Lestat still remembers the night Armand had found him — the performance on stage, one mind above a thousand reaching out until he could barely hear his own thoughts, the riotous laughter of the audience. The vampire had eclipsed all for him in those years, a momentary span by comparison to his entire existence but still one that seems to have left its mark on both of them.

That gentle touch doesn’t hint at the dig of claws to follow, and the surprise of it makes Lestat give voice to a sound somewhere between a sigh and a hiss, the exquisite pain making his fangs emerge as he tips his head into the contact, forcing those sharp points in deeper. When he turns, to nuzzle in against the inside of Armand’s wrist, small beads of blood well up on his cheek.

He places an open-mouthed kiss there, over skin stretched taut over veins; it would be so easy to sink his bite in, to drink as he once had, to feel the euphoric connection that existed between them if only for a moment.

Then let me, he responds, a purr in Armand’s thoughts, not yet attempting to crowd him against the bookshelf but realizing how delicious it would be to do so, here. To take him right up against the tomes belonging to this ostentatious display of wealth and acquisition, leave the remnants of their fucking dripping down the leather spines.