merciful-death:

i-want-my-iwtv:

merciful-death:

i-want-my-iwtv:

♛ (immediately stops singing, unties Louis’ hair gently) Oh darling, sweetness… of course the Vampire Lestat takes requests! What would you prefer to be serenaded into bed with? Hmmm? Anything!

He allowed his hair to be released from its tie, brow raising.  Did Lestat intend to indulge him tonight?  Certainly, he knew of the secret pleasure he took in having his hair “played” with, or scalp massaged.  ”Oh, I can think of a few serenades that involve a great deal of sound, but few words but my name and “please.”  Unless you have other plans, of course…”

♛Lestat concealed the thrill that ran through his heart at these words, instead letting slip only a tiny smile. “That’s good to hear, chaton… I believe I can accommodate this request,” Oh yes, Louis would have to work to get that song out of him, but it was already echoing in his ears, layers of that music that only they could make together, from the desperate little cries to the low, demanding curses in the old French they both knew so well.

As these thoughts swirled slowly, like wine in a sommelier’s glass, Lestat dropped his gaze from Louis’ eyes, and circled behind him, fingers lightly dancing their way up his body to the mussed silk of dark hair. Just barely combing this with his fingernails. An almost imperceptible, and soothing, grazing sound. Whispered into Louis’ fine ear: “You have me all night, your own private concert starring the Vampire Lestat.” 

His lips quirked upwards at that, turning so as to watch Lestat circle him, his long strands of hair flowing freely over his shoulders.  ”Is that so?”  Ah, he did so enjoy seeing Lestat in such a way, spread out on their bed, golden hair curling over their satin pillows as he practically begged, sweat pouring off of him, his body heated with arousal.  The knowledge that he alone could bring Lestat de Lioncourt to such a state, and that it was he that Lestat would always return to—he reveled in that.

But equally so, Louis did enjoy finding himself in such a position as well, a test of his self control.  Lestat’s breath upon his ear near made him shiver.  He shifted, craning his neck so as to press his own lips against Lestat’s ear.  ”Private concert?  Do you intend to reduce me to one your screaming fans?  It will take quite a good show for that, you know.  I am very capable of remaining subdued throughout…performances, unless they prove themselves adequately satisfying.”

♛ “Is that a challenge, my love?” Lestat cocked his head, with more than a little menace, purposely trying to catch the moonlight in his eye. Louis’ skin glowed in the dim blue light, a clavicle and shoulder rather fetchingly exposed from the torn sweater. This was the pretense for sneaking into the roped-off room, away from the party: to find a replacement garment for the one ruined in flight.

As usual, even given sufficient notice, Lestat managed to delay their departure enough that the only means of arriving at the party at a decent time would be in his own arms. The game was played, the argument had, and Lestat triumphed in the end. Taking to the air, Lestat had only thought to further wrap Louis in a heavy coat, but the inner sweater had still suffered wind damage. Within minutes of leaving the ground, as usual, Louis had molded himself to Lestat, and drifted into a sleep similar to the deathsleep. How it touched Lestat to his core to have this trusting creature grasping him tightly, needing him. Sleep might have been a defense mechanism against the cold, as it happened without fail, so Louis might never know the tears Lestat shed in the sky as he clung right back, breezing through the flocks of clouds.

The chill from their flight still iced Louis’ skin, and Lestat wasted no more time in tearing the sweater apart calculatingly, fisting his hands in the fragile material and making a soft humming sound at the little scream of the fabric as he pulled it away – because it was hideous and Louis should be wearing silk! – turning and unwrapping the glowing sculpture of his own creation. Taking one of Louis’ hands in mock inspection, “You’re made of ice, Louis. We’d better warm you up before you freeze solid. That is something musicians do before a performance, you know, warm up.” He grinned, licked his lips, and brought Louis’ wrist between them, drawing his tonge along the pulse and planting several kisses there.