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Strychnine (/ˈstrɪkniːn, -nɪn/) is a highly toxic, colorless, bitter, crystalline alkaloid used as a pesticide, particularly for killing small vertebrates such as birds and rodents.**
When Thomas was thirteen, Friedrich pushed him too hard during a game of tag and he fell. He struck the stone walkway in front of Friedrich’s large, beautiful home and smashed his nose. His face bloomed in pain and he knew he was going to have a black eye the next day, but the tingling at the point of impact traveled down to his stomach and he felt a strange fire he’d never felt before. When he stood back up again, dear Friedrich had a look of guilt.
Thomas went home, looked in the mirror, and found his face caked in blood. He was bleeding profusely.
And this is when Thomas believed something went wrong with him. Perhaps his head was rattled during the fall as well, and he just didn’t remember. Because as a thirteen-year-old boy, when he looked in the mirror and saw that red fluid with a pungent iron smell covering his face; he did not cry.
Instead he took a finger, swiped it through a heavy stream pouring out of his nose, and licked it.
–
At twenty-three he met Ellen, and at twenty-four she began to hurt him. His heart loved her so much he felt pangs and his flesh was scratched raw by her nails in their bed. It was a hurt he welcomed; a hurt he found comfort in.
Sometimes when Ellen kisses him in their throes of passion, she would bite his lip and wrap her soft hands around his neck. She would then dig her nails in and he’d open his mouth and he couldn't stop the moan that came deep from within him. Dear Ellen would look guilty and release him from her grasp.
But Thomas knew something was wrong with him. He’d stand in front of their mirror while she slept and look at the indents. He took his own fingers, and placed them exactly where hers were, and dug in. He dug until he felt his skin begin to prickle and burn and his throat began to close in on itself. But his nails were too blunt, his hands were admittingly too soft as well, and the pain wasn't enough.
So he would let go and stare in disappointment that he was unable to open his flesh and see that iron red again.
–
He feels weak, his bones feel heavy, and the room is spinning. It is a familiar feeling; Thomas is reminded of his drunken university days with Friedrich. He’s face down on the dusty floor, sprawled like he was shot and left for dead. Thomas blinks in confusion before he slowly lifts his head to take in his surroundings. His mind snaps to attention through the grogginess and he begins to panic.
He has no recollection of the night before; all he knows is that his body is aching all over, especially his chest. He moans as he gets up, taking a brief, shameless moment to relish the dull pain traveling through every part of him that is made of muscle.
The first thing he thinks of is the count, who is nowhere in sight. Thomas blushes, embarrassed at the thought he might have passed out drunk from the wine after being graciously waited upon by the count. There is little to be said how unprofessional it would be of Thomas to do so, but he knows for certain it is not in his character. Just what had happened to him?
Thomas begins to wander the castle, calling out to his elusive patron. He tries to ignore each shadow as he passes through the empty halls; feeling as if there is something, or someone, watching him. But when he looks, nothing stares back. Thomas reaches a cracked open door leading to a bedroom of some sort. He hesitates for a moment.
“My lord?” Thomas knocks once, “May I request an audience with you?”
No answer.
“Forgive me if now is not the time…”
At no response, Thomas takes it that the count is not there. He carefully steps through the threshold, half-ready to bolt if he so happens to intrude the count in the middle of changing.
Thomas looks around briefly, it is as empty as the halls.
But his chest hurts, it aches and stings. He gently rubs it through his shirt, becoming increasingly worried when he can clearly feel his skin has been penetrated and there are holes. He feels out at least five of them. Thomas plucks a mirror from the wall as he gravitates towards the only source of light from the window with a dread in his chest at what he might see. He parts his shirt and stares.
Bites.
There are actual bites on his chest, and it looks like ─
To his dismay he hears squeaking and he looks down, immediately flinching and dropping the mirror, watching it shatter to pieces as it sends a group of rats scurrying in each direction.
Thomas must find the count!
He rushes to the door, which is now somehow shut, but he cannot dwell on it; he has been bitten by those sordid creatures. He must find some medicine to tend to it. Thomas hisses as he wraps his hand around the door knob and pulls back to inspect where the sharp pain came from.
He looks in surprise to see a perfectly straight wound on his thumb. It is small but deep, and he suddenly remembers the knife while he was slicing bread. And he also suddenly remembers, almost too vividly, the orange firelight dancing across the back of the count and the man’s wide eyes as he spoke of offering aid to the wound.
Thomas cannot remember if the count did. He cannot remember anything after that; just that he was glued to his seat by some force he cannot name and the heat of the fire began to warm his body.
Thomas stares at the slightly closed wound, confused.
As if he's being possessed with the same force he cannot name, he takes his other hand and begins to press his thumb down on the sliver.
He presses hard and he moans at the dull pain. He begins to pinch it between his fingers and gives a short, breathy huff in amusement as it begins to bleed again. It’s very little but the red is just as lovely as he remembers.
Thomas slips his thumb into his mouth, as he slips his hands into his pants and begins to masturbate.
-
It’s the second night and in a strange sort of friendly manner, the count offers for them to share a bottle of one of his finest wines in celebration of his new home.
“Your perilous journey has brought me a gift I have been waiting for and I will not hesitate to give you my gratitude for that,” Count Orlok says, raising his chalice.
“Thank you, my lord,” Thomas responds shyly at the praise. The count has a queer personality and Thomas finds it hard to decipher his mood and if he's even tolerant of Thomas. “I am grateful Herr Knock has given me this opportunity.”
The count does not take a drink and instead gazes intensely at Thomas' watch-chain; at Ellen's locket on his hip. The count extends a hand, a clear gesture to hold and see it. Thomas wearily unclasps it and gives it to him.
“A maiden's token? From your wife?”
“We are newlyweds. I am a lucky man,” Thomas says, eyeing the way the count is holding it so intimately. “I look forward to seeing her again. I worry because I have yet to receive a response from her in regards to my letter.”
The count grunts and hands him the locket back. He then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded envelope, passing it to Thomas.
“You have a response, I have held it until an appropriate time,” Orlok says.
Thomas wants to question him, since it sounds like a peculiar excuse, but he does not, instead he takes it with no qualms. He notices the seal has been broken. But nonetheless he pockets it; he will have to read it later.
“Oh, thank you my lord,” Thomas smiles nervously at the count’s gaze, “this brings me relief.”
“Then I request another toast. We are neighbors now.”
Thomas thinks quietly to himself that is not a toast he was so enthused to make, but no matter, the count is a valued patron and Thomas will do what he must to please him.
Thomas is well aware of his nature to please. A people-pleaser.
It comes with one flaw though, and no, it is not being taken advantage of; it is the flaw of forming an attraction to those he pleases. Either physical, emotional, or both.
