“Yes it is I, Armand, the red haired teenage Russian let me dazzle you now with my impossible young boyish good looks and–OH MIO DIO–LOOK AT THAT BEAUTIOUS RAT–scusami”
I am actually a terrible resource for this question bc I… *gasp* do not really ‘get’ a lot of poetry! I only really like a few poets… like Shel Silverstein (he can be very adult and subversive, btw), Dr. Seuss (who tucked the richness of political/other messages into his works), and other “children’s” authors
yes don’t even think of mocking me on that ok i like what i like, and tbh I headcanon that Lestat has a passion for these, too, since he never got bedtime stories with illustrations as a child (and it’s why he read bedtime stories/poetry to Claudia well beyond the time when she could read to herself bc he loved impressing her with acting out the voices).
HOWEVER. I do love me some Shakespeare, and I think that counts as poetry, and Lestat loves him some Shakespeare, too. That’s canon. He mentions Keats in TOBT as he’s refurbishing the Rue Royale “Ah, wasn’t it the ode by Keats which had inspired that long-ago purchase? Where had the urn gone?” He also mentions Milton in that book. IDK if he read them but he came into possession of a collection of poetry by Wynken de Wilde in MtD.
Book-IWTV!Lestat is not wild about books of poetry, ditching Louis one night with a cruel little snap: “Read your damn poems, then! Rot!”
Lestat also considers music lyrics to “count” as poetry and might get all excited about a new track by Kanye West, Eminem or Macklemore. I think he’d be especially drawn to freestyle rap battles.
Louis quotes from Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, so I would assume he liked (at least at that time) that kind of story/poetry: macabre, dealing with religion v. nature undertones.
I see Marius as liking the quirky poetry in the New Yorker, and Stan Rice’s free-form style, as he likes to study emerging trends in thoughts.
DavidTalbot likes Blake, the Tyger features in his… trajectory, shall we say.
I did not know that! I can see Lestat screaming that from across their flat just to irritate Louis honestly Lestat has 10,000+ names he calls Louis just to irritate him and most of the time Louis just puts up with it and responds anyway bc he picks his battles.
First of all, let it be known loud and clear that I am not willing to speak openly about my sex life with Louis, if only for fear of it coming to a screeching halt for my lack of respect to his privacy. So I’m not going to talk about Louis and what predilections he may or may not have towards oral sex.
That being said, you should know that any reticence towards oral sex in our relationship has never come from Louis, but from me.
I have a complicated relationship with oral sex, for reasons I won’t go into. But what you should know in regards to your Significant Other is this:
Do they want to do it? If so, be patient. It will happen with time.
Do they love you? Then be patient. Be encouraging. Be kind.
Someone who is “shy” about giving/receiving oral sex has a reason, and that reason is probably psychological. While it isn’t necessarily your job to dig into those psychoses, it is your job as their lover and better half to know and understand what they may be, and to be with them as they traverse the complicated path of their past/fears/baggage.
Again, I say, be patient. Be their lover in every sense of the word.
The most patient man in the world held my hand in the rediscovery of the world of physical love, and I owe him far more than he will ever truly know.
And, not to brag, but his patience paid off. In spades.
//So five hundred years ago, I took requests for fics. sheepskeleton asked to see something about Daniel emerging from his madness and the transitory period under Marius’ care, where their relationship turned from caretaker and mad man into something more even-footed and solid. I have no idea if I’ve done that justice, but here I offer a series of vignettes spanning several months, of Daniel slowly crawling out of that hole under Marius’ careful watch.
It’s about 1,900 words, and mostly under the cut to spare your dash. Thanks to damnitarmand for a quick beta read. Sorry for any typos I’ve missed. I’m sure there are plenty.
—–
It sounds cliche, but the first time I really emerge from the haze of madness, the colors of my model world look brighter. Clearer, too, like I’ve been seeing through fogged up lenses and suddenly the glass is clean. I set down the paint brush. I’ve been painting tiny green pine trees and gluing them to a mountain. It looks good, exactly like the world seen from a plane. That real. Who knew the reporter boy was secretly a miniatures prodigy?
Cold washes over me, making my ivory skin tingle. Just how long have I been here, putting together model worlds and laying tiny train tracks? From the look of things, a while. But I don’t know. And that’s fucking terrifying.
I stand, pushing back from the table. The sleeves of my gray shirt are covered in splotches of paint and glue. I push them up over my elbows. My jeans are marked with more paint streaks, and paint covers my hands. It’s under my fingernails. Suddenly I feel itchy and need to wash. I find the restroom down the hall and scrub, paint turning the water in the sink blue, green, and then a muddy brown. I stand there washing until the water runs clear but it’s not enough. I still feel dirty so I keep washing, standing over the sink like Lady Macbeth, watching soapy water swirl down the drain until Marius comes and turns off the tap.
He gives me a hard look. Serious, but not angry.
“Come, Daniel,” he says, and puts his arm around my waist.
