“She would have been gorgeous if someone had thrown her into a waterfalland held her there for half an hour and I told her so silently.” -The Vampire Lestat
//Thank you so much, darling! I worry that I make my characters a bit too kind, so I’m trying to find little cruelties here and there, plus the madness… But he WAS kind, before he was tortured in Les Innocents, and surely some of that still lives within him somewhere, right? Alongside the cruelty and madness and music?
^D’accord. The kindness is part of what we love about him. He was always a little mad. The cruelties and madness increased later, especially when he was introduced to a whole new level of misery by the Children of Darkness, and then he found a way to revel in it. I love him for his strength in using his musical talent to rise again and triumph where a weaker person might have just remained paralyzed by the trauma he suffered.
#BUMP #FYI this Nicolas de Lenfent ( a-misunderstanding-my-love ) kicks butt and you should send him asks and such.
At first I’m just like “it’s fucking clapping, I don’t ca-” and then he began to sing and I took in such a deep breath my uncle had to make sure I was ok.
GOOD BYE FRIENDS I AM GONE
If you don’t reblog an acoustic version of My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark (Light ‘Em Up), something is wrong with you.
THIS IS SACRED
I don’t usually reblog music but this is definitely worth it 100%
Leave "Nightmare" in my askbox
dont-send-memes-here:
And I’ll generator a nightmare my character has with yours in it. Numbers range between 1- 16.
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4. Your character is trapped somewhere and mine can’t save them, try as they may.
Nicolas knew only that he was running.
Around him were the streets of Paris, but it was not Paris, it was the Auvergne as well—twisted little roads and back alleyways: sometimes the walls of the buildings were tall, sometimes they were the smaller buildings of the village where he had grown up. He run through puddles and mud, alternating between straw-strewn hard-packed earth and the cobblestones of their adopted city.
He stopped. Before him was the castle of the Marquis—or was it the Palais du Louvre?—the aging stones offering no solace to the anxiety that pumped through his body, the fear that shook his fingertips.
He yelled something unintelligible that was carried away in the wind. His hands closed into fists, beating at the ancient wooden doors that barred his way.
Then the screaming began.
He could hear the cries and knew immediately (in the way one always does in dreams) that they were Lestat’s. The panic rose in his chest as he beat the door harder, kicking against it with his boots and crying out to be allowed entrance. The screams grew in volume, sometimes tapering out into a groan, sometimes cutting out completely, as though they’d been shut up with the crack of a fist meeting a jaw.
He was crying now—the door would not budge, and no one was heeding his cries to open it, open it please! He leaned his cheek against the wood, sobbing, his fists beating ineffectually against that barrier. If he could only get in, if he could get past those terrible creatures that were the de Lioncourt sons, if he could burst into that dungeon room, that oubliette of sorrow where he knew they took him to beat him—then he might be able to help him, to cover Lestat’s body with his own, to take the whippings and beatings for him.
But he could not he could not he could not and he would never be able to save Lestat from the biggest monster, that terrible, dark, hulking force that lived within those walls and took him at will that tortured him and petted him and warped his mind until all Lestat had was a fractured memory and a broken soul.
When Nicolas awoke in his bed in San Francisco, he was weeping, the blood tears streaming down his face.