It’s a terrible flaw to have because he had felt the emotional attraction towards Anna, briefly. He had felt it as a teen towards the young wife of his neighbor when she praised him for running errands for her.
The emotional and physical attraction was the reason Ellen and him were drawn to each other.
But the hard truth Thomas has never been able to accept was the physical aspect of his attraction. It has, and always have, been directed towards the men in his life. He has even felt it towards his own friend, Friedrich. Another was a particularly intense want for the enigmatic, intelligent, and kind professor at his university. Also a man. A much older man.
Thus, he feels repulsed and disgusted, yet intrigued, when he finds himself drawn towards the count. There is an allure to him from what Thomas can make out from the shadows, under his large hat and mantle. Maybe it is the strangely pronounced bone structure, the large eyes, or his voice. Everything about the count frightens Thomas, but he is irresistible and Thomas wants, oh yes he wants, with every fiber of his being, to please him.
“You are so very docile, Herr Hutter,” the count muses as he gingerly sips his wine, but barely. Thomas can see his eye twitch as if he does not appreciate the taste. “Your mannerisms are more than welcome in my council and I am so far pleased with your service.”
Thomas can’t help the flush beginning to flood his cheeks and he smiles, not the polite, tight-lipped one he gives everyone, but a full smile with a flash of his teeth. He clears his throat the moment he realizes the count is not reciprocating his merriment, instead he’s giving a heated look; one Thomas is unsure how to interpret.
“It has been my pleasure to serve you, my lord. I am glad you found my services to your high standards,” Thomas says nervously, the more the count stares at him.
“Now drink. We are neighbors, and I find myself looking forward to seeing you more.”
“Me? Oh, my lord, I am glad to hear it,” Thomas practically stammers and he knows his face is as red as the wine in their hands. So he distracts himself from the count’s gaze and takes a sip of his own cup, and he finds himself liking it. He drinks a bit more.
In his nerves and clumsiness, a little bit of wine begins to stream past his lips and down his chin. He doesn’t want to make a mess of his clothes, so he catches the wine with the back of his hand. And he knows it to be rude or maybe even childish, but he can’t help bringing his hand to his mouth to lick it off.
“Herr Hutter, you appear to enjoy the wine.”
Thomas nods and looks at the count through his lashes, unable to raise his head quite yet to see what expression the count is sporting. But then a hand reaches out and begins to pour Thomas more wine from the bottle. Thomas watches as his cup begins to teeter on too full and it threatens to spill past the rim.
“Ah, thank you my lord. Please allow me to finish what I have first…” Thomas says politely and pulls back before the count truly does pour too much. To his relief the count does not take offense. Thomas looks up at him, braving to see what kind of look the count is giving him, and ─
─ oh what a sight.
Thomas’ heart begins to pound against that strange wound in his chest as he finally recognizes that something in the count’s eyes.
He’s familiar with that look and what it holds.
It is in Ellen when they crawl into bed.
It is in that enigmatic, intelligent, and kind Professor Adler when Thomas once visited him late at night regarding an essay.
And it is his own when he looked at his bloody face in the mirror at thirteen.
-
It is the second time he has awakened to feeling like a corpse, covered in a sheen of cold sweat and his heart racing too fast for his mind to calm. He is slightly grateful he is not face-down on the ground this time, but instead on the guest bed.
There it is again; a familiar sting and ache on his breast. Thomas sits up quickly, trying to focus on waking his mind up. He rushes to the window, parting his shirt once more and stares at the bite.
His mind clears a little and he remembers a little more clearly this time. His heart begins to beat faster and his face flushes.
A phantom feeling of a heavy body on top of him sends shivers across his skin, raising little bumps in its wake.
The count had done this. It was after the bottle of wine, Thomas was suddenly led by the hand to this very room and he remembers laying down. He remembers, embarrassed, how he had been drunk and giggling; yet scared and quivering. Like a virgin about to be deflowered on her wedding night. He beckoned the count to climb on top of him, and he had unbuttoned his own shirt for the count to slip into.
The count had sunk his teeth into Thomas and Thomas can remember the pleasure that burned through him. He remembers holding the count’s shoulders and clutching onto him tight; begging. Begging to be drunk from like the wine they partook in.
Thomas lightly runs a finger along each hole. At a particular deep one, he presses down on it with a nail. He sighs and moans at the sharp pain as it begins to part under his finger. It reminds him of the count’s sharp teeth.
Thomas masturbates again, moaning as he continues to press down. Each stroke of his hand on his cock is a stroke on his chest. He takes time to move from hole to hole, digging in deeper each time. A desperation to feel more and to see red.
He moans each time he thinks of the notion that this was made by the count, a wound so close to his heart that it reminds him of the pangs from his love for Ellen.
Finally the holes begin to bleed again and he makes sure to coat his fingers with blood from each wound.
Upon seeing them covered in red just like Orlok’s wax seal, he takes his bloody hand and uses it to strip his cock madly, watching in pure lust as streaks of blood stain it.
A sudden shiver passes through him and he briefly sees a shadow cross the floor, and he knows; he knows that the count is somewhere close and he's watching Thomas.
Is he as deviant; just as perverse as Thomas' desires? The thought of the count voyeuring on him is exciting, so Thomas makes sure to moan and whimper into the room, hoping the count will maybe be enticed to help him.
But no one emerges from the shadows, and it's too late, Thomas can't hold himself back.
He comes with a short shout, covering the tip of his cock so he can spill into his hand. His seed coats his fingers as well.
He pants, staring down at the evidence of his perversion, briefly wondering what had overcome him. But a patch of shadow in the corner of his eye shifts. Thomas eyes it and he does not hesitate to begin to lick his own cum and blood off of his hand.
-
My Dearest Thomas,
Your letter has left me worried yet grateful to hear from you. A part of me is glad to hear you have arrived safely, yet a part of me fears for you. I miss you dearly, Thomas, and not a minute passes in my day where I yearn and long for your return. I hope and plead to you that you may attend to your business with the count as soon as possible.
Pray, I also hope what I write does not alarm you, but I must say it if I am to see you again.
My nightmares of my horrid hauntings have waned since you have left, but I had heard rumors regarding Herr Knock’s devilish doings and biddings to your count. The authorities have him locked away in an asylum for his ravings.
I know this true to my heart; he speaks of the entity that haunts me, Thomas. He speaks of his dwellings and it is in the very castle you have been assigned to! My dearest Thomas, please, you must believe me when I say: Count Orlok is ─
Thomas scowls at the clear rip in his dear Ellen’s letter.
The count is hiding something from him and he must know what.
