#funer4lmoon

They are on the couch, there are a fair few people around them in the green room but no one is paying any particular attention, it is so like him to play nice, like any man out there let's have a chat, let's get to know each other and once she's there he sits a little closer, he speaks a little lower as to make her lean into him more. His arm draped on the backrest,fingers lazily played with long blond hair idly, he dares to run his fingertips up and down Scout's shoulder and yet his arm does not drape around her, it stays on the backrest reaching only for what is close to it.

"Hm..maybe you should. My poor Ann-Marit" He has purposely chosen to call her his for is that not what she wanted? To belong? And Ann-Marit in such a French accent as to take her name and make it his too, everyone called her Scout, he would call her Ann-Marit. "There is nothing wrong with having a little cuddle, is there?" Lestat asked and so smoothly slid that arm around her and patted the pectoral closest to her as to invite her to rest her head on it. There is a slowness to it, to the way he caressed her hair and kissed the top of her head as to invite her to stay but not pushing further.

he had began to doze off in the hammock hanging in a small tree by the trailer, a dream beginning to form. blood. so much of it. and someone's cold hands. teeth, sharp and gnarling. and then, just as suddenly as the sleep had hit it, he awoke. his arms and legs kicking about the hammock to stabilize himself. to stabilize the reality against his dream. and whats when he saw her. a girl, standing not far from his hammock. " what are you doing here? ", it's a simple question but his voice cracks when he asks. damn these dreams. they were only getting more vivid. regular peter would have hear her coming from miles, even asleep. would have smelled her. but no, he had done neither. these dreams were messing with his senses.

[ JOY ]  our muses have just made up after a fight when it begins to rain,  sender picks up receiver and spins them around.  

viktor didn’t flinch when her mouth found the side of his neck — he never did. but his breath did hitch, just once, sharp and near-silent. he sat perfectly still, letting it happen, letting her mark him like that — teeth dragging just enough to raise heat beneath the skin, lips pressed in a slow, bruising pull that left something behind. something visible. his eyes stayed half-lidded, jaw tight, the muscle there twitching once when she lingered too long. it wasn’t about affection. not for him. it was ownership. permission. a single, quiet allowance carved into pale skin just below the line of his collar. and when she pulled back, viktor didn’t speak. he simply straightened his jacket, eyes flicking to hers with that same unreadable calm, and said nothing. because the proof was already there — loud, red, and blooming.