[ Lestat hadn't meant for it to be quite so sensual, this trading of truths and sweet nothings between them both, but only as he feels his lover's hands tighten in his hair to urge on his progress does he realise how close to sin they are.
Holding Louis like this, hands against his skin like he'd longed for but never could have had when they were together in New Orleans -- pushing him up in some secluded corner enshrouded by darkness, Louis' hands pushing at his shoulders to no avail until eventually he started to cling, desperate for Lestat not to stop once he's started, now that there's no going back, years of longing spilling out, like hot blood down the sides of a crystal glass, from a wound that still hasn't healed, still pouring with nowhere to go, no outlet, no end -- is unmistakeably venereous. Even the sweetness of their words, the loving poetry they make together, seems only to fuel how sinful it feels to have his hands on Louis' body like this, to be treasuring him so sweetly while his body hungers for him. ]
Who speaks poetry now?
[ Lestat murmurs against his throat, his tongue finding the elegant concave of flesh where his windpipe curves inwards, bracketed by his jugular, and pressing up against his pulse. Lestat can taste cologne on his skin, and the scent of sweat that can't be Louis' own. It makes his heart-rate pick up excitedly, claws scratching ever so slightly against Louis' stomach. ]
You can't breathe to speak and yet you do, for me. You spent all that time alone, just thinking of me. Oh, Louis, you've been mine this whole time, haven't you? Find breath enough to tell me it's true, my heart, don't lose your words now...
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Holding Louis like this, hands against his skin like he'd longed for but never could have had when they were together in New Orleans -- pushing him up in some secluded corner enshrouded by darkness, Louis' hands pushing at his shoulders to no avail until eventually he started to cling, desperate for Lestat not to stop once he's started, now that there's no going back, years of longing spilling out, like hot blood down the sides of a crystal glass, from a wound that still hasn't healed, still pouring with nowhere to go, no outlet, no end -- is unmistakeably venereous. Even the sweetness of their words, the loving poetry they make together, seems only to fuel how sinful it feels to have his hands on Louis' body like this, to be treasuring him so sweetly while his body hungers for him. ]
Who speaks poetry now?
[ Lestat murmurs against his throat, his tongue finding the elegant concave of flesh where his windpipe curves inwards, bracketed by his jugular, and pressing up against his pulse. Lestat can taste cologne on his skin, and the scent of sweat that can't be Louis' own. It makes his heart-rate pick up excitedly, claws scratching ever so slightly against Louis' stomach. ]
You can't breathe to speak and yet you do, for me. You spent all that time alone, just thinking of me. Oh, Louis, you've been mine this whole time, haven't you? Find breath enough to tell me it's true, my heart, don't lose your words now...
[ In other words, keep talking. ]