Send me a number and I’ll write you a drabble about my muse’s past.
3. (childhood) A harsh lesson is learned.The slap came suddenly, without warning, flat across his cheeks. He felt the blood rush to his face before the stinging pain, which shot through his skin, heightened by the humiliation which accompanied it.
“Never again, do you hear?”
Though many years down the line this action would become as regular as saying “Good morning,” this time it was fresh; shocking and frightening.
The tears came too fast, adding to his embarrassment, as the hiccuped assent slipped past his lips.
It had been innocent enough: he’d been playing in a dirt in the patches of grass outside the chateau, pushing rocks about with sticks, when another boy had come up over the hill and approached him.
They began to play together without much preamble, as children were wont to do, the other boy taking up a stick as well and the two of them creating a game out of the sticks and rocks. The boy was nice: shaggy, light brown hair, freckles, not well dressed but then, neither was Lestat. They laughed as they played, arguing amicably as they sat, side by side, in the dirt.
It was Lestat who grasped the other boy’s hand, and the boy held his back as they continued to babble back and forth, toes dusty in the dirt, shoulders pressed close, each child enjoying the other’s company.
But it was the other boy who turned his head and pressed his lips to Lestat’s, pulling back almost as suddenly as he’d done it.
Lestat had paused, as bemused as a child might be capable of, before kissing the other boy back.
The boy smiled as Lestat pulled away. “It’s what the grown-ups do, you know. When they want to make babies.”
Lestat laughed sweetly. “Do you want to make babies?”
“My sister says it feels good, to kiss boys. To make babies.”
Lestat had nodded, sagely. It did feel good, the kissing. “Then we should do it again, don’t you think?”
And they did.
But too soon, Lestat heard a cry from behind him, and was swept up into the arms of his nurse. He was far too big to be held, of course, but she was in a fury, dragging him up towards the chateau as she cursed and chastised, quickly swatting at the other boy until he ran away.
Inside, presented to his father, the slap was administered. He was called a disappointment. He was sent to his room without supper.
It was then he understood: kisses may feel good, but that didn’t make them right.
Tag Archives: damn you and your perfect headcanon perfection
What is something(s) Daniel does/says that always makes you smile? (fluff-baiting the muse)
I am simply tempted to say ‘Damn it, Armand’ here, but that would be too easy, even if it is at least partially truthful.
I enjoy watching him wake. He does not always do this, but if he knows that I was there with him when the death sleep took him, sometimes the first thing that he does upon regaining consciousness is reach for me, or open his eyes to make certain that I am still there or somewhere nearby.
When his voice drops an octave with distraction or desire. Or both. Both at once. That incites a smile of a rather different kind, granted.
If he is learning to get to grips with a new piece of technology or a computer game, the cursing under his breath can be rather charming, if not outright amusing.
One thing, however, that will always work without fail, and always has made me smile: his arms sliding around my waist, his lips at the nape of my neck, and a moment of peace between us under the night sky. Standing in the dark waters near to the edge of Night Island, twined like this with him, nothing has the power to take that moment from us.
i love the idea of lestat being a huge fan of selfie culture and also sending gabrielle awful snapchats all the time with louis unwillingly participating in them
#HEADCANON ACCEPTED
+ If you could be mortal again for 24 hours what would you spend the time doing?
Mortal again? I can barely fathom what such an experience might be like. The answer does come easily enough to me despite that.
First, I would go to Rome and mingle with other mortals that gather around the Colosseum. How enjoyable it would be to join one of the guided tours, listening to a charming guide talk so animatedly about the history of the structure. And I would thrill to stand within it, feeling the sunshine upon me from all sides – Prometheus’ blessing for just one more day! I might get my photograph taken with the men that dress up as Roman gladiators and soldiers. Wouldn’t that be funny? To be standing there in the shadow of Vespasian’s vision with men of this age, the Roman and the would-be Romans?