-
Tonight, the third night, the count is not wearing his hat or his mantle. His face is finally fully exposed for Thomas to see in the light of the fire. Thomas had gasped, a little acid rising from where it felt like his heart dropped to his stomach. He tries to not let the soup rise along with it.
The count looks as if he’s rotting, the color of his skin may look warm and somewhat normal in the fire, but Thomas can see the open sores, the decaying flesh, and veins that protrude yet appear as if they hold nothing in them.
He looks like death.
Thomas shuts up right away, but he cannot stop his quick breathing that is overshadowed by the count’s own asthmatic one.
The initial reflex to recoil at the sight of such an inhumane appearance dissipates. Thomas can’t help but feel a fire in his stomach. The bone structure is still the same, the thick moustache, and the sheer, powerful, magnetic presence the count holds, is still the same. And Thomas has no power in him to deny how much he is aroused by it. How much he wants to see more of the count and he wonders, if the count strips for him, what sights he will be blessed with.
“You have stopped consuming the dinner I have made for you, is it not to your liking, Herr Hutter?” the count growls, an irritated edge to his voice that tells Thomas he should watch his next words as not to agitate him.
“N-no, my lord, forgive me. I just had to take a moment to…allow the food to settle in my stomach.”
“Is it my visage? Does it strike terror in you or disgust you?”
“My lord?” Thomas looks up alarmed at the comment. “No, of course not. That is further than the truth. The truth of the matter is that you are ─” He shakes his head, mouth snapping shut in horror of what he was about to confess. The truth that you are the fire in my stomach. The truth that you are so powerful that it scares me. Your image stirs my lust; your being gives me pleasure. And the truth that only you can give me what I want.
He flushes the moment he makes eye contact with Count Orlok, but in the brief moment he can see that look again in the count’s eyes.
“Your heart beats so quickly, Herr Hutter, I can hear it through your chest,” Count Orlok chuckles. “Either you are lying to me about your fear or the truth you speak of is something forbidden. Something…exciting?” Somehow, the count’s voice drops to an even lower octave. So masculine and powerful.
Thomas trembles, and he cannot hide it, not if the shaking spoon in his hand can help it.
“T-the latter,” Thomas stammers, eyes widening at the count rising from his chair, taking only two long strides to be at Thomas’ side. “It is the latter, my lord.” He licks his lips, feeling sweat begin to bead on his forehead, and he has a brief moment of intellect wondering if he should confess to the count or not. Desires of this are not kindly looked upon. The count looks like he can kill Thomas. He looks like he’ll personally drag Thomas to hell if he is offended.
“Then you shall tell me all of this truth.”
“M-my lord. I cannot.”
“You disregard my demands?”
Thomas panics and he looks up at the count in fear, he cannot, in his being and heart, confess his lust for the count. How the scar on his chest brings him more pleasure than he's ever felt in his life. It is one thing to foolishly believe the count is as deviant as he is when he is lost in his pleasures, it is another to bring it to light.
“Please, my lord,” Thomas whispers, his eyes flick to the count’s seat and the bare spot in front of it. “Forgive me for inquiring, but you have not eaten while I have been here…a-are you alright?”
The count looks down at him with an amused gaze, then he grins with sharp teeth that strike awe and fear in Thomas’ heart. His heart begins to beat again and he knows the count can hear it this time. There is no doubt about it.
This man is not of this world.
“Foolish, naive, yet innocent Thomas. Your worry is of no use. Yes, I have been feeding.” The count leans down, his face now next to Thomas’ and his hand reaches up to caress his cheek once.
He's reeling in anxiety and fear of his fate. The count can do so much and Thomas is unsure just what it is. Thomas cannot help the single tear that falls out of his eye onto the long finger.
“Y-you have?” Thomas knows the answer already, but he must hear it.
“A filling meal each night, always fresh and there is so much of it. I crave for more.”
Thomas nods and he parts his lips as the count takes that finger and slips it inside Thomas’ mouth. He tastes his own salt. The count makes a hum in approval.
The spoon clatters on the table and Thomas reaches up to part his shirt, continuing to suck on that finger, darkness beginning to overcome his vision and his mind going somewhere far away.
It’s as if the count’s inside of him now, in his mind, putting a spell over him.
And Thomas opens his mouth to confess the truth in his haze.
The truth that only you can give me what I want.
-
Thomas digs through the count’s desk and following the scent of lilacs, he finds the other half of the letter deep in one of the drawers.
My dearest Thomas, please, you must believe me when I say: Count Orlok is death, he is my affliction. My entire life he has been a shadow and I cannot get rid of him no matter what I believe. While you are my light, there will always be darkness where there is light. He is who I have been warning you about ever since we met. He is the one.
You must leave, do not fall into his grasp, if you do there will be no escape. I cannot go on without you, return to me, my love.
The deed he is signing, do not let him do so. We will fall to ruin and he will kill you and take me. You will be inviting him to haunt me for the rest of my days.
My love, my one and only. My vow is to you and only you. Return to me. Come to me.
Always,
Ellen
Thomas knows this already; he knows death when he sees it.
But I had never been so happy as that moment...as I held hands with Death.
It was here that Thomas believes and understands, for once, what exactly Ellen meant.
-
My love, my one and only, Ellen,
Fear not of my safety. I am well and I miss you every moment of my waking being.
Forgive me for such a short letter, but I must write to reassure you.
Your hauntings will be no more. Your dreams will only be of peace from now on; I will ensure it.
I have seen and met the death you spoke of, and it is with my heart that I say:
Only life will be in your future. I will put an end to this, and we shall all be free once more.
You will be free.
Yours dearly,
Thomas
He knows the count will read his letter, he isn’t even sure if the count will have it delivered. But judging by the amusement in the count’s face the next day, he did. But not in the goodness of his heart.
The count is like a wolf playing with its meal before consuming it fully; except the meal is a snake, and Thomas intends to sink his own venomous fangs into the count and take him with him.
-
Is it the fourth night? Or maybe this is already his second week; Thomas cannot remember. He had expected more bites to litter his body each time he opened his eyes, but it’s just the one and at this point it probably will remain open.
Despite being drained God knows how many times, he still cannot help the panic racking his mind and body each time the count is descending upon him. Those long clawed fingers reaching for him is still a nightmarish sight. He hyperventilates and sweats in his skin; his heart races in both fear and arousal.
The count is more bold now, the strange dream-like hold he casts on Thomas is no longer a prerequisite to coaxing Thomas to lie on his back. Thomas knows when the count hungers; he willingly follows him to the bedroom. Each time stripping eagerly and finding delight when the count does the same. He eagerly offers himself as a meal.
But this time with a clear mind, Thomas reaches down and begins to touch himself as the count drinks from him. He finds so much pleasure in the delicious sharp pain of teeth buried deep in him; the soreness of his muscles that have not fully recovered from previous nights. In how the count’s ministrations bruise his skin and the tingling sensation of them being prodded at with each gulp.
