[ This all dimly feels like instinct, but an instinct entirely apart from the one that leads him to the kill. This instinct has him painfully aware of every point where his body touches Louis', the way his thigh creates a friction like a match on a strike strip as it moves, and the delectable pressure pulling at his scalp.
Lestat wants to crack the ribs and crawl inside.
And then, oh, and then.. The taste of Louis blood on his tongue; sharp, powerful with sin and strong in tenderness, overwhelming, addictive. He remembers this, he savours this. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows Louis hasn't fed. Were he capable he might admonish him and bask in the moment of Louis caught by his own helpless need for him.. but he can't form a single thought beyond his own howling greed.
He growls, a hand finding the angle of Louis' hip and pressing down; a butterfly pinned under glass. And he drinks. He pulls roughly on Louis' tongue, delving his own into the cut to keep it open just a little longer as the blood tries to heal it over. It's drips, it's hardly enough, like a tease and it's so good. ]
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Lestat wants to crack the ribs and crawl inside.
And then, oh, and then.. The taste of Louis blood on his tongue; sharp, powerful with sin and strong in tenderness, overwhelming, addictive. He remembers this, he savours this. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows Louis hasn't fed. Were he capable he might admonish him and bask in the moment of Louis caught by his own helpless need for him.. but he can't form a single thought beyond his own howling greed.
He growls, a hand finding the angle of Louis' hip and pressing down; a butterfly pinned under glass. And he drinks. He pulls roughly on Louis' tongue, delving his own into the cut to keep it open just a little longer as the blood tries to heal it over. It's drips, it's hardly enough, like a tease and it's so good. ]