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.
Tag Archives: Lestat de Lioncourt
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;
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.
“Louis what brand do you use to dye Lestat’s hair? Also is he worth it? (I am so sorry)
I’ve no involvement in his hair care. I suppose he is worth it.
This is Lestat’s brand:
(NOT PHOTOSHOPPED THIS IS REAL)
-
- best blender pals forever
-
- louis if you drink that you might actually die like die die not shrivel up only to be revived by a fuckton of super vampire blood die
Idk Lestat trying to break Armand’s blender and Louis beating the crap out of both cuz ye idk manYou know what I think blending random shit is the only thing Armand and Lestat would get along doing
Lestat by Dany&Dany
-
- lestat please stop bringing strays home
-
- i want a book with just louis being done with lestat’s shit oh wait
-
- LESTAT JUST STOP
I’ve been thinking about the Body Thief a lot lately
and laughing like a maniacBonus:
This is a serious question: when did you realize that you had romantic feelings for your mother (and don’t say when she was turned because we all know that’s not true)?
First of all, do not tell me what is true and not true.
I feel as though I have answered this question a dozen times as if you all expect my answer to change somehow.
Romantic feelings? That sounds very trite. I do not think she would ever appreciate the…bond, shall we say, that we have with one another to be described as such. It is much more profound than that, always has been.So when can I say it first started? Well, at my birth, I suppose.
To see this question continuously asked is infuriating.
Both Lestat and I have, as he said, answered it time and time again.
“Romantic” is a terribly pedantic way of describing how I feel towards my son. Romance is a box in which you can easily place us and point fingers, isn’t it? How easy for you, how slow and simple your lives must be. How utterly boring.
I have described my life in the Auvergne to those who have cared to listen. I have described how it changed when Lestat was born. I have explained how it was to be trapped, to be beaten, to be raped and treated like a mare whose very spirit must be broken at all costs. To have one small life come into that hell hole, one person who I knew immediately was a part of me in every way, who was not the strangely-wrought men I’d birthed before—this was a revolution and a revelation for which words fail to describe.
Lestat was not only my child, not merely the only colour and breath that existed in that godforsaken corner of the earth. Lestat was and is a part of myself.
This has been made abundantly clear on several instances. To continue to ask is to attempt to assign some paltry and sordid meaning to our relationship that it does not have.
Yaoi text meme
I-want-my-IWTV 