Tag Archives: damn you and your perfect headcanon perfection

Bon Anniversaire.

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viaticumforthemarquise:

To my son, Lestat, on this, the anniversary of his birth:

You came, unexpected, in the early stages of winter. I was in labour with you for well over ten hours, my body aching for release, exhausted and cold, shivering in sweat and tears and blood. 

The nurse cleaned you off by the fire, joking that you were more mouth than face, your cries driving out the priest and my maid both. She tutted as she swaddled you, wrestling the squirming limbs into the cloth, shaking her head and gently relating to you that it was indeed snowing outside, and that you would be glad of the warmth and tightness soon. 

She arched an eyebrow as I reached for you—she had nursed all of your brothers, what was so special about you?—but acquiesced after a moment and placed you in my arms, aiding me to secure you to my breast. I had never done it before, you see, and while it seemed natural in theory it was strange at first in practice. 

But the moment you latched on, your eyes drifting closed, something happened to me. 

Something changed. I wish… I wish I had words for it. It feels awkward and fumbling to try to describe what it was, that moment, but the alien feeling suddenly fell away. Reality shifted and the world blurred before righting itself. 

One moment, I was a woman. In pain, desperation, frustration and anger. 

The next, I was a mother. And you were there, a warm bundle in my arms.

Could I know that nothing would be the same again?

Tanti auguri, mio figlio. Ti amo. 

^Accurate: Lestat being more mouth than face, and driving priests away since his birth.

What was the tenderest moment between you and Daniel?

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armandromanus-deactivated201601:

We’ve had plenty, to be honest. I don’t think I would be able to pick just one so I’m just going to ramble a little. 

I liked it when Daniel was still a mortal trying to share his hours between sleep and being with me, when I could see that he was tired but that he was doing his best to be a good company for me. I had told him that his nights were mine and so they were. He fell asleep on my shoulder countless times, nuzzling into my neck and whispering my name in his sleep, I found it to be utterly adorable and I still think about it when I need to cheer up or when I don’t have him by my side.

I liked it when he came back to me after months apart, full of passion and need, we would make passionate love for hours. I loved the way I worn him out and caused him to black out – of course I would wake him up shortly after, the nights were mine and he could sleep by day.

Taking him to the couch, holding his hand, placing tender kisses to his soft skin just because I could. No words, no deep, hidden intentions, just my affection towards him, just the need to have him beside me and to show him that I cared and that I loved him. 

I like it when he puts his books down to talk to me, or when we go on walks and talk about the world and forget about the time – what leads us to being close to being caught by the sunset, but we always make it home safely.

Our first kiss after he left Marius’ care and came back to me, the first hug, when I touched his hair and felt his scent. The times when we can communicate through nothing but our eyes, since we can’t use the mind gift on one another. The way he understands me.

I might be getting a little emotional here so I’m going to end the prose, it’s enough.

In your relationship with Louis, who loves the most?

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gorgeous-fiend-blog:

I think that is an unfair question.

It’s impossible to tell because we love so differently.

The way I show my affection is through a  showering of lavish gifts, which Louis often condemns as being superfluous and shallow. Whereas Louis expresses love in much more subtle ways, through other intimacies. A flash of a genuine smile, the gentle squeeze of a hand. It sounds as though I fully understand this and have worked around the way our “love languages” clash, but that is far from it. I am saying all of this now from a very analytical standpoint, but there are instances where these differences can be very disheartening to the both of us.

With that being said, however, there is no way to calculate  which one of us loves more. I suppose I am much more prone to grand romantic gestures, but there is no equation that could be employed to figure  the true sum of our affections. I do not believe our bond can be quantified.

What was your real reason for taking me? Due to my so-called beauty? Because you were lonely? Because you thought you could use me? I loathe you.

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gorgeous-fiend-blog:

For the next five questions my muse can not tell a lie.

What if it was all three put together, hm?  -long, heavy sigh-

Fine.

