How can we be lovers, if we can’t be friends? How can we start over when the fighting never ends? Baby, how can we make love, if we can’t make amends? How can we be lovers, if we can’t be, can’t be friends?
She’d been looking out the window for hours, book balanced upon her belly, when the first pains came. By now, she knew not to panic, that there would be time before anything of consequence might happen. She did not bother to call the girl to her rooms to help her, but set the book down beside her and placed her hands upon her swollen belly, closing her eyes against the cutting tremors.
It was cold for November, far colder than it should have been. The ice in the bowl in her room had to be broken each morning so she might rinse her face, the frosty water underneath turning her fingertips blue with cold.
The contractions increased faster than she’d been prepared for—this child was a month before its time, eager to arrive in the world, and she knew already that it had little patience. When the midwife found her way into the bedroom (called for by the girl who’d heard her groans), she was already in a deep squat near the fire. The older woman made quick work of her clothing, removing much of it so that she stood before the flames, her swollen breasts resting upon her naked belly, her hands down between her legs and touching the crown of the child’s head.
Her heart pounded as he slid from her body: another boy, another disappointment. But he was so small; that was all she noticed as the girl took him to clean him off, the water now warmed over the fire, his body pink underneath the smears of blood and white.
It was only then, after the placenta had also exited her, that she noticed once more the chill in the air, the gooseflesh upon her skin. The old woman wrapped her in a dressing gown after gently wiping off her thighs, her purple and bruised flesh, leading her to bed and pulling blankets and furs up around her.
“Wait.”
One word she uttered as the girl started to take the infant out of the room, his mouth wide with cries. The girl muttered something about the wet nurse, but she shook her head, her arms stretching out for him.
As that wide mouth latched upon her nipple, she sighed. He was different in her arms than the others had been. And, though he was tiny and wrinkled as any other newborn, she knew with one look that he would favour her—unlike so many of the others.
Her eyes wandered to the window, her fingers trembling as she held him.
Lucille 2: Buster, this is exactly why our relationship does not work. Buster: Our relationship doesn’t work? Lucille 2: No, not as long as you keep getting me all mixed up with your mother. Buster: It is exactly the opposite. I’m leaving my mother for you. You’re replacing my mother. Lucille 2: Well, that’s healthy.
Printed in Playboy magazine, January 1979, By Anne Rice
The book “Interview with the Vampire” as published form represents only a portion of the tapes of that interview made by the reporter. Louis told the young man much that was not included,particularly with regard to the master vampire, Armand, whom he had met in Paris. One tale was Armand’s account of his methods of seduction; that is, the art of the vampire at its peak in the year 1876.
(Someone kill me, this is one of the sexiest things I’ve ever read, and I just keep thinking of Louis retelling this to Daniel and GODDAMN).
Nicolas could not contain what was occurring within him, and often his deterioration became destructive and difficult to conceal from mortals. Despite the fact that I did not directly claim leadership in an official capacity, I had a position to maintain and I had already protected him on numerous occasions, whether he realised such or not, as had Eleni. I had to prove that the threats that I made were not just threats if someone stepped out of line, or be seen as ineffective and suffer further challenges. I could not exclude Nicolas from that.
On the occasion where I took his hands, it was take his hands or take his life; based on the transgressions involved, it could have seriously compromised our position in Paris had it not been corrected swiftly. He was so far gone that others began to talk of precisely that, and I could not allow it. Taking his hands limited him in a way that imprisonment could not possibly have achieved; he had escaped imprisonment before when it was imposed upon him. Imprisonment meant nothing to him because the true oubliette existed in his mind, and that was inescapable. It gave me control over him enough that he could not possibly leave and potentially worsen the situation. It also proved that I was willing to back up my threats and that I would not respond with inaction if I was questioned.
The choice that I made meant that he lived. It does not necessarily follow that it was a choice I made gladly, regardless.
left his bf in the rain after said bf switched bodies with a mortal through mysterious spirit magic only to realize that the mortal wasnt going to give his body back so he was stuck in that human body and wrote an entire page about the sensation of urinating
will insult ur taste in books
is literally so beautiful the author has to describe his gorgeous face for two pages before getting on with the story which wastes paper and kills the trees
ur fav is problematic: lestat de lioncourt
co-owned slaves (by proxy)
ate the overseer slave first, to prove a point
trapped a kid in a kid body forever
drove his bf and kid crazy enough (by gaslighting and withholding info) that they set him on fire
drove a lot of his bfs crazy enough to wish him harm
eats ppl
raped a woman when briefly mortal but shhhh we don’t talk about that
didn’t tell his bf that he was suicidal and tried to kill himself w/out any notice to said bf
will insult u for reading books
is literally so beautiful he has to remind you in every book in the series about his gray/blue/violet eyes
I-want-my-IWTV 