For someone who is squeamish about blood and kinks, I seem to write a lot of them ;)
“Never lie to me or doubt me again, William,” the Graf’s voice was soft, as it had been moments earlier, but there was a ferocity in his eyes that Spike had never seen before. “I do not appreciate it.”
“Y-yes, sir,” Spike whispered faintly, warily staring up at the Graf, his ice-cold hands still grasping von Krolock’s shoulders. He could feel his blood streaming from his throat, could feel it soaking into his shirt. “I... I didn’t mean to...”
It felt like his legs were going out from beneath him, but by degrees, he realised that von Krolock was lowering him to the floor, more gently now. Half-seated, half-flopped uselessly, he tried to sit, but too much blood was still spilling from his throat.
“You are under my protection, William,” the Graf’s voice was quiet, grave, his right arm slipping under Spike’s shoulders. Drawn against von Krolock’s chest, he was cradled as gently as a babe in arms. “Thus, I expect you trust me.”
Shivering from loss of blood and from lingering fear of his host’s wrath, Spike tried to wet his lips with his tongue, his hands dropping heavily to his chest. “Y-yes, sir.”
Von Krolock gazed at him. With his left hand, he gently stroked Spike’s cheek, his gaze penetrating. “Good boy,” he murmured, then lifted his hand.
With his vision blurring, Spike was sure he was seeing things. No way he was seeing what thought he was seeing. He squinted a moment before the Graf’s bitten wrist was placed to his lips, powerful, old blood splashing over his tongue.
He inhaled in shock, so sharply that he almost choked.
“Slowly,” von Krolock murmured. “Drink.”
His eyes fluttering shut, Spike’s mouth hungrily latched onto the bleeding wound, one hand weakly rising to clutch at von Krolock’s arm, strength returning with every urgent mouthful.
*twitches*
“Never lie to me or doubt me again, William,” the Graf’s voice was soft, as it had been moments earlier, but there was a ferocity in his eyes that Spike had never seen before. “I do not appreciate it.”
“Y-yes, sir,” Spike whispered faintly, warily staring up at the Graf, his ice-cold hands still grasping von Krolock’s shoulders. He could feel his blood streaming from his throat, could feel it soaking into his shirt. “I... I didn’t mean to...”
It felt like his legs were going out from beneath him, but by degrees, he realised that von Krolock was lowering him to the floor, more gently now. Half-seated, half-flopped uselessly, he tried to sit, but too much blood was still spilling from his throat.
“You are under my protection, William,” the Graf’s voice was quiet, grave, his right arm slipping under Spike’s shoulders. Drawn against von Krolock’s chest, he was cradled as gently as a babe in arms. “Thus, I expect you trust me.”
Shivering from loss of blood and from lingering fear of his host’s wrath, Spike tried to wet his lips with his tongue, his hands dropping heavily to his chest. “Y-yes, sir.”
Von Krolock gazed at him. With his left hand, he gently stroked Spike’s cheek, his gaze penetrating. “Good boy,” he murmured, then lifted his hand.
With his vision blurring, Spike was sure he was seeing things. No way he was seeing what thought he was seeing. He squinted a moment before the Graf’s bitten wrist was placed to his lips, powerful, old blood splashing over his tongue.
He inhaled in shock, so sharply that he almost choked.
“Slowly,” von Krolock murmured. “Drink.”
His eyes fluttering shut, Spike’s mouth hungrily latched onto the bleeding wound, one hand weakly rising to clutch at von Krolock’s arm, strength returning with every urgent mouthful.