Orlok pauses, detaching himself from Thomas' chest and looks down. He looks perplexed.
“There is a deviance in you that I had not expected, Herr Hutter,” Orlok mutters, eyes not leaving Thomas’ hand stroking his cock. The count grunts when Thomas grazes the count’s cock with a knuckle.
“You have seen it, my lord. I have felt your eyes upon me the second night when I took myself in my hand.”
“That I will not deny.”
Thomas sighs, places a hand on Orlok’s head, and softly guides him back down.
“Please, my lord, if you hold any pity to reciprocate my desires, then do not stop,” Thomas says desperately. “Drink from me and allow me to take pleasure in it.”
“You are peculiar,” Orlok says, but he does not pull away from Thomas’ hand and he willingly begins to dig his fangs back into his chest. Each heavy gulp is like a song to Thomas and each time his blood is pulled from him, he thrusts into his hand.
The count suddenly yanks his head up, Thomas watches in awe as blood drips out of his red mouth and falls on Thomas’ chest. Thomas takes his other hand and gently tilts the count’s head, allowing the blood to fall on Thomas’ face instead. He opens his mouth to catch what he can.
The count laughs once and Thomas smiles as he comes when the first drop of blood hits his tongue.
-
Thomas is still here and alive.
He’s remembering more now; no longer a victim to hazy mornings with a dry mouth and fog across his mind. He knows he should have been sent home a long time ago, the contract had been signed and the count should have left by now, but he hasn’t. Thomas is still kept in these castle walls and he knows that he bears some blame for not begging or taking any opportunity to leave. He has thought of Ellen, wondering why he has not received a letter yet, but lately he thinks more of the count.
He thinks of how he can invite a new pain in his life. He thinks how maybe he can make use of his time here, but he does have a fear in his chest that he will lose his place under the count. The count seems to be an impatient man, and Thomas does not want him to tire of Thomas yet.
In his university years, he has heard of sodomy. He has heard of both women and men partaking in being opened up in a place no one should touch, and he’s heard of the unbearable pain you can experience the first time.
The count has long fingers and sharp nails, and Thomas thinks how they can slice him like a knife and he wants that. He wants them to rip their way through his walls and find new blood to drink from.
Strangely the count has not drank from him in a few days, maybe to ensure he doesn’t kill him by accident, but tonight Thomas is determined when the count led him to the bedroom and commanded him to lay on the bed. The count must be eager tonight, already nude yet forgoing stripping Thomas as he usually does.
So now, Thomas is here, clothed, on his back with the naked corpse of a man on top of him, grinding hips, and being drained again. Each slurp the count makes makes him so much more dizzy. Aroused. Hard. He wants and he wants more.
Thomas begins to moan, legs squirming like he's trying to swim while drowning in the wrinkles of the sheets. The count hums, the vibrations crawling through Thomas' lungs and bones. The count lifts his hips where it is grinding on Thomas’ cock, a gesture for Thomas to masturbate as usual. But Thomas stills, rejecting the offer.
“My lord, I want…” Thomas gasps as the count pulls a rather heavy amount of blood from him, “I want to offer you more.”
The count pauses but does not answer.
Thomas would be a fool to not wait for approval from the count, but he’s losing his mind that he cannot, for once, be the one to be pleased.
He doesn't know what possessed him at the moment, but he decides to tighten his hands on the count's shoulders and slowly push Orlok off. He gently rolls the count over onto his back and straddles his hips. The count hisses in anger of having Thomas on top of him. A wolf on its back, belly up, is submission and they both know the count submits to no one.
Thomas ignores him, and he carefully begins to press down against the count. Moaning as their cocks meet and he feels himself beginning to leak through his pants. But the moment he begins to move and grind down, the count snarls like an animal and a hand suddenly shoots out and ensnares Thomas' throat in a choke.
It burns! There is no second to fight before the count is tightening his grip and Thomas begins to lose his breath slowly.
But he does not lose his erection. Not his lust.
It begins to grow tenfold; his cock begins to twitch.
The pain…oh god the pain is euphoric.
Thomas whines in hurt; in desperation to breathe and to come. He rises on his knees, eagerly unbuttoning his pants and shoving them as far down as he can. He's starting to see spots in his vision as he lowers back down, grinding his bare ass against the count's hard cock
The count wheezes in response, squeezing tighter. His other hand, to Thomas' delight, wraps around Thomas’ hip and lifts him up once more. Thomas' hole greedily flutters as the tip of the count's large cock presses against it.
He knows it will be so dry that the pain will be unbearable, but oh, Thomas wants it. He needs it.
Thomas screams, a strangled, harsh and ugly sound as the count cruelly slams Thomas forcibly down. The hand around his throat tightening even more and Thomas truly stops breathing.
The count violently begins spearing him, driving that rotting cock straight through him like a nail in the coffin of Thomas' virginity. He’s so large, so long and thick, Thomas’ unprepared hole is unable to take it in fully. Yet Thomas delightfully, in his darkening mind, celebrates finally being sodomized. One of his deepest, darkest fantasies since the professor years ago. But he is ever so glad to not have fallen to the whims of his perversions. A kind professor cannot bring him this. Pain, blood, pain, blood.
A hard thrust hits a part of Thomas that has him choking in pure pleasure, and he blacks out for a moment, going limp like a broken doll. That single moment loosened his hole enough to accept the count to the hilt with great struggle.
It hurts.
Thomas regains consciousness approximately five seconds later from his body screaming in pain. He gasps, greedily wheezing and sucking in air. He blinks rapidly with tearing eyes, in confusion, looking around him and then down at the count.
Had he died momentarily? He has seen death, but did he just feel it? The flash of light that seared his vision after the dark; was it heaven? Has he fallen into the waiting arms of the devil in the form of being torn like an angel losing its wings?
Was he even worthy of being an angel in the first place? No. Absolutely not.
It does not matter, there is no hand around his throat anymore; he has two of the count's hands wrapped around his waist and he's being fucked violently. The slamming of his ass against the count's hips. He can feel the open sores against his skin. He can feel his fragile, soft skin bruising everywhere the count is touching him.
Thomas can't think.
It hurts.
A single tear slips from his eye, rolling down his cheek like the night of his confession, and he watches as it falls into the count's mouth.
He cannot think of words to say, his intention to dominate is being fucked out of his mind right now. And now he wants to just take, to be used and he wants to please again. People-pleaser Thomas.
His sin, his weakness has him pledging fealty to the wrong person; worshipping an unholy one. Thomas can only rasp, praying desperately for the count to take him. Take all of him and only bring him pain as a reminder that he is no longer in the good graces of God.
