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Lestat & Corsets

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romanchronicles:

So, we all remember that in “The Vampire Lestat” Gabrielle kills a boy solely for his more comfortable clothing, and Lestat does not protest.

Possible explanation why:

OwO *needs to sit down and have a hot tea*

…intriguing headcanon >;}

We know that Lestat is more effeminate than a normal French man would already be. So, perhaps, when he was younger, if he was wearing a nightgown he could be mistaken for a svelte female. Of course, with six older brothers, he must have done something to upset them, like a prank, and therefore, they decided to exact some sort of revenge.

So, a number of days later, it rained, and Lestat was taking care of the horses (because the de Lioncourts are poor) and he happened to slip in the mud. Of course, when he goes back into the “castle” his brothers decide to “help” him. They get his dirty clothes off and draw him a bath, while a couple of them scurry off to get him some new clothes. Unbeknownst to Lestat, they grab some clothes from Gabrielle’s room, including a corset. Then they return to the bathroom and help Lestat get dressed in his normal clothes. Then a couple of his brothers overpower him while another two force him into the corset. Then, they begin to tighten it, and they aren’t very nice about it either. It’s almost bone crushingly tight.

Of course, Lestat is doubled over in pain, and all six of his brothers leave. A chair is place in front of the door, under the doorknob, so Lestat is locked in. He isn’t found until the next morning, and his luck still isn’t good. When his father finds out that his son was in a corset, all hell breaks loose and Lestat is punished severely.

i-want-my-iwtv

Gallery

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They can smell it, it smells like spilled blood to them, as usual… they say “Hunger is the best sauce” and that’s certainly true for Lestat (ew). 

Hit the jump for the scene from canon about this (and I think it was tastefully done, no pun intended) but I warn you, what has been read cannot be unread.

“Her menses. It was being neatly collected by a pad of white cotton
between her legs.

I let myself think of it now because the menses was
heavy and the smell was overpoweringly delicious to me. It began to
torture me, the thought of licking this blood. This isn’t pure blood,
you understand, but blood is its vehicle and I felt the normal

temptation that vampires do in such circumstances, to lick the blood from
her nethermouth between her legs, a way of feeding on her that
wouldn’t harm her.

Except under the circumstances it was a perfectly outrageous and
impossible thought.”

Later: “…

that special, perfumed blood collecting
neatly between her legs.”

MUCH LATER: “

“Forgive me, forgive me,” I whispered,

…and I lapped at the blood just inside her young pink vaginal
lips, just coming from the mouth of her womb, not pure blood, but
blood from her,… blood that brought no pain, no
sacrifice, only her gentle forbearance with me, with my unspeakable
act, my tongue going deep into her, drawing out the blood that was
yet to come, gently, gently,…

…taste and smell of blood, her sweet
blood, a place where blood flows free and no wound is made or ever
needs to be made, the entrance to her blood open to me in her
forgiveness.”  

Go to the book for more, I was trying to be really concise here. In the earlier part of the book when he smells it, he wants it bc blood is blood, but he can control himself and he knows it’s “a perfectly outrageous and impossible thought.”

Later, he had just gotten back from a traumatic adventure and he wanted the blood as a means of self-medication (comfort food!) as much as he needed the closeness to Dora herself. Vampires probably prefer wound blood. Maybe there are vampires who prefer it this way, though! It’s good that AR addressed the question ;]

I also have a tag with a few more posts about Dora the Nun and there’s fanart of this scene.

Zzz [♛ a dream about ourself, then! Perhaps a dream from childhood? Maybe a recurring nightmare…]

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devilsfool:

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.