It makes everything in him jolt. Kissing Louis, electric and revelatory but familiar, which cases an ache like a wound, knowing it happened and it wasn't a dream, it was pulled away from them.
What else? Can't think of it now, it's too fucking much. He has Louis, feels him, smells him, everything is just Louis, the itch in the scar on his neck, the beat of dead hearts. A thought starts to surface, if Armand will know, if Armand will make him answer for this, how bad the fight will be— but he sends it away. Fuck off, all of that.
"This is probably better. I'm not half-hoping you aren't serious so I don't embarrass myself further."
Poetry. But what do you want, his dick literally did not work, then.
"You sat on my lap. I didn't care about it," (because it was uncomfortable, because Daniel was in constant pain, but Louis sapped it out of him), "I wanted you too much."
no subject
What else? Can't think of it now, it's too fucking much. He has Louis, feels him, smells him, everything is just Louis, the itch in the scar on his neck, the beat of dead hearts. A thought starts to surface, if Armand will know, if Armand will make him answer for this, how bad the fight will be— but he sends it away. Fuck off, all of that.
"This is probably better. I'm not half-hoping you aren't serious so I don't embarrass myself further."
Poetry. But what do you want, his dick literally did not work, then.
"You sat on my lap. I didn't care about it," (because it was uncomfortable, because Daniel was in constant pain, but Louis sapped it out of him), "I wanted you too much."