“Punish me,” Thomas cries, “I deserve it.”
Like an animal, a beast, the count slams into him even more violently over and over again. With every intention to break Thomas and rip him apart. Thomas begins to sob, fat tears now falling all over the count.
The count looks up at him possibly in awe, before he sits up. He takes a hand and grabs Thomas’ face, then he begins to lick the clear, salt water from Thomas’ blue eyes. The count’s fang knicks Thomas’ cheek bone and he runs a salty tongue across it. The salt seeps into his new cut.
It hurts.
-
There is no reason to count the days anymore. Thomas is no longer eager to leave; never wanting to stop warming the count’s bed with his living body and supply of blood. Each night the count finds new ways to fuck him, to drink him.
But lately, he’s finding new ways to make Thomas cry.
Orlok cuts his lip with a snagged fang and Thomas yelps at the prickling, sharp pain. The count chuckles and bites down again, ensuring to deepen the cut. Thomas begins to tear up.
The count licks at the wound as he slowly begins to wrap a hand around Thomas’ throat, thrusting his cock lazily into Thomas’ already used hole from hours ago. Thomas manages to whisper a please through his fattening lip.
Orlok tightens his grip and Thomas begins to see black in his vision.
“The pain I inflict upon you brings you to tears each time. Are you in distress?” The count says curiously. Hungrily.
“No…no my lord,” Thomas sobs through a closing throat; his tears streaming down. “I am in hell. And the brimstone warms me. It embraces me.”
“Sinful man, I will bring you closer to your so-called hell,” Orlok says, “only you need to heed my words and continue to lie for me.”
“I will bare myself for you in every way you desire, my lord,” Thomas gasps, barely pushing his words out his throat. “I am yours to conquer. Yours to claim.”
The count is more than a man. More than a corpse. He is a volcano; powerful, frightful, and overlooking a garden of lilies that is Thomas’ delicate body. The growing black in the corner of Thomas’ eyes, dark as his sin, begins to flutter down like embers of a roaring fire.
Thomas was once innocent, untouched in ways of depravity. He has done so much to hide any unclean impulses like a good, faithful man. But now that the count has erupted in him, engulfing every part of Thomas’ innocence in its molten lava, he is a victim to the wrath of nature. He can only fight his own, true nature for so long.
Now every part of Thomas’ body, mind, and soul is perishing under Orlok’s cleansing fire.
But where there is destruction; there is renewal.
New life will rise from the ashes and so too, will Thomas.
-
“You are to rest for a moment’s time, lest I drain you of all your blood and you become a corpse.”
“You are not wrong, my lord,” Thomas says as he looks in the mirror with a grimace. His skin is awfully pale and his lips are barely the pink they usually are. “But I do not wish for you to cease.”
“You will make no such demands of me,” the count scowls.
Thomas sets the mirror down and walks over to the count. He shyly loops his arms around Orlok's shoulders and begins to pull him in. The count watches him with curious eyes and furrowed brow bones.
“Never stop hurting me, my lord,” Thomas whispers. “I belong under your hands. If you will not partake in my blood, then please drink the salt from my body.”
The count chuckles, two large hands grasping Thomas’ waist and pulls him until he’s flushed against the count’s body.
Thomas leans forward, hovering hesitantly for just a moment, then softly presses their lips together. It is nothing to be preening over, but there is an innocent flutter in Thomas' chest at the realization this is their proper first kiss.
The count takes a hand and places it on Thomas' cheek in an intimate manner. Yet it feels as if he's holding back a desire to crush Thomas’ skull out of passion.
Thomas moans, opening his mouth, inviting the count to crawl further in; wanting their tongues to dance together. The sensation goes straight to his stomach but his arousal is not quite there.
Thomas takes his tongue and presses it against the count's front teeth, feeling the sharpness graze it. The count stills.
Thomas exhales a shaky breath, and he presses up and punctures his tongue, blood immediately floods their mouths and they both moan. The count pushes Thomas backwards until his back hits the desk. The count grabs his ass and lifts him up effortlessly onto the surface, uncaring of the papers being shoved onto the ground.
Their kiss turns violent. Heated.
Thomas sucks the count's tongue, tasting the iron between them, letting it cost his palate and melt into his taste buds.
Thomas grabs the count's face and begins to lick him. He runs his bleeding tongue everywhere to cover the count in blood.
Thomas always knew the count looked good in red. Blood is a color that all beings have, and everyone looks good in it. So sanguine and beautiful and just as delicious when Thomas licked his finger at thirteen and lost his way to the Lord.
-
“I will need to move, I believe our acquaintances of being strange bedmates must end at the end of the week.”
“Must it, my lord?” Thomas asks. Orlok ignores him and continues to dress. Thomas still does not know why he does that; there is no one but them and the rats in the castle. Maybe it's a habit ingrained in him from his days of being a human. Maybe a small desire to return to those days and he finds comfort in the action.
Orlok moves to the door, about to leave Thomas behind, kneeling on the bed with sheets pulled around him like a woman with a sense of modesty.
Thomas frowns, annoyed that he's being dismissed so casually.
“I know of your reason to purchase a house close to me. You have a history with my wife. She has spoken of a ghost. How death visited her in her youth,” Thomas accuses, voice shaking from fear of his own bravery. He shuffles forward to sit on the edge of the bed, sight never leaving the count.
The count turns quickly to him, a spike of rage cutting the sudden tension between them.
“I will not deny your observation, but I warn you to hold your tongue on accusations. She pulled me from my slumber with her own pleading in her loneliness.”
“From a grave, my lord. You are no longer human, you are a curse upon her. A demon that walks our world.”
“Demon? Call me what your God-fearing beliefs want, I am beyond your comprehension,” Orlok laughs and begins to walk back to Thomas, heavy footsteps echoing around them, as heavy as Thomas’ growing arousal, fear, and loathing. “It is not only I who dwells among the living. Your wife is not of this world, no matter how warm her flesh is, I believe you know this deep in your heart.”
Thomas does not answer. The count is not wrong, Ellen is beyond remarkable. Something about her is not human, rather ethereal, powerful in a steady, quiet hum when he holds her at night. When she holds him in her grip, digging in deep.
The harsh judgement people have bestowed upon her are made from fear of her mannerisms and illness.
He wanted her to be normal; give her a chance to be in society without cruel whispers. But yes, the count is right, Thomas loved her, yet he feared her as well. Just as he fears the count.
His body shakes, his eyes fill with tears, and his lust becomes unbridled.
“I merely answered and gave her what she truly desired,” Orlok continues. His voice is slowly devolving into a gravelly growl. That horrid wheezing becomes louder. “I am not a curse, I am returning the bond your wife made with me. I am her desires. I am an appetite.”
