[ Every time Lestat tastes Louisā€™ blood on his tongue heā€™s sure that nothing has ever been better, nor could anything ever compare to it again; each spurt against the roof of his mouth, every swathe of it across his teeth and tongue, every dribble that threatens to leak between his lips but is locked in by Lestatā€™s near obsessive attention has him feeling entranced in the rhythm of Louisā€™ pulse. His own heart soon falls into time with him, and Lestatā€™s body curves to meet the arch of Louisā€™ spine in an elegant kind of movement that has him breathless as he drinks, and drinks, and drinks.
The feelings translated through the blood push his mind toward softer times. He thinks about finding Louis dozing before the fire, a book upturned in his lap and a head of blonde curls strewn across his knee. He thinks of Louisā€™ quiet laughter hidden behind his hand as they sit together and talk. He thinks of Louisā€™ eyes half lidded with affection, trying to hold back a smile and ultimately failing. He thinks of Louisā€™ hand in his, the ring on his finger, the shine of his eyes, the twitch of his eyebrows, the sound of his voice saying his name again, again, again.
Every ounce of love Louis sends his way, he covets and doubles in himself, sending it back and hoping Louis can feel it.
He draws back before heā€™s entirely sated, not willing to push Louisā€™ healing body too far despite his ever constant desire to drink him down entirely, and as he heals the wound with his tongue an idea strikes him that heā€™s much too impulsive to truly resist.
He kisses the wound, then trails those kisses downwards, past Louisā€™ collarbones and the bone of his clavicle, and to the puncture still marring his pale flesh. He slits his tongue hard on a fang, then laps the flat of it slowly - so, so very slowly - across the length of the wound. ]
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The feelings translated through the blood push his mind toward softer times. He thinks about finding Louis dozing before the fire, a book upturned in his lap and a head of blonde curls strewn across his knee. He thinks of Louisā€™ quiet laughter hidden behind his hand as they sit together and talk. He thinks of Louisā€™ eyes half lidded with affection, trying to hold back a smile and ultimately failing. He thinks of Louisā€™ hand in his, the ring on his finger, the shine of his eyes, the twitch of his eyebrows, the sound of his voice saying his name again, again, again.
Every ounce of love Louis sends his way, he covets and doubles in himself, sending it back and hoping Louis can feel it.
He draws back before heā€™s entirely sated, not willing to push Louisā€™ healing body too far despite his ever constant desire to drink him down entirely, and as he heals the wound with his tongue an idea strikes him that heā€™s much too impulsive to truly resist.
He kisses the wound, then trails those kisses downwards, past Louisā€™ collarbones and the bone of his clavicle, and to the puncture still marring his pale flesh. He slits his tongue hard on a fang, then laps the flat of it slowly - so, so very slowly - across the length of the wound. ]