I took you because the very first time I caught sight of you my heart stopped, I swear it did. The emerald of your eyes held me enthralled, the depth of your despair penetrated something vital and the damage was irreversible. You may not know this, but I followed you for nights before I finally approached  you and in that time I could look upon no other.  I  became obsessed with the idea of having you, of possessing you. Still, I could not yet tell what precisely I wanted from you. Would I suck your soul down into that sweet oblivion, or would I pluck you from mortality to be forever by my side?

Even as my fangs sunk into the delectable  yielding flesh of your mortal throat,  I still did not know.  Sure, I had made up my mind to make you mine, but could I follow through with it? You were so succulent, your mind so tantalizing that  I  briefly fantasized about killing you, but the thought of it was unbearable. I needed to have you. Alive. Immortal. My lover.

So you ask why? It could not possibly be that I was irretrievably in love with you.

Considering the fact that you have been around for a couple hundred years, do you still consider yourself to be a mother to the children who did not follow you into immortality? Do you still consider yourself a mother to Lestat even though he is immortal with you? Keeping in mind the role that a mother has with her children – I’m sure your relationship is entirely different now.

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viaticumforthemarquise:

Now, listen closely, because I’m only going to say this once:

One does not stop being a mother. 

Ever.

Your children may die, they may vanish, they may move on to lives where they never need nor see you again—but you never stop being their mother.

You may wish with all your heart to revoke the rights and so-called privileges of motherhood. You may wish them dead or wish them to love you more than they are capable of doing. 

You may wish to love them less, to wrap your heart up safely from them, from not only their cruelties and their kindnesses but from the sweet, milky memories of them that cannot be lost no matter how you might try or no matter how often you turn their tattered photos over and over in your mind. 

Do you comprehend what I am saying to you? No matter who I become, no matter what lands I traverse or who I might meet or how rarely I speak with my goddamn son—I will always be the mother that bore those children. That identity will always remain within me, even if sometimes it is the smallest part of who I am. 

And in regards to Lestat: 

The love I bear for him need not be repeated here, as I have addressed it. 

The pain we cause each other need not be repeated here, as I have addressed it. 

The total devotion I have for him need not be repeated here, as those who might read have no right to do so. 

And the intricacies of our bond are ours. And they contain within them every label we’ve ever held between us, every touch we’ve ever shared, and every memory we’ve crafted—from the moment he began to move within my womb to the last night I visited with him in New Orleans this past summer.

He is my son.

I am his mother. 

And within those titles live worlds of who we are to each other. 

What sort of relationship did you have with your father? Did he love you?

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gorgeous-fiend-blog:

My father and I…clashed from a very early age. He was always tougher on me than the rest of my brothers, always  expected more yet  was never satisfied.  I can’t fathom  what I could have done to upset him so. My only crime seemed to be that I existed.

I don’t know if he loved me. I think not. He apologized in his dying moments for snatching me  out  of the monastery and burning my books, begging my forgiveness, but I think perhaps he was more concerned with his immortal soul than my peace of mind.

Did you know the full extent of Lestat’s abuse at the hands of your husband?

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viaticumforthemarquise:

Did I know?

That is the question, isn’t it?

Without addressing precisely which abuse you are curious about, I will simply make an assumption. 

For a long time—no, I did not know. 

For years I had no idea what was happening. 

Once I knew…well. So much was clear, wasn’t it? The panic attacks, the anxiety, the irrational fears and night terrors. But there was little I could do to stop what was happening. Lestat’s age compounded with my total lack of power in that house made sure of that. 

What do you want from me?

Tears?

Apologies?

I can offer neither. The past has past. The Marquis is dead. The damage is done. 

Leave my son’s childhood, what tattered pieces remain of it, to those who can keep it. 

What was the most romantic thing you ever said to Louis?

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gorgeous-fiend-blog:

“I’m getting into the coffin and you will lie down on top of me if you know  what’s good for you.” Now, I’m quoting directly from Louis’ insipid novel in which he provides the barest skeleton of how this scene actually played out. It was really quite romantic on my part, while he on the other hand  was being a prissy baby.

What are your favorite things about Louis? What do you dislike about him?

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gorgeous-fiend-blog:

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.