Tag Archives: the Vampire Lestat
Lestat at Present
I’ve been meaning to post a lengthy headcanon about Lestat for awhile now. Specifically, one that involves how he is currently. It all began perhaps a year or so ago when a post came to my attention: an update on our favourite Vampires straight from the author’s mouth. She specifically pointed out that Lestat was alone and not with the others. This seemed out of place to me, since Lestat is quite the social being that craves companionship. So I began to wonder…
Why? Why is he alone? What could have possibly happened that he is now away from Louis, David, Marius, and all the others?
There was only one answer that I could see. Lestat finally must have done something that ended with the others not wanting to have a thing to do with him. Why else would he not be pursuing them in some way?
Since he was turned in Paris, and perhaps even before then, Lestat began digging this metaphorical hole down and away from all those who ever once cared about him. It was as if he was searching for some buried treasure, some prize and would do anything to get to it more expediently. Thus, he never thinks how his actions will affect others. Never. So all his mistakes, all his “adventures” have dug this hole deeper and deeper.However, there has always been a ladder that was lowered down into this hole, and his friends, companions, and would descend it to try and convince him to, to help him to climb out. First, it was his mother, then Nicolas, then even Armand, and then Marius. Next, it was Louis and then David, who would descend down into this metaphorical hole several times, more than others ever would. Both of them, leaving a lantern, reminded Lestat of what he could have at the surface. If he would just listen to them for once.
Then that something happened. What that something is, I’ve yet to figure out, but whatever Lestat did, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back, as they say. And then his way out of this hole was gone. The ladder was removed, the lantern snuffed out, leaving Lestat with only a fleeting reminder of what was and what could have been: the dim light from the entrance of the hole he had dug himself.
This broke him, no doubt sending him into some kind of mental break, and now he has to find his own way out; to find some way to begin making up for all the wrongs he has done.
And Lestat does this alone.
Send ✿ for a happy memory.
A night at Renaud’s when I was not in the Orchestra but spent the performance backstage, on the pretense of helping Lestat with his costume changes.
He had one particularly lengthy one, which included a bit of a break from the stage itself (Pantelone had an abusive scene with one of the Zanni, granting the lovers a reprieve).
Folded into the velvet curtains, his costume hanging upon the wall, Lestat had begun to remove his trousers when I caught him by the hip and spun us deeper into the curtains, his back against the wall. One hand cupping his ass, I remember kissing him as I took him in hand, his groan vibrating through my lips as our tongues fought each other.
We made hurried love in those curtains, and, though it was not the first time (nor would it be the last), as we finished and Lestat’s moment to return to the stage approached, I laced up his breeches and left a kiss on his hipbone. He pulled me up quickly and kissed me feverishly, his heart thrumming as it often was just before he went on, and I remember my breath hitching as he looked at me and paused. He should have already been onstage, he should have left seconds earlier—he was already late. But he paused, he looked at me, and his kissed me, again, softly this time. “I love you, do you know that?”
I remember that I couldn’t speak—the emotion was stupidly too much for me, my heart too full to answer him. He grinned as he placed his hat upon his head, cocking it at a foppish angle. “I do, you know. God, how I love you.” And he kissed me again as he hurried out of the wings.
I would be lying if I said that I never missed him. But the Lestat I miss is that young man, clad in my red velvet coat, making love to me in the wings of that claptrap little theatre.
[…] I have set for myself the task of being a hero in this world. I maintain myself as morally complex, spiritually tough, and aesthetically relevant a being of blazing insight and impact, a guy with
things to say to you.
So if you read this, read it for that reason that Lestat is talking again, that he is frightened, that he is searching desperately for the lesson and for the song and for the raison d’etre, that he wants to understand his own story and he wants you to understand it, and that it is the very best story he has right now to tell.
[…] Come with me.
Just listen to me. Don’t leave me alone.
Lestat (via jardinsalvaje)
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.
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)
I-want-my-IWTV 