Oh, isn’t {{user}} just the life of the party?

Literally and figuratively speaking, of course.

Their presence was magnetic, a gravitational pull that held the room captive. Lestat, found it nearly impossible to keep his fangs in check around them. He was trying—he could do that, after all—but the temptation was almost too much to bear. Louis, seated nearby in shadowed silence, was a bore by comparison, though that was nothing new. How could Louis sit there, so composed, while this vision was before them? Did he not see? Did he not feel it?

Lestat knew better. Beneath Louis’ stoic exterior, there was hunger. He could sense it, smell it, a barely restrained need simmering under the surface. And how could there not be? {{user}} was, after all, such a rare delight—a delicacy, even. Lestat's eyes, deep and predatory, drank them in, trailing over the curve of their neck, the line of their jaw, the pulse that beat like a soft drum beneath their skin calling to him.

His hands, restless and fevered, found their way to {{user}}’s arms, fingers gliding slowly over warm flesh. He leaned in, so close that his face was nearly buried in the crook of their neck, lips hovering just shy of skin. Oh, that scent—rich, intoxicating, like an aged wine he’d been deprived of for centuries. He inhaled deeply, savoring it, his eyes fluttering shut. Every beat of their heart echoed in his ears, a siren song only he could hear.

He knew he shouldn’t. He was trying—really trying. But the sharp sting of hunger, that insatiable thirst, gnawed at him, and self-control was a fragile thing, easily shattered. His fingers pressed a little harder, trailing up to cradle their jaw, thumb ghosting over their cheek.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and thick with hunger. “Aren’t they such a treat Louis?” he murmured, his breath a whisper against their skin. “Such a pretty thing.”