Louis II
Full Member
Merciful Death
Posts: 192
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Louis
Mar 6, 2007 0:27:59 GMT 1
Post by Louis II on Mar 6, 2007 0:27:59 GMT 1
Yep, I'm Merciful Death. Amazing.
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Marius I
New Member
Wandering Historian
Posts: 29
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Louis
Mar 6, 2007 20:33:21 GMT 1
Post by Marius I on Mar 6, 2007 20:33:21 GMT 1
Bravo on keeping Lestat at bay! I applaude you greatly at taking up this character and being able to handle the brat prince so well.
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Louis
Jul 29, 2007 0:48:22 GMT 1
Post by Lestat II on Jul 29, 2007 0:48:22 GMT 1
Mon Beautiful One,
Your writing never ceases to amaze me. Honestly. Forgive me if that sounds worn and cliché, but I can't be more sincere. I don't know how you make every sentence as captivating and passionate as the last. You are truly one of the best writers I know.
And with that said, I was prompted to respond here because of our theatre thread. I was laughing so hard at some of the things you said and so completely in awe of the way you weave your words that I decided I just had to pick and chose some of my favorite passages while reading to show you. Mind you, it was hard not to copy and paste every single one of your posts, but I did my best to keep it to a minimum. Now, without further ado:
“I stepped into the shower as he joined me in the bathroom, and instead of noticing his words, I noticed his pants. He had dressed up to sit in an empty room. He had been bored. A lot of times, without even realizing he does it, when Lestat is bored, he'll play dress-up with himself. I'll come home and he will be sitting there in all of his ruffles and finery, and when I ask where he's going, he'll respond with a "nowhere." I turned my attention away once more. This time, from his trousers and to the shampoo I was pouring into my hand. Attempting to pour would rather be the operative word. There was no shampoo left. Mon dieu, we'd been here a night and Lestat had already used all of the damned shampoo.”
“I was just coming around to understanding Lestat and his “wily” ways. I wanted to go to a performance by an orchestra that Lestat had no desires to see. In fact, he had made his intentions clear for some time. Perhaps I wanted to see it mainly because Lestat did not.”
“I had attained the wallet once when walking through the streets of Paris. It was very old. In fact, it was about a century old. And it was tattered, falling apart to bits. But I still held onto it. It served his purpose, and besides: I was a bit of a packrat, and as far as I was concerned, that wallet had sentimental value. Whether or not it actually did was hardly the issue at hand. Mon dieu, to me, a piece of lint could be nostalgic, depending on who it had touched and what I had been doing at the time. But this was a different kind of nostalgia. This was nostalgia in the making.”
“My stomach was churning as I sat and waited for Lestat’s responses. I felt like I was waiting for a natural disaster, rather than the reaction of my lover for something that I should have already known the answer to. Mon dieu, if I didn’t think that he would enjoy it, I wouldn’t have bought the tickets in the first place because, let’s face it, I might be masochistic slightly, but masochism where Lestat is the sadist is a whole new brand of S&M. At least with Armand, you know what you’re getting into. It’ll be a series of lashes, some harsh words, some proclamation of, “I’m yours, Sir” and then it’s done and you go your merry way to pretend like it never happened. I mean, not that I’d know or anything. But with Lestat, it’s very different. His sadism scales a very different, and a very elitist, pattern. You present yourself ready to be controlled and instead, he dumps a cat on your head and tells you to train it to do a somersault. And when you can’t do that, you’re forced to sleep in your own coffin that morning until he wakes you up the next night, giving you a second chance to do it with a ferret. Lestat is positively impossible to please when pressured, and so I never attempt it anymore. I don’t surprise him; I don’t even look at him in an “I’ve got an idea” sort of way anymore.”
“I wanted for Lestat too love this night so much that he used it against me later. “Hey, Louis, you remember when you put your feelings of my books aside and instead focused on your feelings for me?” Or my favorite, I could tell: “Hey, Louis, hold my hand. You let me KISS YOU in public when we saw Lestat.” Oui; that would be the true measure of how well I did tonight.”
“This was a story: our story. And this was all because I’d decided to talk to my food one night rather than drink. It was all so exciting, and much like the ripple effect I was observing on the curtain. My nerves were about to kill me.”
“His fingers were brushing my skin in the absolute most delicious way and I could feel an immense shudder rush through my body as though a dam had been broken. And even more shockingly, I allowed it. Tonight was different, as I had assured myself a thousand times.”
“And here I was, denying him the mourning of the one other that he had ever given his heart to. His heart had been in pieces when he met me, as had mine. And slowly over the years, together, we put them back together. Admittedly, it has taken us about two hundred years, but that is how I now know that it is real. The moment the assurance I needed hit me was the moment Lestat asked me to turn his then-mortal body vampiric. In that moment when I looked at him, my first thought was, “Anyone except Lestat.” I cannot seem to look at him any longer without seeing everything that I have ever thought that I could want. Yes, perhaps I have been haunted by the concept of being nothing short of a replacement, but that has slowly waned over time in order to release itself to something far more beautiful. He approached me for my similarity to the one he lost. Perhaps I was. I was tragic in nature and gothic in beauty. But he saw something far beyond that somewhere along the lines and when we fell in love, we fell. Lestat and I have never exactly talked about falling in love with one another. It is just something that IS. Both of us know it, and we declare “Je t’aime” every once in a while. However, our love is something so much more than that. It goes beyond constant proclamation. It goes beyond your average dates and two-bit attempts at sex. My love with Lestat runs so deeply that, sitting next to him in a box seat at a theatre that is packed to the brim with people, I don’t even have to say anything. I can just FEEL it. Even when he is so angry with me that his eyes seem to flash red, I can FEEL his love for me. It’s the kind of silent admonishment of, “I’m only doing this because I love you.” I have given him that look on many occasions. But still, I finally understood. Dieu, and here I thought that these scenes would be nothing short of torture! But I found myself drug in by the hair, as though some greater being had insisted that I learn these lessons immediately. I had spent the past two hundred and sixteen years tortured by that entity, but as soon as he flounces out with a blonde wig, and Lestat flings him into a fire, I understand.”
“I kissed him even harder as my hands moved into his hair (carefully, so as not to mess it up) and cupped the back of his head. I pulled him nearer to me, body pressing against his tightly now, and I could feel all of me trembling by the gravity of his sheer and utter ADORATION for me.”
There are plenty more…but I think these are some of the best lines. With that said…mon lamb…I cannot wait for this summer to end so I can go back to being the recipient of new and fresh sparks of brilliance from you. I miss you. There. I said it.
Je t’aime, L.
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