//Well I have no idea who he is but the person who posted the original pic is Norwegian so I sent her a question about it. We’ll see if she replies.
//All hail my supreme internet skills – she didn’t recall his name but after some googling it turns out it’s Tristan Zieverink. He’s the brother of Jacko Zieverink, who also looks ridiculously like Tom Cruise and who was a contestant on The Voice Germany (singing Somebody To Love, hilariously enough, so it’s good classic rock genes all the way). And even better, there’s five of them in the family, and they have a band. For extra stalker points, his profile pics on facebook are public. You’re welcome! 😀
♛ Dear anon – this is a painful question… when I reflect on my own parenting, I have to compare myself to my father. Certain things were, unfortunately, passed down. Even as I tried to be the father he couldn’t be. Interestingly, he had told me little of our family’s origins, for his own reasons, and I had to hold back alot of similar information from my “children.” In my case, however, it was for their own safety. And sanity. Never made that comparison before.
Father’s Day as we know it didn’t exist when they were alive…
Of course, Claudia and I would have special occasions at the slightest excuse, so we did share many nights in celebration of our bond as father and daughter, with and without Louis’ involvement. There were some things he just wouldn’t do!
One such night might include riding out on horseback to the old plantation, she loved the closeness of being held tight to me, the rush of the speed of the animal. We would pretend it was a haunted house, and would hunt for ghosts. I might hire performers in different rooms to play out a story for her. She knew it was an act, but she loved it anyway.
Dinner together, of course. Watching her play with her food was always entertaining, especially when she would look back at me, see that I was proud of her, and then grin wide enough to show her beautiful little fangs!
When I reflect on my father, I see him as mostly an angry presence… it seemed that there was little I could offer him to earn his affection. Even when I provided well for our family (and I use the term “family” loosely here), the most I could ever get from him was a grunt of disappointment in how long it had taken me to do it. One couldn’t simply waltz into a supermarket and just pick up a few packs of prepared meats, I had to chase these things down! With tactics! And weapons!
When we were together at Pointe du Lac, my father had mellowed somewhat by age and infirmity, and we did spend some pleasant evenings together. His hands trembled when we played chess. Those same hands that had struck me countless times for the most minor infractions; it seemed my whole body was allergic to them, even in my altered state. He wanted the comfort of touch in his blindness… but I could only bear to hold his hands in mine a few times. Fortunately, Louis’ family was kind to him, and they brought out a side of him that I hadn’t seen before. He spent hours listening to Louis’ sister play the spinet. She had lost a father, he had never really had a daughter, I was grateful to her for whatever bond they formed between them.
Physically I think he works, look at this smooth operator (we don’t need the context to know he is artfully cranking up the charm here):
Shirtless pic bc of reasons is this why ppl ask me about my casting opinions? You just want me to google these guys shirtless jfc don’t you: EDIT: Actually an anon informs me this one is Sam Heughan, but I’m leaving it here bc of reasons:
And his smile (necessary to the character) even has good dimple action,
but then, when I checked out a video, I feel like his voice is really low for Lestat:
Idk maybe he going for a lower register in this vid for a reason, but I see him more as Augustin or a young Lestat’s dad bc of that low voice.
No, this is a rumour, one that even I have perpetuated from time to time.
I wish he was. I wish he did not have the blood of my husband running through his veins.
But he does. And this is evident when he falls prey to his passions, his rages, his uncontrollable temper. All of the horrors my son is capable of come almost completely from the cruelties he learned and inherited at the feet of his father.
This is not to say that I myself am not capable of great cruelty, merely that my cruelties do not live in the spotlight of Lestat’s memory in quite the same way that his father’s do.
//A fascinating headcanon, but it unfortunately doesn’t jive with my vision of Gabrielle—but that doesn’t make it wrong, just not for me! =)
I’m of the opinion (and, again, just my headcanon) that Gabrielle would have done as much as possible to avoid sexual congress with the Marquis. As a man, he both disgusted her and was an object of pity and derision. This doesn’t mean she wasn’t the “proper wife” when the moment called for it—she was raised to be such—but that she lived her role out to the extent of her duties and rather little else.
And, since my personal headcanon runs along with one created by the amazing Brat Queen—that the Marquis sexually molested Lestat, I’m of the opinion that Gabrielle would have had as little to do with him as possible.
I’d also hazard to guess that, after she’d given him a handful of sons, she pretty much washed her hands of everything that came with being the Marquise d’Auvergne—she’d done her duty, hadn’t she?
I think that, as she grew older, she was more and more withdrawn and more indifferent to anyone besides Lestat. Some of this occurred early on, but the final hammer would have been the death of her daughter, the last de Lioncourt child (as insinuated by Mater in TVL).
I’m partial to Spacey from American Beauty or House of Cards for this purpose. Superficially he’s not what I picture for Lestat’s dad but emotionally, something works for me about it.
I spent a ridiculous amount of time tonight trying to find good Kevin Spacey gifs to make another “conversation” between him and his son and his son’s boyfriend… and honestly I have to say this is the best I can do for now. Expect more in the Interview with America’s Beautiful Vampire tag.
Lestat came earlier than he should have, born in November, a full month and a half before he’d come to term. Her body, exhausted after so many fully realised and failed births, simply could not carry him any longer.
Convinced that the babe would not survive, like so many others, the Marquis left the castle on what he loosely termed ‘business,’ leaving her alone with the priest, the midwife, and the pain.
He was born at night. Tiny, wailing, the priest advised they baptize him immediately, in case he did not make it until morning.
For the first time, she found herself in a unique position: this child would be named by her, claimed by her, perfectly clean of her husband’s touch or thought.
She named him Lestat. It seemed to suit him—his birth had been urgent, and so then might his name.
Later, the Marquis, furious that the child, both male and living, had not been named by him, went to the village priest and had the names “Christophe” and “Marie” added to the birth record.
But it didn’t matter. Lestat she had named him, and Lestat he remained. Hers.
I-want-my-IWTV 