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.
Tag Archives: HEADCANON ACCEPTED
ლ .. if they’ve ever had, or would ever consider, a threesome?
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.
How has your skill as a musician translated into the bedroom? Fingering technique, perhaps? Do you like to set the mood with any particular music?
Rest assured, my fingering technique is quite impressive.
I have made love once or twice whilst playing, though that requires a great deal of concentration. And precision. On both ends.
Humanity
Put a word in my ask and I will write a Headcanon about it for my Muse.ooc; He’s sure he possesses none of it.
Others have written that it was the reasoning of humanity that he didn’t drink Lestat’s powerful blood, but that was never the true reason. Louis believed the nail had been put in the coffin of his humanity upon his cold and calculated destruction of the vampires in the theatre post-Claudia’s demise, if not earlier with Madeleine’s making, or earlier even than that.
He didn’t want Lestat’s blood because he thought it was driving Lestat off the edge and he wanted no part of that.
There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk about for a while, but for some reason I always push it aside.
But basically, you know the whipping scene in the vampire Armand? Marius acts all disgusted at what happens (you know, the thing) but really he was turned at forty, I’m sure he understands how the human body works….so what the fuck did he expect to happen?
Did he fucking expect It to be like “pull this for free sweets!” Fucking no.// I think it had more to do with what came after it.
Young men and boys experience sexual pleasure and even feel orgasm before they can actually ejaculate. It’s what Armand referred to when he spoke of “wet pleasure.” As in that he was too young for wet pleasure. I think that refers to ejaculation.
When Armand had his orgasm after the whipping scene, he ejaculated. That was perhaps the first time it had happened with Marius. Marius realized when he looked at it that Armand was becoming a man, and soon he – Marius – would have to make a hard decision.
At least, that was how I interpreted the scene.
What is your favourite childhood memory?
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.
How long did it take for Lestat to start walking as a child?
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.
Give you unsolicited advce: You should’ve stayed with your husband. You took a vow to never leave him, doesn’t that mean anything to you?
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.
Send ✿ for a happy memory.
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.
TRUTH SERUM: What is the sexiest thing you ever did with/for Lestat? Were either of you into anything kinky when you were mortal? TELL US.
-shrugs- What do I care? Nothing about those days merits keeping private.
With Lestat: Honestly, the first time we made love was, for lack of a better descriptor, one of the “sexiest’ things we ever did. His hesitance combined with the absolute, soul-crushing sincerity of young love was almost painfully beautiful. There were other times, of course, when the undeniable synchronicity of our love-making brought tears to the eyes, but that time stands out above and beyond so many others.
For Lestat: This is more…difficult. To be quite honest, despite his duplicity and his inability to remain monogamous, Lestat treats his lovers with an undeniable amount of sweetness and care. In almost all instances, he comes out far above me where our mortal relationship is concerned. There was a time, once, in Paris, in our little flat, where he had one of his…mental collapses. After much coaxing, coddling, and sweet soft kisses, he did allow me to make love to him—slowly, carefully, as one might treat a frightened and wounded animal. It sounds frightening, but there was a beauty to his sadness, his sweet naivité on that night. But does that qualify as ‘sexy’?
I hate to disappoint you, but aside from some very mundane spanking, there was very little about our sexual lives that contained what mortals now refer to as ‘kink.’ We were quite vanilla, I’m afraid.
;A;
I-want-my-IWTV 