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Summary
Lestat’s fangs pull back, the bite closes, and he sinks back in a second later, whimpering. He’s burying his nose behind Armand’s ear, inhaling hard as he drinks.
“Incense… and bergamot…” Lestat mumbles, hazy. “You always did taste like an altar offering.”
It’s probably not supposed to be a compliment, but Armand takes it as one anyway. He winds both arms tighter around Lestat and cups the back of his neck with one hand, cradling him closer. Lestat whines and bucks into his grip. He’s close now, Armand can almost taste it, so Armand sends him a last flood of memories to bring him over; the drape of Louis’s wrist over the arm of a chair, a glossy leather crop in his hand; the jut of his chin when he’s angry. Lestat’s moans pitch up and up and he pulls out of the bite, panting, and gasps, “Me, bite me, Armand, please,” and, well, who is Armand to deny him?
Series
- Part 4 of mori’s post-TVL-ep fics