//BB, IMMA CRY! Just let me love you forever and always. Thank you so, so much. You will never drive me crazy, writing with you is always such an immense joy, whether it’s Nicki or Gabrielle, I always know it’s gonna be a good
incredibly painful most of the time, actuallytime :))
…to both y’all ♥u♥
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.
Send a symbol to ask my muse...No to both, though there was a time when Lestat tried to convince me to allow Jeannette (from Renaud’s) to join our lovemaking.
Watching him attempt to cover his black eye with make-up for next few days was mildly amusing.
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.
It took a lot of cajoling, but once I persuaded Augustin to sneak out with me in the night to steal leftover cakes from the bakery in the village. We were fairly successful. I say that because while we were able to stuff our pockets full of sweets, we did not anticipate the pair of territorial rottweilers who sneaked up on us.
God, the destruction we wrought to escape with our heads still attached. Bags of flour spilling everywhere, day-old pastries strewn across the floor, broken glass wear, pans used as shields. We managed to give the dogs the slip and we raced home before anyone could find us. It’s a good thing too. Could you imagine? The baker rushes to see his kitchen in shambles and finds not street urchins, but two little lords stealing from his cabinets.
I laughed the entire way home. Even Augustin, who at once looked at me like I was crazy and was to blame for all of it, couldn’t hide his amusement. It was a rare bonding time for us.
Oh, Mon Dieu. That child was a terror. He was mobile by approximately four months, a terrifying three months before any of his brothers had been, rolling and crawling as quickly as he could propel himself to do so.
By six months he was walking and was causing trouble as one could not believe, opening and falling into cupboards, climbing up into trunks (and vanishing until we could find his location via his tearful cries later), and finding his way into every mess and mud puddle and body of water he could locate.
Keeping him alive was a heroic effort in itself.
I’ve been meaning to post a lengthy headcanon about Lestat for awhile now. Specifically, one that involves how he is currently. It all began perhaps a year or so ago when a post came to my attention: an update on our favourite Vampires straight from the author’s mouth. She specifically pointed out that Lestat was alone and not with the others. This seemed out of place to me, since Lestat is quite the social being that craves companionship. So I began to wonder…
Why? Why is he alone? What could have possibly happened that he is now away from Louis, David, Marius, and all the others?
There was only one answer that I could see. Lestat finally must have done something that ended with the others not wanting to have a thing to do with him. Why else would he not be pursuing them in some way?
Since he was turned in Paris, and perhaps even before then, Lestat began digging this metaphorical hole down and away from all those who ever once cared about him. It was as if he was searching for some buried treasure, some prize and would do anything to get to it more expediently. Thus, he never thinks how his actions will affect others. Never. So all his mistakes, all his “adventures” have dug this hole deeper and deeper.However, there has always been a ladder that was lowered down into this hole, and his friends, companions, and would descend it to try and convince him to, to help him to climb out. First, it was his mother, then Nicolas, then even Armand, and then Marius. Next, it was Louis and then David, who would descend down into this metaphorical hole several times, more than others ever would. Both of them, leaving a lantern, reminded Lestat of what he could have at the surface. If he would just listen to them for once.
Then that something happened. What that something is, I’ve yet to figure out, but whatever Lestat did, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back, as they say. And then his way out of this hole was gone. The ladder was removed, the lantern snuffed out, leaving Lestat with only a fleeting reminder of what was and what could have been: the dim light from the entrance of the hole he had dug himself.
This broke him, no doubt sending him into some kind of mental break, and now he has to find his own way out; to find some way to begin making up for all the wrongs he has done.
And Lestat does this alone.
Dying in Paris was infinitely better than dying in the Auvergne.
And no, it does not. That vow was a vow not of my choosing, a coercion from my mother to a man I could not love, who chose to treat me like chattle and violently abuse my youngest son.
My greatest regret regarding him is that Lestat ever found the letters I’d hidden regarding him—to see my son return to his abuser to “rescue” him caused me more pain than I can describe.
A night at Renaud’s when I was not in the Orchestra but spent the performance backstage, on the pretense of helping Lestat with his costume changes.
He had one particularly lengthy one, which included a bit of a break from the stage itself (Pantelone had an abusive scene with one of the Zanni, granting the lovers a reprieve).
Folded into the velvet curtains, his costume hanging upon the wall, Lestat had begun to remove his trousers when I caught him by the hip and spun us deeper into the curtains, his back against the wall. One hand cupping his ass, I remember kissing him as I took him in hand, his groan vibrating through my lips as our tongues fought each other.
We made hurried love in those curtains, and, though it was not the first time (nor would it be the last), as we finished and Lestat’s moment to return to the stage approached, I laced up his breeches and left a kiss on his hipbone. He pulled me up quickly and kissed me feverishly, his heart thrumming as it often was just before he went on, and I remember my breath hitching as he looked at me and paused. He should have already been onstage, he should have left seconds earlier—he was already late. But he paused, he looked at me, and his kissed me, again, softly this time. “I love you, do you know that?”
I remember that I couldn’t speak—the emotion was stupidly too much for me, my heart too full to answer him. He grinned as he placed his hat upon his head, cocking it at a foppish angle. “I do, you know. God, how I love you.” And he kissed me again as he hurried out of the wings.
I would be lying if I said that I never missed him. But the Lestat I miss is that young man, clad in my red velvet coat, making love to me in the wings of that claptrap little theatre.
First, you must understand my motivations for writing. The motivation for my autobiography came largely from wanting to challenge, draw out, and enlighten those whom I have loved and despised. The motivation for all subsequent books came from a desire for self-reflection and to create a space in which I could view events in a linear, logical way. That people consume my stories with fervor and pleasure makes me dizzy with satisfaction. At the very center of it all, however, the books are not written for them. They are written for me.
You say some of the details are superfluous, and perhaps they are if I was aiming for literary perfection. But I was not. See, some of the smallest details have the greatest impact on me, and it feels wrong not to include them. How do I properly convey an entire person to you without detailing their life, especially if they have dictated it to me? The hope is that their story moves you the same way that it moved me upon first hearing it. Even though their history might not have any bearing on the overall story, it is incredibly important to me as it is to them. It’s their history after all.
Or perhaps I am simply bad at “saying more with fewer words,” but I like my words too much to reduce them to something less than what they are. It’s an injustice.
I-want-my-IWTV 