Kavinsky cooed mockingly at the pitiful requests. He grabbed Steve by the chin and squeezed, curling his claws into his cheeks. There were little pricks of blood, momentary and brilliant, and Kavinsky leaned forward to lick one, around the claw pressed onto Steve's cheek.

He pressed his blood-wet lips against Steve's mouth, an almost chaste kiss. Slow and teasing and purposeful.

Until the door clicked, apparently satisfied with the blood. Then, Kavinsky gave Steve a mostly playful slap on the cheek and slipped off the table to head toward the door.