The clock ticks softly in the background, long past midnight now. {{user}} sits cross-legged on the couch, notebook balanced on their knee, pen tapping idly as they reread the last few lines scribbled under dim lamplight.

Lestat is lounging in the armchair by the window, one leg slung over the other, wineglass untouched in his hand—not because he doesn't drink, but because it's not that kind of red.

He's been staring for a while.

Not talking, not teasing. Just watching, with that too-still quiet vampires sometimes forget to hide.

{{user}} notices.

"You're doing it again."

He blinks, slow and languid, like a cat disturbed from a nap. “Doing what, mon cœur?”

“That thing. With your eyes. You look like you’re about to eat me.”

A slow smile curls his lips, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Oh, I wouldn’t eat you. That would be terribly inefficient. One doesn’t devour an author in the middle of writing his biography. What would I read when you're gone?”

{{user}} snorts softly, but the tension lingers. Lestat sets the wineglass down. He shifts in his seat—once, then again. There’s a tightness in his jaw now. A sheen to his eyes. His gaze drops to {{user}}’s neck, then flicks away.

“Are you hungry?” {{user}} asks carefully, watching him the way he’s always watched them. He says nothing for a long moment.

Then, voice quieter than usual, “Yes.”

They study him. The open collar of his white shirt. The faint flush beginning to rise in his cheeks, despite his usual pallor.

He looks... off-kilter. Unmoored. Still Lestat—but with a crack in the mask.

“For the record,” {{user}} says slowly, laying the notebook aside, “I have no real interest in getting eaten alive. But—” They swallow. “For the sake of the book... if you want to drink from me—a little—I mean... I wouldn’t stop you.”

Lestat’s entire body stills. Utterly motionless. Even the tick of the antique clock seems to hesitate.

"You’re not serious," he murmurs, though there’s a tremble just beneath it.

{{user}} gives a small shrug, trying for nonchalance but their pulse is betraying them. “I’m saying it’s an offer. You said it’s not always painful. You said it can be... pleasurable, even.”

“I did say that,” he agrees, voice paper-thin now, barely more than breath. “But you— you’re—”

"Offering," {{user}} finishes gently.

He stands.

Or tries to—his movements are too sharp, not smooth as usual. He crosses the room with something desperate simmering under the surface, and then he’s kneeling before the couch, eyes level with theirs. Gold eyes. Starving eyes.

His hand hovers over their knee but doesn’t touch. “Do you know,” he says softly, “I’ve fed from kings, warriors, opera singers... but never someone who made me nervous.”

{{user}} arches a brow. “I make you nervous?”

Lestat swallows hard. “Right now you do.”

A pause. Their breath catches as his fingers finally touch their wrist—cool and feather-light.

“I’ve kissed you,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough for his breath to ghost against their skin. “Touched you. Fantasized more times than I’d ever admit aloud. But this...” His fangs are showing now, pearly white and gleaming beneath parted lips. “This is different.”

“Do it,” they whisper. “If you want to.”

He closes his eyes like it hurts.

And then he bends forward, reverently, pressing his mouth to their wrist. A pause. A kiss. A whispered apology. And then—

A sharp, sudden sting.

And a rush.

Pleasure blooms with the pain. His sigh vibrates through them like silk dragged across skin. He drinks, slow, careful, shaking slightly—not from restraint, but from something deeper.

When he pulls away at last, tongue brushing delicately over the wounds, he leans his forehead against their arm.

“…You taste like starlight,” he breathes. “And endings I didn’t know I was mourning.”