authorized translation
fanart by towellll_意大利炮
translation by merrycai
remark: ‘ghost on bed’ means out of breath during nightmare in Chinese. Lestat is having a nightmare.
artist note: This movie is GORGEOUS!
original link: http://m.weibo.cn/5387310696/4092242459115072?sourceType=sms&from=106A295010&wm=4209_8001
#CUTENESS ALERT
The Night Mare – 1824 engraving based on the original by Fuseli c1782
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.
I still have it, some nights.
Not often, thankfully, but it never really left.
It starts with an open door.
6: Gentle PeckOn the Path to Sonoma:
He’d been weeping in his sleep—even the deathsleep couldn’t keep him from having nightmares, and she’d realised as soon as she’d awakened that he was struggling against them. The effects of the deathsleep being what they were, there was no way for her to rescue him from them—he would have to ride them out until he awoke.
Twenty or so minutes later, he awoke quite suddenly with his head in her lap. He was still weeping, his face stained with blood tears, but now his eyes bespoke confusion and embarrassment. She did not release him, instead humming softly as she placed one hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently as he closed his eyes and grasped at the fabric of her coatsleeves. She leaned over him, placing an almost invisible kiss upon each eyelid, releasing him gently back to fight his monsters alone.
I didn’t want to wake up. I was having a much better time asleep. And that’s really sad. It was almost like a reverse nightmare, like when you wake up from a nightmare you’re so relieved. I woke up into a nightmare.
Ned Vizzini (via onlinecounsellingcollege)
“But there was a Hell, and wherever we moved to, I was in it.” – Louis de Pointe du Lac, Interview with the Vampire
[X]
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.
I-want-my-IWTV 