“I’ll say whatever you want as long as I can get in your guacahole after.”
Tag Archives: rp
Considering the fact that you have been around for a couple hundred years, do you still consider yourself to be a mother to the children who did not follow you into immortality? Do you still consider yourself a mother to Lestat even though he is immortal with you? Keeping in mind the role that a mother has with her children – I’m sure your relationship is entirely different now.
Now, listen closely, because I’m only going to say this once:
One does not stop being a mother.
Ever.
Your children may die, they may vanish, they may move on to lives where they never need nor see you again—but you never stop being their mother.
You may wish with all your heart to revoke the rights and so-called privileges of motherhood. You may wish them dead or wish them to love you more than they are capable of doing.
You may wish to love them less, to wrap your heart up safely from them, from not only their cruelties and their kindnesses but from the sweet, milky memories of them that cannot be lost no matter how you might try or no matter how often you turn their tattered photos over and over in your mind.
Do you comprehend what I am saying to you? No matter who I become, no matter what lands I traverse or who I might meet or how rarely I speak with my goddamn son—I will always be the mother that bore those children. That identity will always remain within me, even if sometimes it is the smallest part of who I am.
And in regards to Lestat:
The love I bear for him need not be repeated here, as I have addressed it.
The pain we cause each other need not be repeated here, as I have addressed it.
The total devotion I have for him need not be repeated here, as those who might read have no right to do so.
And the intricacies of our bond are ours. And they contain within them every label we’ve ever held between us, every touch we’ve ever shared, and every memory we’ve crafted—from the moment he began to move within my womb to the last night I visited with him in New Orleans this past summer.
He is my son.
I am his mother.
And within those titles live worlds of who we are to each other.
//Ahhh somehow I didn’t see your post about wanting opinions! Darling, you have to know that you basically _are_ Lestat. And I mean that in all the best ways and none of the bad ones. But you portray him such a shockingly amazing, on-point, spot-on sort of fashion that I’m sure even the Brat Prince would be floored and quite flattered. I adore RPing with you–it’s always a blast and never, ever gets old. In fact I’m sure I drive you crazy b/c I love it so much, but thanks for being awesome! <3
//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♥
I love your Nicki portrayal! In case you weren’t aware already ;} It seems effortless the way that you convey the subtle nuances of his character, a difficult thing when there’s so little of him in canon to go from. Keep it up! <3 <3 <3
//Thank you so much, darling! I worry that I make my characters a bit too kind, so I’m trying to find little cruelties here and there, plus the madness… But he WAS kind, before he was tortured in Les Innocents, and surely some of that still lives within him somewhere, right? Alongside the cruelty and madness and music?
^D’accord. The kindness is part of what we love about him. He was always a little mad. The cruelties and madness increased later, especially when he was introduced to a whole new level of misery by the Children of Darkness, and then he found a way to revel in it. I love him for his strength in using his musical talent to rise again and triumph where a weaker person might have just remained paralyzed by the trauma he suffered.
#BUMP #FYI this Nicolas de Lenfent ( a-misunderstanding-my-love ) kicks butt and you should send him asks and such.
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.
Lestat at Present
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.
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.
I am not handsome, but when women hear me play, they come crawling to my feet.
Niccolo Paganini (via classicalliterature)
(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧ a-misunderstanding-my-love, new Nicolas de Lenfent RPer!
I-want-my-IWTV 