For an evening that began so inauspiciously, Lestat could not imagine a better conclusion. His face lights with profuse and genuine pleasure, that glow that has endeared him to so many, and to most of their detriment - but not Louis. Not in this moment, when Lestat is once again his refuge from his troubles, a wanton distraction audacious enough to tempt him from his path of dour sobriety.
He brings a hand up to cup Louis' face as he kisses him once more, firmly, for luck and for gratitude and for the sake of kissing him. The tug of friction between them is no more than a tease, and one that happens nearly by accident, a byproduct of his exuberance.
There's no true innocence in Lestat. He doubts that there ever was. Perhaps there was the rough and lovely ignorance of an untested sinner, some soul not yet damned, only doomed to become so. When he breaks away from Louis, perhaps this is what makes his eyes bright and untroubled as the colour of a sky he no longer remembers when he wakes.
He seems on the cusp of saying something, then flattens his lips over it as though containing a secret. With a shake of his mane, he all but floats to the desk to retrieve his gun, all the troubles of terror and morbid conversation apparently forgotten. As easy as he is to plunge into dark moods, he is nearly as easy to pry from them. A difference from Louis, and one of the rare ones he believes ought to count as a virtue.
"After you, mon cher," he says, with a brief and ostentatiously gracious half-bow, and he pays no mind to the watchful eyes of God. If there's anything left that Lestat can do that can give him fresh offence, it certainly will have nothing to do with what he hopes for the night.
nsfw cont
He brings a hand up to cup Louis' face as he kisses him once more, firmly, for luck and for gratitude and for the sake of kissing him. The tug of friction between them is no more than a tease, and one that happens nearly by accident, a byproduct of his exuberance.
There's no true innocence in Lestat. He doubts that there ever was. Perhaps there was the rough and lovely ignorance of an untested sinner, some soul not yet damned, only doomed to become so. When he breaks away from Louis, perhaps this is what makes his eyes bright and untroubled as the colour of a sky he no longer remembers when he wakes.
He seems on the cusp of saying something, then flattens his lips over it as though containing a secret. With a shake of his mane, he all but floats to the desk to retrieve his gun, all the troubles of terror and morbid conversation apparently forgotten. As easy as he is to plunge into dark moods, he is nearly as easy to pry from them. A difference from Louis, and one of the rare ones he believes ought to count as a virtue.
"After you, mon cher," he says, with a brief and ostentatiously gracious half-bow, and he pays no mind to the watchful eyes of God. If there's anything left that Lestat can do that can give him fresh offence, it certainly will have nothing to do with what he hopes for the night.