[ Upon entering Alucard scanned the meager furnishings of Dorian’s apartment. In truth he had expected something with more of a personal touch, this could have been anyone’s home. Or more over, it looked like nobody’s home, an empty shell waiting to have character added. He visualised Dorian in a lavish abode filled with the finest furniture, silk upholstery and books, perhaps, he seemed like someone who enjoyed reading. Or perhaps he was just projecting, it was easy to imagine someone you’re attracted to liking what you like.
He heard the quiet click of the latch, heralding the privacy he had been waiting for. Dorian’s words washed over him like an invisible tide, he noticed them but didn’t take note of them. Something about tending the wound.
The wound he had given him.
If only he had been in his right mind, he might have even gone to tend the bite with Dorian whilst apologising profusely. But in this state there was only one thought that came to mind, seeping down from his skull, along his jaw and onto his tongue like poison. ]
Why would you waste it.
[ A criticism, not a question.
Lightning reflexes afforded him the pleasure of snapping his vice-like grip around the wrist of Dorian’s healthy arm. Thoughts of his innocent, caring mother were long gone, stamped out and replaced but a repressed lust. A desire he had pushed down into the pit of his belly, bubbling up with each accidental, vulgar flash of Dorian’s skin, the perfume of his skin and the lilt of his voice.
Alucard pressed that wrist against the apartment’s wall, the flimsy drywall divide seemed to bow under the pressure of his grip. Firm and immovable but not crushing. A familiar position for them now, perhaps.
As he kept him in place with one hand, he cruelly took the wrist of the damaged arm and hoisted it up, extending it. A long, protracted lick of the sweet, clotting blood followed. Molten gold eyes locked on Dorian’s expression. Waiting for a reaction, eager for it, whether good or bad. ]
no subject
He heard the quiet click of the latch, heralding the privacy he had been waiting for. Dorian’s words washed over him like an invisible tide, he noticed them but didn’t take note of them. Something about tending the wound.
The wound he had given him.
If only he had been in his right mind, he might have even gone to tend the bite with Dorian whilst apologising profusely. But in this state there was only one thought that came to mind, seeping down from his skull, along his jaw and onto his tongue like poison. ]
Why would you waste it.
[ A criticism, not a question.
Lightning reflexes afforded him the pleasure of snapping his vice-like grip around the wrist of Dorian’s healthy arm. Thoughts of his innocent, caring mother were long gone, stamped out and replaced but a repressed lust. A desire he had pushed down into the pit of his belly, bubbling up with each accidental, vulgar flash of Dorian’s skin, the perfume of his skin and the lilt of his voice.
Alucard pressed that wrist against the apartment’s wall, the flimsy drywall divide seemed to bow under the pressure of his grip. Firm and immovable but not crushing. A familiar position for them now, perhaps.
As he kept him in place with one hand, he cruelly took the wrist of the damaged arm and hoisted it up, extending it. A long, protracted lick of the sweet, clotting blood followed. Molten gold eyes locked on Dorian’s expression. Waiting for a reaction, eager for it, whether good or bad. ]