“There was paint…” I start. I glance back at the sink as he leads me toward a bedroom. I recognize it, vaguely, as my own. The one given to me when Marius brought me here. The bedspread is a deep purple and the curtains are thick, with heavy blinds behind them to block out the sun. I have not slept here often. Usually I pass out in front of my craft table. He walks me to the bed and pulls off my shoes.
“I can do that,” I say, sharply.
“Of course,” he says, but not like he really believes it. When he leaves, I pull the purple cover over my head and cry and I don’t even know what I’m crying about.
ooc; I don’t believe she’s ever stated they watched HoW. She did mention True Blood though.
One of my fav things as a fan of both VC and Hell on Wheels is that Anson Mount (actor behind Cullen Bohannon) is also a fan of VC. Which, btw, everyone should watch Hell on Wheels because it’s such a great series.
“You would not believe the laughter in this house when vampires come to watch True Blood on HBO. They think it’s hilarious.”
I feel like I’ve seen fanart of them all squished onto a couch together for tv/movie night, but I can’t find it ;A; If anyone has this fanart – or wants to draw it – please gimme.
I’ve always had a fondness for snow….except when encased in the fragile skin of a mortal. The cold and wet has always made me miserable. I remember struggling through it as a mortal when the wolves were bearing down on me. I remember how insidiously it would creep in around the windows at the castle or into the corridors, where it would settle in drifts and make us all huddle closer to our hearths. I remember those same drifts, filling up the kitchen in Jamestown. Laying in them as my lungs stung with each coughing fit. Thinking that I was going to die there.
But I also remember how sunlight looked on snow….how every crystal refracted the light and set the ground on fire! And how blue the hills looked on full moon nights. How every surface was carved in ice and glittering immediately after a storm…..the way the Earth slept beneath her downy blanket, a beauty waiting for Apollo’s kiss.
Winter is always there. When you are high enough in the atmosphere, that is where water turns to ice crystals and the air is thin. It simply waits for when it can return to embrace the ground again.
It was summer. One of the more sweltering that I remember. We were at least a month into being truly lovers, not just friends, and he’d dragged me out into the hills in search of a stream. We each had a bottle of wine (or two?) and he was carrying bread, cheese, and cherries; I had my violin.
It took almost an hour to find it. Mon dieu, but it was so hot. The sort of hot that is like a curtain before you, like a wet blanket that covers your body. By the time we found the stream, we’d both stripped off our shirts, and I remember worrying my feet would have swollen in my boots.
We stripped off our clothing and immediately took to the water. Now, remember, these are cool mountain streams, even in summer. It was glorious. Bathing, drinking, splashing each other, wrestling. Then making love on the grass, our breath coming hard, our cries building until the little death, and then collapsing beside each other in happy, satisfied exhaustion.
We drank wine for hours and ate, the cherry juice staining our fingers and mouths, our lazy kisses a mixture of sweat and fruit. I remember almost weeping at the perfection of it, turning into his neck and burying my face there because I knew it wouldn’t last, that the sunlight and sweetness and poetry of it would end, as it always did.
Before we left, I remember he grabbed me ‘round the waist and kissed me, then pulled back and looked me in the eye. If you don’t know him, you can’t know how penetrating, how soul-piercing that gaze can be–he loves with perfect trust, and it’s absolutely terrifying.
“I love you. I will always love you.”
The real horror is that I believed him. Utterly.
OH MY DEAR LORD WHY WOULD U DO THIS!!! #RIGHT IN THE FEELS
All I can do is sit here with my mouth open, going “Oh!”
Beautiful, indissectable (not a real word, but in this context, I mean that I am unable to dissect this down to its parts).
BONUS POINTS for never mentioning a name, and not needing to!
This is the kind of memory that would best explain where their pain as a ship truly comes from. Even more sad is that Lestat was so naive to say such a thing, but it sounds perfectly in character. Maybe by saying it, he thought it could be made truth ;A;
That soul-piercing gaze – yes… that’s the Lestat I fell in love with in canon, the one Nicolas fell for, the searing real Lestat stripped of his masks that anyone who falls for the real Lestat falls for, too ❤
// I love that you asked this. Pahaha. In answer to your question, Armand could definitely not wield Mjolnir, for a few reasons. The first is that historically, he tends to refuse having actual power and just orchestrates things from behind the scenes or in the not actually stated, just acknowledged universally sort of way (see the theatre for the best example of that). The second is that an excess of power would not be a good thing for him to get his hands on, as he has a habit of experimenting with things he finds interesting, as we all know!
Finally, I saw this explained in a very interesting way here, which means that because the hammer is a fixed quantum point and only Thor has the proper resonance to interact with it on a quantum level, it wouldn’t be possible, technically, for any of the VC characters to be worthy of the hammer, if framed in these terms. Mainly because it’s not a question of worthiness, they just lack the proper resonance. If, however, we were speaking on a purely mythological level and not in terms of science, I would probably nominate Bianca or Gabrielle, since both of them are largely level-headed enough to make decisions about the power involved in possessing such an object without causing a catastrophe.
(Probably far more of a detailed answer than you wanted, buuut regardless).
I-want-my-IWTV 