[ all of his senses immediately switch gears the second the smell of blood permeates the air. it's not his or the old blood of a dead man, no. it's fresh, it's beating with life, and the hunger he tries to keep at bay surges forward like a familiar ghost that always haunts him, controlling his very movements as he tips forward and falls upon it.
dorian's skin is warm and slick, lips parted as it coats his tongue and he swallows. once, and he still might have been able to resist, could have pulled away to let his body fight over which places to send it and what to heal. but it floods down his throat, and a groan falls out of him, curling his fingers tighter and tighter to hold dorian right there against him until the blunt press of his nails must hurt. he drinks until he feels like he's going to be sick, and then, continues to drink more. each mouthful is finding some use somewhere—his flesh slowly knits itself together, he's stopped bleeding. there's less pain, but his mind is clouded, delirious. he wants more, so much more. he needs —
he needs to stop.
larus tears himself away, shoving dorian back to put distance between them. still, it doesn't feel like enough, sliding backwards and turning so he's half-curled on his side. teeth clenched, some of his strength is beginning to return, the most dangerous of his injuries finally closed, but he's exhausted and stressed, rolling over onto his hands and knees and squinting at dorian from beneath the fall of his hair. all he can think about is how he tastes. ]
You shouldn't have done that. Not like... [ he's clearly upset. ] Not like that.
no subject
dorian's skin is warm and slick, lips parted as it coats his tongue and he swallows. once, and he still might have been able to resist, could have pulled away to let his body fight over which places to send it and what to heal. but it floods down his throat, and a groan falls out of him, curling his fingers tighter and tighter to hold dorian right there against him until the blunt press of his nails must hurt. he drinks until he feels like he's going to be sick, and then, continues to drink more. each mouthful is finding some use somewhere—his flesh slowly knits itself together, he's stopped bleeding. there's less pain, but his mind is clouded, delirious. he wants more, so much more. he needs —
he needs to stop.
larus tears himself away, shoving dorian back to put distance between them. still, it doesn't feel like enough, sliding backwards and turning so he's half-curled on his side. teeth clenched, some of his strength is beginning to return, the most dangerous of his injuries finally closed, but he's exhausted and stressed, rolling over onto his hands and knees and squinting at dorian from beneath the fall of his hair. all he can think about is how he tastes. ]
You shouldn't have done that. Not like... [ he's clearly upset. ] Not like that.