Marius, you turned your back on me. That came as no surprise, really. You were always the teacher, the parent, the high priest. I don’t despise you for it. But Louis! My Louis, I could never deny you anything, and you turned me away!
Armand & Lestat (The Vampire Chronicles by Ane Rice) – Murder brothers
Armand by chrissydeath Lestat de Lioncourt by honey-in-the-sunshine ~ Well, after i-want-my-iwtv’s tags I had to post our partner cosplay alias the murder brothers. I also don’t want to hide the after-selfie of:
ASjjfhGLds! And my heart grew at least 3 sizes this day. It’s this scene reenacted, I assume…
♛ Ooooh I am so burned, almost as badly as when Louis does it literally! *fans self*
I throw glitter for fun. It’s unnecessary to “throw shade” at anyone when I am already centerstage, spotlighted brighter than the daylight. Overkill to push those in the shadows further into the dark, n’est-ce pas?
We were in the thick of Summer. The hot, sticky Louisiana air hung stagnant in the air, bringing with it the putrid smells of the swamps and Plantation. Though the suffocating heat did not affect us the way it did mortals, Louis and I were not impervious to it. It made me antsy. I paced about the house restlessly, picking up objects to examine them, only to put them down immediately. Louis was in the parlour, hunched over a letter he was composing to one of his fellow bourgeois, slave-driving compatriots. He was thrumming his fingers on the tabletop as he worked. Now granted, it was a very small thing and in retrospect shouldn’t have been enough to start an argument as big as it did, but he had been doing it non-stop for hours. HOURS! It was driving me crazy.
Send me “Zzz” and I’ll write a drabble about a dream my muse has had about yours!
Open doors are frightening, aren’t they? Open doors are equated with permission, often for things we did not want nor desire.
He always asked that the door be left open. “Why do you close your door against me?” There was no answer—how does one respond to that?
It would begin with the light caress of fingers, soft and deceptive on the back. Not even under the bedclothes at that point, no, merely something anyone might do to comfort a child.
When he reached the thighs you knew it was too late. There was no deterring, no turning back. Up comes the nightdress, and the caress, still soft, moves forward to darker territory.
How often before it became a habit? How often before one could close the eyes and pretend it wasn’t happening?
This is the nightmare, though, isn’t it. Not the moment of culmination, no, not the moment of union or even the little death. The beginning. The deception of soft hands, calming voice, all used to soothe.
“Last year I got a message from a beautiful girl who asked with all her courage how lovely and great my cosplay of Armand is and if I would wear it with her as Lestat on a convention. One month ago she became my girlfriend, and helps me find a way reducing my selfhate and lose the suicidal behavior. Thank you Armand, thank you Vampire Chronicles!”
G.O.B.: The real problem is, she keeps saying that God is going to show me a sign. The… something of my ways. Wisdom? Michael: It’s probably wisdom. Episode 3×11 “Family Ties”
She’d been looking out the window for hours, book balanced upon her belly, when the first pains came. By now, she knew not to panic, that there would be time before anything of consequence might happen. She did not bother to call the girl to her rooms to help her, but set the book down beside her and placed her hands upon her swollen belly, closing her eyes against the cutting tremors.
It was cold for November, far colder than it should have been. The ice in the bowl in her room had to be broken each morning so she might rinse her face, the frosty water underneath turning her fingertips blue with cold.
The contractions increased faster than she’d been prepared for—this child was a month before its time, eager to arrive in the world, and she knew already that it had little patience. When the midwife found her way into the bedroom (called for by the girl who’d heard her groans), she was already in a deep squat near the fire. The older woman made quick work of her clothing, removing much of it so that she stood before the flames, her swollen breasts resting upon her naked belly, her hands down between her legs and touching the crown of the child’s head.
Her heart pounded as he slid from her body: another boy, another disappointment. But he was so small; that was all she noticed as the girl took him to clean him off, the water now warmed over the fire, his body pink underneath the smears of blood and white.
It was only then, after the placenta had also exited her, that she noticed once more the chill in the air, the gooseflesh upon her skin. The old woman wrapped her in a dressing gown after gently wiping off her thighs, her purple and bruised flesh, leading her to bed and pulling blankets and furs up around her.
“Wait.”
One word she uttered as the girl started to take the infant out of the room, his mouth wide with cries. The girl muttered something about the wet nurse, but she shook her head, her arms stretching out for him.
As that wide mouth latched upon her nipple, she sighed. He was different in her arms than the others had been. And, though he was tiny and wrinkled as any other newborn, she knew with one look that he would favour her—unlike so many of the others.
Her eyes wandered to the window, her fingers trembling as she held him.
I-want-my-IWTV 