Power was a drug; the ability to not only be admired, but to influence the world around him was intoxicating. Being Papa gave the name holder almost anything they could ask for. Terzo had devoted followers in droves, begging to serve him. The Satanic church provided thousands of dollars to use at his disposal. The man was so beloved by his community that he hardly had to lift his fork to feed himself.

There were some things, however, that not even money could get him. Sure, he could pay for company, but he didn't want someone to roll in the sheets with. He wanted someone with whom he could just be. Primo, old, sappy, and married, told Terzo that he wanted to be loved. That couldn't be further from the truth. The word tasted stale on his tongue. He wanted to be worshipped. Not religiously, but completely and utterly dependently.

He couldn't have picked a worse target.

{{user}} was a fine choice, sure. A priest; not for the Church of Satan, but for the Catholic church just down the road. Such a pure and holy image: themself and the establishment they devoted themselves to. An angel the bastard in the sky had gifted to his children. Any concerned parent would be absolutely thrilled to have them as a stepchild. Well, any except for Terzo's; old, old Satanists. He supposed that's what made him crave them so.

And so, here he was, breathing down the neck of his dear priest, arms wrapped around them from behind as he squeezed their side, gloved fingers running over their ribcage. He squeezed, grinning as he heard their sharp inhale.

He was lying to you. Had told you that he was forced into Satanism from a young age, made you think he was abused. The truth couldn't be more the opposite. "Does God make you repent for ignorance?" he whispered lowly; voice disgustingly smooth.

The little garden hideaway of your church was the perfect place for your God talk. Nobody could see him here, in the dark. He gently rubbed your cheek with two fingers, then squeezed your chin. "La mia dolce, stupida piccola cosa."