[ He's expecting some kind of hungry attack, pain and viciousness like he'd felt that night when Armand had appeared before him dressed in lace and finery and had sunk his teeth into Lestat's neck with all the frenzied hunger of a man starved. What he gets instead are the soft, lingering, sweetened presses of Armand's pursed lips to his skin, and every single one feels like the opening of a blossom, the blooming of a never-before seen flower.
And then the kisses move toward his neck, hands twisting in his hair, and Lestat couldn't breathe even if he wanted to... He hasn't been in this position since her, and as he blinks up at the ceiling she really is all he can think about - her dark hair, her large eyes, her bleached skin, her smile as she looked at him, always like she knew so much more than he did - before Armand sinks his teeth into his throat, and his mind goes blank.
Violin music streams in through the darkness. The sight of the shrine opens up as though illuminated by flame; the crypt of the mother and the father as it had been when Lestat had first seen it. The music picks up in tempo and the scene seems to wane, shuddering slightly before morphing into the place she'd taken him to, and then all scenery disappears to be replaced by her narrow frame clad in black silk, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders, her cold hand around his wrist. "Come" she says to him, and then a staggering jolt of fear and inadequacy, of knowing that you have no choice but to accept, or become nothing more than a hurdle standing in the way of the would-be Queen of Heaven. Her eyes burn pure fire, it's a demand not a request, and with the sensation of falling, the experience of slipping into the swoon, he approaches. He submits.
It's nothing like what he said to his mother, nothing like the thoughts he wrenches into his head when he thinks of her; this is something more true, more earnest, so much that even he isn't aware of the miniscule part of him that remembers this fear. Only the blood remembers. ]
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And then the kisses move toward his neck, hands twisting in his hair, and Lestat couldn't breathe even if he wanted to... He hasn't been in this position since her, and as he blinks up at the ceiling she really is all he can think about - her dark hair, her large eyes, her bleached skin, her smile as she looked at him, always like she knew so much more than he did - before Armand sinks his teeth into his throat, and his mind goes blank.
Violin music streams in through the darkness. The sight of the shrine opens up as though illuminated by flame; the crypt of the mother and the father as it had been when Lestat had first seen it. The music picks up in tempo and the scene seems to wane, shuddering slightly before morphing into the place she'd taken him to, and then all scenery disappears to be replaced by her narrow frame clad in black silk, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders, her cold hand around his wrist. "Come" she says to him, and then a staggering jolt of fear and inadequacy, of knowing that you have no choice but to accept, or become nothing more than a hurdle standing in the way of the would-be Queen of Heaven. Her eyes burn pure fire, it's a demand not a request, and with the sensation of falling, the experience of slipping into the swoon, he approaches. He submits.
It's nothing like what he said to his mother, nothing like the thoughts he wrenches into his head when he thinks of her; this is something more true, more earnest, so much that even he isn't aware of the miniscule part of him that remembers this fear. Only the blood remembers. ]