Yes, Thomas feared her. Just as he fears the count.
Thomas loved her.
Just as…
“Do not leave,” Thomas finally manages to say.
“You are such a disgrace of a man, effeminate and like a woman in my castle, yet you have the bravado to tell me what to do? You speak as if you have any manners of privilege to do so.”
“I will protect Ellen, it is in my vows.”
“Your vows are anything but words and a concept made by your societal fancies. A pathetic attempt to maintain purity. We are bonded beyond that, much more.”
It irks Thomas to hear this, and he refuses to acknowledge it stems from something deeper than his love for Ellen.
“Is that so, then pray tell my lord, why have you kept me for so long?” Thomas whispers as the count looms above him. “We are not bonded, as you so claim you have done with Ellen, why do you keep me so close? Indulge with me and my desires?”
“...Do not become delusional with my intentions. You merely nourish me for the moment. I have use for you.”
“And I have use for you, my lord.”
Orlok's eyes widen and he frowns, but Thomas can see curiosity.
“Ellen is to be free of you, I will ensure it.”
“And in turn you wish to be shackled to me? Foolish to believe I want a groveling pet at my heel.”
Thomas sucks in a quick breath of air before he rises to stand before Orlok. He places a hand upon the count's chest, where his decaying heart might be beating.
“I may be a fool, but I know when there is an opportunity, my lord.”
Orlok does not answer; he does not protest.
“Release your bond with Ellen if I am able to convince you to within the month.”
“What pitiful part of your mind believes that is achievable?”
Thomas leans up and presses two kisses, one on each of the count's cheeks. Then he presses his hand down harder and he can feel how fast the count's once steady heart is beating.
“I beg once more for you to indulge my whims. When was the last time you have truly conquered something?” Thomas whispers. “If you are able to conquer me, then I will break my vows with Ellen. And in your ruling, you are free to bury me in the soil of your rising kingdom.”
“And if I wish to keep you locked in a tower for my eternal use?” Orlok laughs in open intrigue.
“Then I pray you know of that many ways to hurt me.”
-
Despite not rejecting Thomas, Orlok did not agree to his proposal either. Thomas knows the strigoi is a selfish man and he'll still find pleasure in conquering Thomas without an agreement to break his otherworldly bond with Ellen. If anything, he's seeing Thomas as prey in a game of hunt.
Orlok is still planning to leave the castle and will more than likely race ahead of Thomas in arriving in Germany. The very idea sends shivers of anger throughout him; he cannot have Ellen fall into the count's grasps again. Thomas could attempt to interject physically; who knows, maybe he would have luck to somehow dispose of the count’s sarcophagus or any safe method of travel.
But Thomas is a people-pleaser and he wants to please the count; not infuriate him.
He also refuses to let this go.
An aching part of him knows that the count is beyond anything or anyone he will find outside of these stone walls. To be jutted back into the waiting maw of a world that shuns his arousal of the darker explorations of the body. He deserves this. He wants this. He deserves Orlok. He wants him.
He'll finally take what he wants as a gift for pleasing others all his life.
Still, it is frustrating that the count is so insistent on leaving them and this perfect waltz they’ve made from Thomas’ shame. How could he ever want to let go of this?
Thomas watches the count stand by the window all night, not saying a word before he drinks from Thomas, opens his body, and slides his teeth and cock in. Orlok makes a bruise on his upper left thigh, and nips at it as Thomas comes into his hand. He retires into the night and Thomas knows he will not see him until the next.
In the morning as the count slumbers, Thomas has half-a-mind to believe he’s running out of time. Desperate to find some kind of solution without ending in his death from angering the count from his intervention; he wanders the castle beyond what he is familiar with. In the grand room, which is only reserved for his meals, he finds a discreet door behind where he normally sits.
There is no foreboding feeling or anything, just curiosity as he pushes open the door.
Thomas is a little surprised to see a kitchen. It is as run-down as the derelict castle but clearly maintained more than some of the rooms he has seen. There is no spread of fresh food or fruits, only a few sparse necessities, which explains the more simplistic dishes Thomas has been eating in his time here.
Thomas chuckles to himself at the image of Orlok cooking for him, sometimes he forgets the count has no servants, just some followers of sorts to bring him supplies to sustain Thomas. Maybe I am some kind of pet to him. Thomas muses with humor. He wanders around, feeling strangely untroubled in this room, perhaps it is because it’s so human compared to what Thomas has been experiencing in the castle since his arrival.
He has a moment to wonder if he can offer to cook for them, even if the count does not eat. It is laughable because Thomas doesn’t know how to cook, he never has, only assisted his mother in the kitchen when he was just a boy. But he wouldn’t mind, he can learn. Thomas blushes at the thought that he wants to take a woman’s role in the castle without complaints, and in fact, finding content in it. Peculiar thoughts indeed.
He turns his attention to a pantry on his left; it is small, barely stocked. A few bags of potatoes, some baking necessities. Bottles filled with what appear to be oils, jars of spices.
Thomas looks up.
Strange. There is a lonesome bottle sitting on a high, high shelf.
He goes on his tip-toes to blindly grab for it, bringing it down to see what it is. He blows off the dust and the label is barely legible with how old it clearly is; worn to the time of never being touched in so long.
Strychnine
Thomas furrows his brows and frowns. The count seems to enjoy or at least tolerate the company of rats in the castle, and Thomas rarely sees corpses around. Maybe this is another relic of Orlok’s humanity once; a prideful man that kept his castle clean, maintained his riches and hosted people for gatherings.
But now he's a monster.
Now a perfect man in Thomas’ eyes.
God could make angels, but they can always fall. There is something poetic to being a product of the devil; the unchanging acceptance of one’s sins and deepest, darkest desires. So perfect in an eternal place with nowhere else to go.
Unable to rise, unable to fall any further.
Perfection.
-
Thomas walks to the crypt where Orlok’s stone bed lays. He carefully removes the lid inscribed with an unholy symbol of the count’s undoing. Or maybe it is his ennoblement.
Orlok is laying there, eyes closed, mouth parted.
Thomas stares at the count's teeth. They resemble a rat’s.
He thinks of the bottle on that high, high shelf.
-
Thomas returns to the pantry and sees the bottle has fallen, not shattered, onto the floor. The lid had given way to the force, popping off, and a small pool of strychnine currently sits; soaking into a nearby sack of potatoes.
Thomas pokes at the sack gingerly with his shoe, flinching when the already-chewed threads snap open and a few potatoes tumble out, rolling into the pool of poison. Squeaking fills the air and from a dark corner, a swarm of rats scuttle out to the new source of food. Thomas watches as they immediately begin to chew through the rough flesh of the potatoes. They fight among themselves, and he watches with a little pity as one’s paw is hurt during their frenzy.
