#darkeyedelegance

[everarddelanden]

U 

UNREQUITED.   has your muse had their heart broken?

//Oh yes, plenty of times! In the field of unrequited, moves might have been made but not received with enthusiasm or the same sexual preference. And then there was one lover who tried to stab him to death. Who almost literally broke his heart. What a bitch.

[perladivenezia]

"I miss you."

"Come to me. I'm here. What can I do to alleviate the absence?"

[sacredvein]

@dark-eyed-elegance.

Right to the heart of Grand and Olive, they promised. In one month’s time, the People’s Motorbus Company would install their grand lines of rail and bring access to the theatre district with a speed and convenience like nothing seen before in all of Ol’ Lou, the Gateway City.  All the city’s bigwigs self-congratulated themselves, rubbing elbows and mingling in the heady atmosphere of the evening’s leisures. Women charmed with their diamonds and pearls and ermine stoles: oil rich, newly-moneyed, and wealthier than generations of European nobility.

The party was noisome and stimulating, an inviting and strange melange of glamour and reckless abandon at the dawn of 1923.  So did St. Louis’ finest clink their crystal flutes and cheers to the new year, popping corks of contraband champagne smuggled in by the crate from last evening’s freight.

Laurent was largely enjoying himself in this dazzling new decade, such a far cry from the shell-blasted continent he left behind, the desolation of a lost generation. Here he was slicked in his fitted grey suit and polished spats, seen as some French diplomat’s son, an impression he failed to correct.

He had hunted before the hour cleared midnight, and was flush with warmth and a bit of color to his cheeks, all the better to walk among the revelers as one of their own.  The attitude was decadent and joyous, and he felt half compelled to take yet another into the upstairs suite: one of the pretty young men or one of the pretty young women, intoxicated and enticingly drowsy. His last victim had already imbibed the sibylline green fairy, and Laurent felt himself carried away, half-dazed and deliciously lazy, feeling a queer and wonderful lightness take him. He drifts through the party, light on his feet despite his curious and delightful tipsiness - still the actor’s grace, the supernatural’s perfect balance.

For some time, his pulse thundered loud in his ears, a mystifying symptom of the absinthe-laden blood from which he partook, but it reached such a clamour in his head that he could no longer ignore it, pulling away from his gay conversations, carried as though by some external, ineffable thread.

Laurent flows from the ballroom to the smoking room, awash in light from the tiffany electric lamps, a magic in this modern age.

And it is then he comes to the terrible realization that he recognizes that silhouette, that wash of auburn hair even in this bold new illumination. He would recognize it anywhere.

“Est-ce vraiment vous?“

[desanctii]

💭

your muse experiences one of my muse’s memories

You hear him break in. He is quiet but careless. There is nothing here but you and your corpses. You lie on the bed and listen to your pulse. You can barely see anymore. It has all gone away. You feel hot but you know your hands are cold. Your body is dying all around you. You are standing inside of yourself like in a great and crumbling hall. 

Shadows move and shift. Your skin is too taut over your bones. Your joints ache. You are starved and thirsting. The fever takes the edge off. You see angels, you speak to ghosts. They assure you that all will be fine, that you will feel better soon. You believe them. There is nothing left in this dead world but suffering. You want to go where everyone has gone. Here is what you know: The world is ending. The world is very small. You are dying. You are very small. 

You can’t lift your head. You can’t will your heart to stop beating. You are staring at the crucifix, the little altar in the corner. You have been staring at it for days. You are praying. Always. Or at least you think you are. It makes no difference now.

He comes into the room like a prowling beast, turning over bloated figures. The smell is abominable. You understand, with jarring clarity, that this man is not human. You are not surprised. Demons walk the earth now, in the flesh, in your flesh. Something dreadful is going to happen to you. He looks at you and smiles. No, he doesn’t. There are only teeth. He goes to you, lifts you up as if you weigh nothing. You don’t. He speaks words you don’t understand. You can’t see. You can’t hear anything but the pulse thundering in your ears. 

He kisses your throat. Then he rips it out. 

You die.

[most-predatory-of-all-blog]

"The worst part was I always knew it wouldn't work."

“If you always knew, then what was the point?”

[biancasolderini]

@dark-eyed-elegance ;; closed

“Now, what shall we tell the Master when he finds out you have been frequenting my bedchamber?” Bianca spoke as she neared the edge of her bed, laying herself beside Amadeo. “Jealous, without a doubt.” she added, a slender finger coming to play with his red hair. “Is there anything or anyone troubling you, dearest?”

[gentlemcndeath]

dark-eyed-elegance:

{ text } Thanking God I sent you a ‘safe for work’ wrong text. 

[ Text ]: Ha! Yeah, especially considering who you were texting. Sounds like I missed out, though.

@dark-eyed-elegance

[dadpyr-blog]

last time, on the vampire chronicles @dark-eyed-elegance

“I fail to see how anyone near you can do anything but.” Armand is just as beautiful now as he was five hundred years ago, if not more so. In all his many years, Marius has never met anyone else quite like his favored fledgling.

This time he does reach out, but only briefly. Just long enough to gently tuck rogue curls behind Armand’s ear.

“You captivate me even now.”