pride. Consequently, you’re going to effortlessly brush off his comments and absolutely not think about him putting his cock in your mouth and about how proud he sounds when he’s praising you while he’s fucking the back of your throat. Great. You’re in the clear.

“Alright,” you say, the very picture of internal peace. “Remind me of the rules.”

He leans back and props himself up on his elbows. “Simple. We kiss. We keep our hands to ourselves. We see who folds first, hm? Who is so overcome with desire that they simply must touch the other. Oh, and no touching yourself. This is not a mutual masturbation session. But we can schedule one in later if you fancy it.”

Deciding not to linger on that image for too long lest you lose this contest before it begins, you sit up.

“Right. And where did this idea come from in the first place, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Terzo shrugs. “Ah. It is a fun thing they are doing on the internet. Aether told me about it. And I thought of you.”

Oh. Well. That was nice of him. Or perhaps he reckons you’re an easy target. Judging by your so-far shambolic control of your own desire, he may be right.

Terzo tilts his head and looks at you almost pityingly. “I just want you to know that there is no shame in losing, hm?”

You’re going to make a mess of this bastard if it’s the last thing you do.

He shifts closer to you and makes a show of putting his hands behind his back. You opt to let your hands rest by your side, casual-like.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

Terzo’s slow about closing the distance between you, savouring the anticipation you’ve no chance of hiding. He presses a gentle kiss to your lips in reacquaintance. Then, he pulls back to meet your eyes- gaze challenging, the quirk of a smile playing on his lips- and kisses you again. His tongue pushes into your mouth and you can’t stifle the moan that escapes you. He sets a torturously slow rhythm, tongue sliding against yours, deliberate and insistent.

Spend enough time at the Ministry and you’ll be privy to whispers, claims, hushed gossip in the corridors about the Papas’ talents and proclivities. Of course, there’s always room for exaggeration and downright fabrication (you don’t think Primo drinks blood, probably) but on Terzo there’s an unholy consensus: kiss him and prepare to be absolutely ruined for the rest of the week. Terzo kisses like he’s in love with you, as if there’s a hunger in him that you alone can sate, as if he was Hell-sent to show you pleasures you couldn’t even dream of.

It is rather inconvenient tonight that he is an exceptional kisser.

It’s impossible, mouth full of him, not to think of the nights that have started like this, the little rituals you’ve cultivated, memories of his fingers digging into your thighs and deliberate, unbroken eye contact as he sinks his cock into you. But- this isn’t the time. As much as you’re trying to ignore it, there’s a pang of desire settling between your hips. And who could blame you? As if it will do something to satisfy your need for touch, you wind your hands into the plush bedding beneath you. You can feel his hair falling in your face, he’s kissing you so persistently he’s almost pushing you backwards, and you don’t know how much more of this you can take. You want something, anything; pressure, stimulation, a bit of movement; it’s pointless to deny your arousal so you’re going to have to hang on through sheer willpower. He’s nipping at your lip and you’re stifling moans, but you’re not out of the game yet, not while your fists are clenched at your sides. Come on why won’t he just fucking touch you-

Terzo pulls away with a frustrated groan, eyes blazing, breathless. “You want me to fuck you? Touch me,” he growls.

You look down. He’s gripping the sides of his thighs, hard enough to leave marks, as hard as he’d be grasping yours if he could only touch you. More importantly, you can see the outline of his cock straining against his trousers. He always did know how to compliment you. You’ll have him yet.

You shake your head. “I’m going to make you fold, Terzo.”

And you kiss him, hard and messy and laced with desperation. He’s stubborn, giving it right back to you, allowing you no quarter. For all your bravado, you can feel your resolve weakening; if it’s this, if it’s Terzo kissing you like his life depends on it, then you might not last after all. It’s time to step your game up.

When you press the first kiss to Terzo’s neck, you feel his jaw tighten in response.

“This is cheating,” he says.

“It isn’t,” you murmur against his skin. “I’m not using my hands.”

This isn’t what he means, of course. He means it’s cheating because if you know anything about pleasing Terzo, you know to go for the neck. Terzo wants your tongue grazing over his skin, for you to bite and suck hard enough to bruise, he’s happiest with your hands around his throat. He’ll beg for it. He’ll whine underneath you. You’ve seen it first-hand. And you think, trailing slow kisses downwards, feeling the rumble of annoyance in his throat, this might be his fatal oversight tonight. So confident, so cocky, so convinced you’d come undone before you had the chance to make him buckle here. Lucifer knows how much willpower he has left in him, but- oh?

You feel it. You know you feel it. With your face buried in his neck you don’t see it but you’re sure- the slightest brush of his hand against your arm. But it’s light enough that he can claim plausible deniability, so it won’t do. You want to ruin him, unequivocally.

Meeting his eyes before you descend on him, you slowly, deliberately, run your tongue across his skin. He should’ve picked someone else. Someone who didn’t know exactly where to stop, where to press wet, open-mouthed kisses, someone who didn’t know the timbre of his moans. It’s easier, now, to ignore your own arousal when your heart is hammering at the thought of beating Terzo at his own game. You let your teeth graze his skin. Teasing. He craves the bite.

“Come on, ” he whines, and it’s more to himself than to you, and you glance down and his hand is hovering over his cock, fingers twitching. It’s a beautiful sight. Frameable.

You bite down.

“Fuck.”

It’s sharp, laced with arousal and annoyance. He pulls back from you, breath heavy, flushed beneath his paint. Your eyes meet.

“What have you done to me, hm?” 

And then he’s kissing you again, and- there are hands cradling your face while he kisses you deeply, feverishly. Terzo drops his hands to your waist and pulls you on top of him, grunting as the back of his head hits the mattress. You shift to straddle him and he runs his fingers up your thighs, hands settling to grab your arse, and he bucks his hips up to grind his cock into the base of your hips.

You’d have to be a saint of some description to attempt to hide the smile creeping over your face. Unfortunately for Terzo, you are nothing of the sort. Having him underneath you, hands kneading your flesh, cock hard for you- mixed with your own, blazing, triumphant desire- you can’t help but laugh. 

“Just to clarify,” you say, with what you’re sure is an infuriating smugness, “I win, yeah?”

Terzo rolls his eyes at you.  “Yes, yes. Well done. Your pride is intact.”

You lean down until you’re face-to-face with him. “What do I get?”

For a moment, he’s still. Then, hands firm on your hips, he pushes you sideways so he can roll you over, beneath him, submissive. He pulls your legs apart with ease. With one hand, he works his belt undone.