Thomas doesn’t shoo them away or leave them be; he waits. He stands there, at the mouth of the pantry, watching these creatures that reside with him and the count, eat their way to their deaths.
But half an hour passes and they finish one potato, now so full they are not bothering with the other ones. They are sluggish in their movements, but none of them collapse. None of them seize or squeak in distress.
No. Nothing happens and they happily crawl back into their hole with bellies full.
Thomas carefully picks up the bottle, screws the lid back on, and takes it.
-
The count is expecting him after Thomas finishes his meal; he’s more impatient these days and Thomas knows it is because he is eager to indulge himself in Thomas’ offerings before he disappears to haunt Ellen in her dreams. Orlok is waiting for him in the master chambers.
Thomas finishes his bread, wipes his mouth with a napkin and stops by his guest room instead. He pulls the bottle from the wardrobe, tucked away between musty, yellowing linens, and uncaps it. He lifts it to his face.
There is no smell, but it is still a chemical and there is a slight burn to the light fumes it exudes. Thomas takes a moment to wonder of his own intentions; of his plans. But he is desperate to keep the count here with him. So he presses the mouth of the bottle to his lips and tilts it.
Thomas cringes and coughs. It hasn’t even gone into his mouth, but he can already taste it from the small amount that coated his bottom lip. It’s bitter, so very bitter.
His body wants to immediately spit it out like when he accidentally ate dirt due to a prank from his brother, but he doesn’t. Instead he attempts again; this time ensuring a small amount is able to pool in his mouth and sit on his tongue.
Thomas immediately heads to the master chambers. He knocks once, then enters without waiting for a response from the count. Orlok is stunning in the blue moonlight, a large silhouette by the window that looks out to the waters, and Thomas wants him in ways more than life can give.
He quickly walks forward, grabs the count’s mildly surprised face, and kisses him.
He kisses him with a passion to give and a desire to take. The count makes an approved sound, parting his mouth with those rat fangs of his scraping against his lip. And Thomas lets the strychnine slide off of his tongue and runs it all over the inside of Orlok’s mouth, coating and spreading the bitter poison in every corner he can fit.
The count growls and a gnarled hand grabs Thomas’ hair and yanks his head back, snapping his neck almost violently. His face is twisted in anger and disgust.
“What have you consumed while I left you to finish your meal? It is bitter, disgusting.”
The hand in his hair moves down to Thomas’ throat, briefly twitching before it travels further down to Thomas’ waist. The hand digs in, and his nails begin to cut him. Thomas moans.
“Nothing, my lord,” Thomas whispers, mouth still stinging with the bitter taste of poison, “it is nothing.”
Suddenly Thomas is being slammed against the nearest wall; his head spinning as the count heaves him up by the ass with two hands. Thomas whines in anticipation, in arousal of the sheer power of the count, as he unzips and fumbles to remove his pants. He wraps his bare legs around the count as he’s held up and a large cock begins to fuck its way into his hole.
It’s desperate, it’s violent and Thomas has nothing to hold onto this time, hands scrambling pathetically along the stone wall to steady himself. But the count has a grip on him so tight, so secure, so heated, that Thomas knows there is no going back from this. The warnings of Ellen to not fall into the grasp of Orlok is nothing to Thomas now, not when he is being treated so cruelly. So right.
An hour later, Thomas is on the verge of passing out, the count’s cum leaking out of his well-fucked hole, as the count carefully lays him down on the bed.
Thomas watches through his sleep-addled eyes when the count does not collapse. He doesn’t seize or scream. No. Nothing happens.
Thomas still wakes the next day, with a new bite on his neck.
-
Thomas goes back to the pantry with the bottle in his hand.
It had expired.
He stands on his tip-toes, stretches his body and places it back on that high, high shelf.
-
Two weeks later Thomas watches in fascination as the counts throat bob with each gulp. He’s drinking from a new bite on Thomas’ waist that already has healing scars from sharp nails.
“Where does it all go?” Thomas asks with a child-like curiosity. The count’s veins are always so prominent but Thomas doesn’t know if they hold anything in them. Does a monster bleed the same as a human?
“Quiet,” Orlok snaps once he swallows the blood. He pauses, then makes a face. “Your blood is bitter.”
Thomas blinks.
“Is it, my lord?”
“It is very bitter.”
-
Where once Thomas felt joy to be in the rare sun that the city offered, he now embraces the dark of the night where he and the count can exist with each other. A sacrilegious sabbath at midnight in the fire of their heated exchanges.
And yet Thomas aches to be seen in the dark, to be the one and only in the count’s gaze as he spends his nights in the window calling for Ellen.
He sneaks into the crypt each night in the last slivers of daylight before supper.
“Do you dream, my lord?” Thomas whispers as he waits for night to settle over the castle. The sun barely shines into the crypt but it is still too bright for him. The count continues to sleep with his parted mouth, yet no sound emits from him. Just a silent, deathly slumber.
“What do you see? Do you see me?” Thomas runs a finger gently across Orlok’s collarbone.
“My blood and tears run in you. You drink me every night even when you call me bitter.”
The count does not answer, but the squeaking of rats does as they begin to crawl out of their nests. The sunbeam begins to fade and Thomas finds comfort in the cool, dark shade.
“Am I infecting you?”
There is a twitch of the count’s neck and Thomas knows it's a sign he’s waking for his meal. Maybe another half an hour and Thomas will be on the bed again. Or maybe his impatience will have him being fucked in this very crypt.
”I wish for you to answer me my lord,” he smiles and traces a playful finger in circles on the count's chest, “do you dream of me?”
Oh how Thomas yearns to be seen in the dark, in whatever space that the count lays when he sleeps.
-
Thomas does not bring attention to the count of his failing crusade against Thomas and his failing pursuit of Ellen. He does not bring it up because he’s finding himself more and more elated; he finally has a way to sate the hunger that he was ashamed of before. The count no longer stands at the window, instead waiting at the dinner table for Thomas to finish his meals before taking him wherever he pleases.
The count pulls his hand away and Thomas whines, only feeling two fingers scratch his hips this time. The tallies the count has been marking on his skin has been waning. Thomas fears it's as if his days are being numbered and Orlok is tiring of him.
“My lord?” Thomas tries to pull Orlok’s hand back to at least make one more scratch, but Orlok does not budge. Thomas huffs.
“Enough, your queer lustful desire to be harmed is delectable, but I will cease to bring more cuts to you,” Orlok snarls, then he drops his voice to a soft yet demanding whisper. “At least for the time being.”
“Why? Do you not want me to bleed for you? You drink from me so freely, what is a few more drops to stain our bodies?”
