Half conscious, Peter didn't know what had woken him. He couldn't make out anything in the darkness to give him a clue, and was only vaguely aware that something was wrong. Attempting to shift on the bed, it took him several moments to realise why he couldn't; his wrists were bound in straps to the metal frame of the bed. A flicker of panic went through him as he realised, tugging harder as his head cleared. No real fear, not yet, mostly just bewilderment.

He thought over the evening, watching TV and going to sleep after a quick flirt with the nurse. No medication, nothing like that. He was only here for a rest, for Christ's sake, for the bed and the the nice people who gave him what he wanted and then left him alone again, so if there'd be he'll to pay if there had been some kind of mix up-

His mind cut off the thought as he began to hear, faintly, footsteps. Heavy ones. One man, not staff, in boots instead of soft soles. Peter shivered involuntarily. It can't be, a weak little voice in his head protested. Rationally, that was true, but Peter somehow knew, with more certainty as the footsteps came closer to the door, in the very core of his being that it was him. He forced himself to breathe. The protesting, rational voice in his head grew weaker and weaker.

The door opened, the overbright lights from the corridor flashing into Peter's unadjusted eyes and making him wince. A broad, dark figure shut the door behind him, leaving Peter in darkness once more. Instinctively, He made for the bedside lamp, the pressure on his wrist reminding him why he couldn't. The footsteps resumed, approaching Peter's bed, and now even though he couldn't see, Peter had no doubt of who it was.

"Hey, Peter." That voice. That voice still set him shaking, sending him back to that first time, his eyes screwed shut with his hands clamped over his ears, pretending he was safe and somewhere, anywhere, else.

That time, he hadn't cried or screamed or made a sound. Now, he opened his mouth, but before he could even take a breath, a hard hand was clamped over his lips.

"Don't," said a low voice, close to Peter's ear, with quiet emphasis. "Or I'll have to hurt you." He waited, making sure Peter acknowledged this, and released him slowly. Peter could feel him studying him, imagining his smirk. "Atta boy," he said quietly.

Finally, Peter's eyes found his in the dark, human-like, not yet dilated to their true demonic black. "Please don't kill me," He found the plea leaving his mouth involuntarily. He didn't expect an appeal for mercy to work.

"I won't."

Peter felt a movement on the bed below his waist, a hand trailing along the bed towards his legs.

"Not if you do as you're told."

The vampire glanced between his hand and Peter's eyes, now pushing the blanket up, and Peter's hospital gown with it, exposing him. Peter let out a little whimper, as Jerry's hand slid between his legs and took hold of him. He tried to move his legs, when the vampire suddenly gripped one of them with his free hand, painfully hard.

"No. Keep still."

He began to play with Peter in slow, teasing strokes, and as terrified, disgusted, as he was, Peter could feel himself growing hard. He shut his eyes and turned his face away, trying to seperate himself from his body. He bit his lip to keep a sob from escaping his throat, breathing in shudders. "What the fuck are you doing?"

The vampire ignored him. Still working his hand, Jerry shifted and leaned in to Peter's throat, his body warming him. His heat bewildered Peter. He was dead, wasn't he?

"So like your mom," he murmured against Peter's throat, mouth hot, fangs grazing his taut skin. Peter steeled himself, waiting for it. "I wonder if you taste like her."

Peter's breath caught, but the vampire only increased the firmness of his strokes, and it made Peter groan unwillingly.

"If you only knew how good your scent is," he growled, sliding his free hand from Peter's leg up his gown to a nipple, squeezing it gently. Peter whimpered again, and it seemed to soften him a little. "I'm not your enemy, Peter," he murmured. "Look at you. No-one's ever reacted this quickly, this...eagerly. And you haven't even had a taste yet. You want this. It'll be like...having a family again." With an abrupt movement, he tore Peter's gown open with his claws. Smoothing the material aside, he ducked his head and flicked his tongue deftly over Peter's nipple, and, despite himself, Peter couldn't help a little growl of desire escape his mouth.

"You bastard," he said weakly, when he recovered, sounding unconvincing even to his own ears.

Jerry took his hand away. Peter made an involuntary little noise of protest and opened his eyes. The vampire had the tip of his finger between his lips, and at first Peter thought he was licking the pre-come from his cock. Then a trickle of blood ran down, and Peter realised he had cut the skin with his fangs. He couldn't help but watch with a kind of sickened fascination as Jerry smeared the blood into the inside of his mouth, and dabbed droplets onto his lips. He gave a start when Jerry's hand went to the back of his neck, realisation dawning, cringing at the intimacy of it.

His instinct was to fight, but before his instinct could work, Jerry's lips covered his own. He made a small, muffled sound of protest, but then a strange sensation overcame him as the blood passed to his own lips and he accidently tasted it. As Jerry's tongue flicked against his own, Peter felt it again but more so; it made his limbs weak and his mind soft, his blood stir. He could feel his cock throbbing more urgently than ever, and the rest of him relaxing, letting go. His pulse slowed, and his sense of urgency left with the uncurling of his muscles. He parted his lips willingly, allowing Jerry better access, and moved his own tongue tentatively.

After a moment, Jerry bit his lip gently and drew back, finding Peter's eyes. Peter looked up at him hazily, unmoving. Satisfied, seeing the look in Peter's eyes, Jerry smirked and moved down his body to kiss his neck again. He pushed his bleeding fingertip between Peter's lips, and without hesitation Peter sucked on it, the taste stirring his blood and making him tremble with desire. He didn't notice the change in the vampire's eyes, or the gradual lengthening of his fangs, only felt him shudder slightly.

"I'm gonna let you choose," he said quietly. "Do you want me to fuck you, or turn you?"

Peter was only partly listening. His body was still reacting to the blood, and the rest of him was still terrified. He thought of his parents, himself, Charley, Ginger. He flinched when those hands caressed him again, and blurted, "turn me." He said it in a tiny voice, without thinking, and regretted it almost instantly.

Jerry had stilled, as if deliberating, then put his hand back to Peter's neck and pulled him forward. "Good choice," he murmured. "Means I get to fuck you all the time."

Before he realised what was happening, Jerry pulled him further into his arms and held his neck. The pain was swift, sharp and disorienting, but not as bad as Peter had feared. It was rough and violent, and he could feel the vampire's erection pressing against his leg the entire time, but he felt almost detached from himself, outside the experience. After what felt like a few seconds, the pain stopped and it was over. Jerry was panting and still gripping Peter tightly, but now he only lapped up the remaining blood like a cat drinking it's milk.

Peter was still conscious, still thinking. "That's it?"

"I'll do it again if you want."

"No.." he didn't feel like a mindless, emotionless monster yet, but he was starting to feel weird. "I think I'm-" was as far as he got when his vision began to cloud over, and everything went dark.

Jerry let him slump in his arms. "Yeah," he said to the unconscious figure.

Dalton, K. M., Nacewicz, B. M., Johnstone, T., Schaefer, H. S., Gernsbacher, M. A., Goldsmith, H. H., ... & Davidson, R. J. (2005). Gaze fixation and the neural circuitry of face processing in autism. Nature neuroscience, 8(4), 519-526.