After that I would find a rooftop upon which a hastened studio might be put together. Then I’d paint and paint and paint by the light of the sun, in such a fervor, until the setting sun stole too much illumination for me to continue. I fear such an event might leave me obsessed for such a chance. Why, I might very well rest my body there upon the ground near those canvases until the sun had risen again, if just to take full advantage. I don’t think it’s avoidable. To see those colors by the light of day again, to memorize them anew rather than trust to distant memory, I couldn’t help myself.
I’d probably act as a glutton too. Feasting upon the treats of chocolate, coffee, the Italian foods that are as much as a visual feast as they are a physical one. And wine. Plenty of wine. Or perhaps I ought to avoid it. I suspect if I got my hands upon wine I’d get too intoxicated in the morning to get anything done and the opportunity would be wasted by a drunken Marius.
How do you feel about corsets? Also, how do you clean your coffin Lestat?
(An ex-Lestat RPer wrote this lovely headcanon re: “What was the most arousing moment you’ve ever experienced?” that I will share with you! Will answer the second question separately.)
Mortcharmant: “My— What an intrusive question, étranger gris. But I shall humour you none the less…”
“I would have to say it was the night I allowed a delightful mademoiselle to put her corset on me. How it tightened and constricted was glorious and suffocating. I looked like ‘pure sex’ according to her as she added more to my “ensemble”. By the end of it I was dressed up more like a tart than she and it was exhilarating. I let her live after that moment and frequented her regularly for those games of ours. It’s a pity she died three months later at the hands of a violent pick pocket.”
Zzz
Send me “Zzz” and I’ll write a drabble about a dream my muse has had about yours!I dreamt of you the other night. You were running from me, which is always infuriating in whatever form it takes, but this time you were faster than I was, so much faster, truly pushing your abilities to the limit in an effort to escape me.
I could not tell if it was a game or a dire need for escape—I knew only that I had to catch you, had to wrap my arms around you and devour you, drink you down until I knew you would never run again.
But it was you who found me. Grasping me from behind, your hands on my belly, your mouth already on my neck, your eyeteeth breaking the skin there and stealing what I will always freely give, if only to you.
You know I despise playing the victim. But for you? For you I would die every night, taken again and again, as long as it is those hands and that mouth upon me.
As long as you have stopped running.
What was it like making love with Daniel the first time after he was turned?
It was altogether new and yet incredibly familiar. I had lost the touch of his thoughts, the unspoken flow of love and desire, but had gained the way that the blood flowed between us and the communication that came with that. The confidence with which we could now touch each other was new, because there was no danger now that I might harm him through inattention, yet all of our knowledge of each other on an intimate level still remained. His new strength and heightened senses made the experience completely unique, allowing us to pull responses from one another that neither of us had displayed previously. It was a night for revelations.
The way that his fangs broke into my bare skin that first time was and remains one of the most intoxicating, heady sensations I have ever experienced. Take from that what you will.
Why did you cut off Nicolas’ hands, really?
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.
How did you react when you found out Armand had gone into the sun?
vagabonddaniel-recordedarchives:
How do you think? I broke apart. Whatever small pieces of my brain were clinging to sanity lost their grip in a flood of grief and loss so profound that it made the sound rush out of the world. The air was sucked from the atmosphere. Everything stopped and I was sure, so sure, it would never start again. And worse, part of me didn’t want it to.
When it did, I ran. Not from anything – there was nothing but ash to run from. And not to anything – there was nothing but ash to run toward. So I ran aimlessly across the globe as if I could escape the grief, but it was inside me, clawing at my bones, scraping at my soul. Tearing down whatever shreds of lucidity were left in me until I was a hollow, wandering thing, useless and doomed.
“The chapel in the de Lioncourt’s chateau in the Auvergne.” Where exactly in the chapel, if u don’t mind? Inquiring minds need to know. For science <3
As edited, the confessional.
Quite one of my crowning moments. It was my hope that Lestat would be forced to live in that memory every time he went to confession from then on out. Hardly would he be embarrassed, for sure, as he is Lestat, but I felt quite triumphant when he imparted to me later that all he could think of whilst praying to the Father were my cries as he came within me.
I-want-my-IWTV 