a-misunderstanding-my-love:

-shrugs- What do I care? Nothing about those days merits keeping private. 

With Lestat: Honestly, the first time we made love was, for lack of a better descriptor, one of the “sexiest’ things we ever did. His hesitance combined with the absolute, soul-crushing sincerity of young love was almost painfully beautiful. There were other times, of course, when the undeniable synchronicity of our love-making brought tears to the eyes, but that time stands out above and beyond so many others. 

For Lestat: This is more…difficult. To be quite honest, despite his duplicity and his inability to remain monogamous, Lestat treats his lovers with an undeniable amount of sweetness and care. In almost all instances, he comes out far above me where our mortal relationship is concerned. There was a time, once, in Paris, in our little flat, where he had one of his…mental collapses. After much coaxing, coddling, and sweet soft kisses, he did allow me to make love to him—slowly, carefully, as one might treat a frightened and wounded animal. It sounds frightening, but there was a beauty to his sadness, his sweet naivité on that night. But does that qualify as ‘sexy’?

I hate to disappoint you, but aside from some very mundane spanking, there was very little about our sexual lives that contained what mortals now refer to as ‘kink.’ We were quite vanilla, I’m afraid. 

;A;