i love the term “partners”
are we dating?
are we robbing a bank?
do we run a legal firm?
are we the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies and are members of an elite squad known as the special victims unit?
who knows.
[X]
I love your books, I really do. But sometimes, I flat out /don’t care/ about *insert random side character*’s backstory. Yes, it’s something they told you, and something you listened to (probably with interest), but honestly I’m reading this and I find myself not caring about whatever backstory the ghost of one of your victims has to share. Just shut up and ‘go into the light’ already–let me get on with my life! Why do you even include it???
First, you must understand my motivations for writing. The motivation for my autobiography came largely from wanting to challenge, draw out, and enlighten those whom I have loved and despised. The motivation for all subsequent books came from a desire for self-reflection and to create a space in which I could view events in a linear, logical way. That people consume my stories with fervor and pleasure makes me dizzy with satisfaction. At the very center of it all, however, the books are not written for them. They are written for me.
You say some of the details are superfluous, and perhaps they are if I was aiming for literary perfection. But I was not. See, some of the smallest details have the greatest impact on me, and it feels wrong not to include them. How do I properly convey an entire person to you without detailing their life, especially if they have dictated it to me? The hope is that their story moves you the same way that it moved me upon first hearing it. Even though their history might not have any bearing on the overall story, it is incredibly important to me as it is to them. It’s their history after all.
Or perhaps I am simply bad at “saying more with fewer words,” but I like my words too much to reduce them to something less than what they are. It’s an injustice.
u dont stay married to someone for 65 yrs without any frick frack
i-want-my-iwtv, re: Lestat/Louis during Interview with the Vampire
TRUTH SERUM: What is the sexiest thing you ever did with/for Lestat? Were either of you into anything kinky when you were mortal? TELL US.
-shrugs- What do I care? Nothing about those days merits keeping private.
With Lestat: Honestly, the first time we made love was, for lack of a better descriptor, one of the “sexiest’ things we ever did. His hesitance combined with the absolute, soul-crushing sincerity of young love was almost painfully beautiful. There were other times, of course, when the undeniable synchronicity of our love-making brought tears to the eyes, but that time stands out above and beyond so many others.
For Lestat: This is more…difficult. To be quite honest, despite his duplicity and his inability to remain monogamous, Lestat treats his lovers with an undeniable amount of sweetness and care. In almost all instances, he comes out far above me where our mortal relationship is concerned. There was a time, once, in Paris, in our little flat, where he had one of his…mental collapses. After much coaxing, coddling, and sweet soft kisses, he did allow me to make love to him—slowly, carefully, as one might treat a frightened and wounded animal. It sounds frightening, but there was a beauty to his sadness, his sweet naivité on that night. But does that qualify as ‘sexy’?
I hate to disappoint you, but aside from some very mundane spanking, there was very little about our sexual lives that contained what mortals now refer to as ‘kink.’ We were quite vanilla, I’m afraid.
;A;
△What’s turns Armand on the most? How about you?
Armand gets turned on mostly by watching me fuck other people. I hate that.
I don’t really know. Not being treated like an incompetent moron really gets my pants tight.
Not being treated like an incompetent moron really gets my pants tight.
Lestat: “Hahaha! I know that feel, bro.”
On this dreary, cold night I’d been thirsty; more thirsty than I can bear. Oh, I don’t technically need the blood anymore. I have so much blood from Akasha in my veins, the primal blood of the Old Mother that I can exist forever without feeding… but I was thirsting and I had to have it to staunch the misery, or so I told myself on a little late night rampage in the city of Amsterdam, feeding off of every reprobate and killer I could find. I’d hidden the bodies, I’d been careful, but it had been grim: That hot, delicious blood, pumping into me and all the visions along with it from filthy and degenerate minds – all that intimacy with the emotions I deplore. Oh the same old, same old. I was sick at heart. In moods like this I’m a menace to the innocent and I know it only too well. At four in the morning it had me so bad. I was in a little public park, sitting on an iron bench, in the damp, doubled over in a bad, seedy part of the city, the late night lights looking garish and sooty through the mist. I was cold all over and fearing now that I simply wasn’t going to endure: I wasn’t going to be a true immortal like the great Marius or Mekare, or Maharet or Khayman or even Armand. This wasn’t living what I was doing, at one point the pain was so great it was like a blade, turning in my heart and in my brain. I doubled over on the bench; I had my hands clasped on the back of my neck and I wanted nothing so much as to die – to simply close my eyes on all of life and die.
And the voice came, and the voice said, “But I love you.”
excerpt from chapter one of the new VC novel: Prince Lestat (via stilnovistix)
Louis you are delusional.
