ugh
guys
Why is this so adorable
Gay lions, guys
It’s a gay pride.
Reblogging for adorable, also that awful, horrible pun.
Fun, but also true fact for the day. Lions are one of the mammals aside from humans that have a high tendency to find a partner of the same gender. Apparently, Gay Lions are not something that is rare.
Gay pride, omfg.
Lion ladies rule, they do the work and sometimes grow manes. Man lions play with their young. Lions don’t give a crap about your sexuality or gender guidelines.
Tag Archives: beautiful
A Study in Emerald [for batsinthedark]
Summary: A fragmented study of Louis in seven memories, as observed by one Lestat de Lioncourt.
Pairing: Lestat/Louis.
Author: damnitarmand
For batsinthedark
dress for the au you want, not the canon you’re in
When is your birthday? Do you do anything special for it? What is the greatest gift you’ve ever received (can be a non-birthday present)?
My birthday is November 28th. Very rarely have I had cause to celebrate this day, and most of the time it passes without my knowledge—though there are times when I find myself in a place in the world where Lestat’s text messages do reach me on this day, and then I am reminded.
There was one year where I happened (purely by accident on my part, though as much cannot be said for Lestat) to be visiting New Orleans on this date, and much to my chagrin, Lestat did insist on celebrating the anniversary of my birth. To be very honest, I remember little of the night itself, there being quite a few inebriated mortals involved.
The greatest gift I ever received?
The Dark Gift.
What are your favorite things about Louis? What do you dislike about him?
I dislike how dismissive he is. He is fully aware of the power of his words and how easily he can slice through me with either his voice or his silence and he uses it wantonly. He is cruel and, at times, utterly passionless.
At the same time, I love his sharpened jaw and how it clenches when he’s angry or biting back a laugh. I love the seductiveness in his smallest gestures— a lifted hand, a tilt of his head, legs crossing. His wit continues to leave me speechless even after so long knowing him; I never tire of hearing his voice, or his thoughts on things, though I might seem impatient or mocking. I love when he reads out loud to me. I love his spirit, morose as i can be— I’m afraid this is becoming rather sickly sweet, so I’ll end it here.
Lestat, what was it about Louis and Nicki that made you fall in love with them? You said they were similar but (and I’m paraphrasing you here) Louis was better. What was it about Louis that made him better than Nicki? How were they similar/different? Was Louis just a replacement?
There is no definitive answer to what you are asking. With Nicolas it had been this intense love that came about very quickly and rather out of the blue, now that I think about it. We were different, but the same, or so it felt at the time. I suppose I loved him for his spirit which was so like mine, crying out in rebellion.
With Louis…it was also very intense and rather out of the blue. You would not be wrong in saying I chose him largely because he reminded me of Nicolas, but he proved to be so much more than simply a shadow of a past love. Their looks and their penchant cynicism is where their similarities end. To say that he is better than Nicolas? Well. I’ve been “with” Louis (on and off, of course) for the better of his immortal life .There is nothing I do not know about him. I was with Nicki for…almost two years, if memory serves? And at the end of that he proved to me that he was not, in fact, the person I had come to love. Of course, that did not make the loss of him any easier. As you can plainly read in my autobiography, I went to ground because of his
supposeddeath.Hmm, so let me just say that Louis is different from Nicolas in that he managed to seduce me in ways I never could have imagined. At the same time, however, he has also brutalized me in ways Nicki could have never hoped to. The thing is, Anon, I do not sit around comparing these two in my head. Perhaps in the beginning I did, but really at the very bottom of everything it is like trying to compare apples to oranges.
nightmare
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. Read More4. 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.
Still broken, two hundred years later.
Neither of them would ever be saved.
“… two wet shriveled things that had been alive, mother and daughter in one another’s arms, the murdered pair on the kitchen floor. But these two lying under the gentle rain were Madeleine and Claudia, … the hand that clutched at the child was whole like a mummy’s hand. But the child, the ancient one, my Claudia, was ashes.”
– Louis de Pointe du Lac, Interview with the Vampire
I remember when I first saw the movie this scene destroyed me. It blew me away to be honest, first, out of sympathy for the character’s loss and also for just how perfectly this one moment, Louis’ expression of grief and compassion for these two people he’s just lost, encapsulated his character.
^This commentary is BEAUTIFUL go read it. ;A; It’s probably the ideas there that drew Brad Pitt to the role, and unfortunately, alot of Louis’s internal turmoil didn’t make it into the movie.
“[Louis] doesn’t hide away or back down, but transforms that grief into a single minded, eerily calm wrath that razes the theatre and its inhabitants to the ground. (That look he gives Santiago after this moment… He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t need to, you just know immediately, “shit’s about to go down.” and it’s all the more chilling because it’s a startling shift from Louis’ introspective empathy to something much more raw and brutal.)
I’ve never understood how anyone can dismiss him as the whiner, simply because of Lestat’s comment at the end of the movie. I took that line the way friends will dig at each other, slinging transparent insults without really meaning it.”
This is a serious question: when did you realize that you had romantic feelings for your mother (and don’t say when she was turned because we all know that’s not true)?
First of all, do not tell me what is true and not true.
I feel as though I have answered this question a dozen times as if you all expect my answer to change somehow.
Romantic feelings? That sounds very trite. I do not think she would ever appreciate the…bond, shall we say, that we have with one another to be described as such. It is much more profound than that, always has been.So when can I say it first started? Well, at my birth, I suppose.
To see this question continuously asked is infuriating.
Both Lestat and I have, as he said, answered it time and time again.
“Romantic” is a terribly pedantic way of describing how I feel towards my son. Romance is a box in which you can easily place us and point fingers, isn’t it? How easy for you, how slow and simple your lives must be. How utterly boring.
I have described my life in the Auvergne to those who have cared to listen. I have described how it changed when Lestat was born. I have explained how it was to be trapped, to be beaten, to be raped and treated like a mare whose very spirit must be broken at all costs. To have one small life come into that hell hole, one person who I knew immediately was a part of me in every way, who was not the strangely-wrought men I’d birthed before—this was a revolution and a revelation for which words fail to describe.
Lestat was not only my child, not merely the only colour and breath that existed in that godforsaken corner of the earth. Lestat was and is a part of myself.
This has been made abundantly clear on several instances. To continue to ask is to attempt to assign some paltry and sordid meaning to our relationship that it does not have.
Los movimientos humanos poseen elegancia. Hay sabiduría en la carne, en el modo en que hace las cosas el cuerpo humano. Me gusta el ruido de mis pies al tocar el suelo, el tacto de los objetos entre mis dedos.
Marius (via jardinsalvaje)
“Human movements possess elegance. There is wisdom in the flesh, in the way he does things the human body. I like the sound of my feet to touch the ground, touch the objects in my fingers.”
I-want-my-IWTV 