Orlok eyes him and gives an uncharacteristically soft stroke of his thumb alongside Thomas’ scabbing hipbone.
“You are a pale canvas waiting for the paint to bring you to life. I only wish to begin a new masterpiece. I have seen red, but maybe there are other colors that will look good on you.”
Oh, what a strange thing to say. Thomas wants to tease him for the fixation on Thomas’ body in ways he’s never heard before. Thomas sits up excitedly at that, both in arousal at the implications, and in joy at the count’s borderline affectionate confession.
“If that is what you desire, my lord. I will please you.”
Orlok looks smug at Thomas’ placidity, maybe under the impression he is the one conquering Thomas at this moment.
“Please,” Thomas whispers.
Orlok slaps him and it shocks Thomas at first, his mouth dropping open at the sharp pain and tears immediately springing to his eyes. The count pauses, looking down at him with hard eyes, but his hand is still lifted.
Thomas gasps but then squirms, his hips unconsciously begins rubbing his hardening cock against the count.
“Please!” Thomas cries, and he offers his other cheek.
The count slaps him twice before he begins to squeeze and grip every part of Thomas’ flesh in ways so painful Thomas wonders how this amount of strength can exist in any being in this world. He can’t stop moaning and panting as the night goes on.
The count is bending him in half, slamming his cock into Thomas’ aching body at the unfamiliar angles he’s being contourted to. His hole is sore from how long the count has been fucking him with his large cock and he knows that Orlok will only admire how puffy and pink it will be before diving in again.
Bruises litter his neck, waist, legs, and face. Thomas looks in the mirror more now, admiring how the count is right; he looks good in black and blue. And the next night, the count presses down on them as he fucks and chokes Thomas again.
Then a month later, he tells Thomas,
I miss the red on you.
He’s taking every part of Thomas that he can put his mouth on, digging his rat fangs into every part of his soft flesh, cutting him wherever he sees paleness instead of red. And Thomas becomes a masterpiece. Each time he licks Thomas’ fat tears before he drinks his blood. They share more kisses between them, tinged with salt and iron. Orlok Inhales his breath. He parts his flesh. He paints his picture.
“Stay with me within these walls, my lord. I will be the only meal you need. I can be your only one,” Thomas sobs as the full moon is as bright and larger than ever flooding their room. As if it’s blessing their heinous retelling of lovemaking. Thomas is flayed open tonight and he needs the count to finally understand how there is no going back from this.
Ellen shall be no more to Orlok. She will be free.
Thomas will be chained to this monster.
And he will be free.
Orlok growls as he comes deep inside Thomas, flooding him with all that he has to offer. He grabs Thomas’ bruised cheeks and snarls with heaving, wheezing breaths, “Heed caution with your words and your cravings. It is dangerous to submit yourself to me.”
Thomas almost laughs that the count has forgotten of his quest to dominate Thomas fully; his lost crusade. He cheekily squeezes down on the count’s still-hard cock instead.
“Then I will not heed your warning. Let me disappear inside you and become one with you.”
“Foolish, you do not know who I am.”
You are mine.
“I will grow in you just as you die in me. I'll be good, my lord, I promise,” Thomas whispers, “Till you take your last breath.”
The count’s hand slides down and takes Thomas' still black and blue throat in his hands and squeezes.
“Not if I take yours first.”
“Then I will die under you…where I belong. Stay with me.”
Thomas believes he hears a strained, yet heavily weighted yes. But the pain around his neck is great and he blacks out once more.
He wakes to the count drinking his blood and tears as ravenously as always.
-
The count drinks so much from him. He seems to enjoy Thomas’ blood more when his skin blooms in patches of black and blue on his pale flesh. In shapes of hand. Sometimes teeth. Sometimes a kiss.
“You taste divine so divine to me. I do not know why,” the count moans. His hand is roaming passionately and desperately all over Thomas’ body. Retracing the path of his destruction.
Thomas smiles as he gently kisses that bloody mouth, relishing, and embracing how much it sates his hunger. The once terrible hunger for something he's always wanted his whole life. Since he was thirteen and bleeding from a simple push. Funny how all it took was a push.
The count presses his fingers on Thomas' bite, squeezing the blood back out. He leans down and laps at it in frenzy, just like those rats when the potatoes tumbled to the floor.
“Can you see my heart, my lord? It bleeds for you.”
Orlok does not answer and instead begins to cut into Thomas’ thigh with his sharp nails, he punctures him this time instead of a scratch.
Thomas sobs and cries from the pain. His tears shamelessly pours down his pink cheeks.
The sight spurs the count’s lust and he does not hesitate to lap at the clear, colorless droplets.
“What have you done to me? I cannot taste anything but skin and salt. Iron and lust. You hold no magic in you, you are only a man. And it nourishes me. You are an addiction I've never known to exist. I feel as if I crave you. As if I can fall eternally deep in you.”
Thomas reaches his arms around him in a warm embrace.
“Then fall, my lord. Until you cannot fall anymore.”
“Your blood….your tears. They are all so bitter,” Orlok whispers in anger. In pain. Delirious yet content. “It is so bitter.”
Thomas gives a wet laugh in response, then kisses the count; reaching deep into every corner he can fit.
-
It is the sixth month, or maybe it has already been a year. It is growing harder and harder to distinguish between night and day the more they share a bed.
Thomas knows he can leave as he pleases now. Although he cannot say the same for Orlok. The housing contract the count was once so eager to sign is slowly rotting, being eaten by the rats as it lay forgotten in a drawer. At this point Thomas knows the count is chained by his own lust for Thomas' body, blood, and tears.
But that is alright, Thomas will not leave; he is a people-pleaser, afterall.
“Do you bleed, my lord?” Thomas whispers.
He watches Orlok through his lashes as he runs his mouth slowly down to Orlok’s upper chest; to the part where his sore is the deepest and Thomas can see the decay is the most prominent.
“Is it your blood or mine that will greet my tongue?”
He gently strokes his fingers along the exposed muscles. He wonders if he can dig his fingers in and touch the count’s nerves; make him twitch against his will.
Perhaps another time. So instead he continues to watch Orlok as Orlok watches him. Thomas gives a shy smile and parts his mouth. His lips brush the count’s skin.
Orlok’s asthmatic breathing fills the air and he does not answer Thomas’ questions.
That is fine, Thomas will just have to find out for the both of them.
He gives a single tranquil sigh, flutters his lashes, buries his teeth in, then snaps his jaw shut.
They both watch.
They both wait.
Thomas swallows.
Strychnine (/ˈstrɪkniːn, -nɪn/) is a highly toxic, colorless, bitter, crystalline alkaloid used as a pesticide, particularly for killing small vertebrates such as birds and rodents.**