lestatmonamour - Tumblr blog

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and he's so real for it

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serving face? the love of your life is about to leave you for another man for 70+ years and you're serving face?

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Sam Reid as Lestat de Lioncourt INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE, 2022—

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Happy bi visibility day to all my non descriminating folks out there 💗💜💙

Can you believe that Lestat de Lioncourt invented bisexuality? Insaneeeee right

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a handsome couple, wouldn't you say? 🤍 available here as stickers if you'd like

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Sam Reid as Lestat de Lioncourt | Interview with the Vampire 1.01

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I think to be this happy is to be miserable, to feel this much satisfaction is to burn.

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But our love was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we

Of many far wiser than we

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Be my companion, Louis. Be all the beautiful things you are, and be them without apology. For all eternity.

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Sam in the season 2 bloopers

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I was his, and he was mine.

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"There is Lestat, first and foremost, the author of four books of his life and his adventures comprising everything you could ever possibly want to know about him and some of us. Lestat, ever the maverick and the laughing trickster. Six feet tall, a young man of twenty when made, with huge warm blue eyes and thick flashy blond hair, square of jaw, with a generous beautifully shaped mouth and skin darkened by a sojourn in the sun which would have killed a weaker vampire, a ladies' man, an Oscar Wildean fantasy, the glass of fashion, the most bold and disregarding dusty vagabond on occasion, loner, wanderer, heart-breaker and wise guy, dubbed the "Brat Prince" by my old Master - yes, imagine it, my Marius, yes, my Marius, who did indeed survive the torches of the Roman Coven-dubbed by Marius the 'Brat Prince,' though in whose Court and by whose Divine Right and whose Royal Blood I should like to know. Lestat, stuffed with the blood of the most ancient of our kind, indeed the very blood of the Eve of our species, some five to seven thousand years the survivor of her Eden, a perfect horror who, emerging from the deceptive poetical title of Queen Akasha of Those Who Must Be Kept, almost destroyed the world. Lestat, not a bad friend to have, and one for whom I would lay down my immortal life, one for whose love and companionship I have ofttimes begged, one whom I find maddening and fascinating and intolerably annoying, one without whom I cannot exist.

[...]

But Lestat was calling. Lestat was, or so he claimed, afraid. I had to go. The last time he'd been in trouble, I hadn't been free to rush to his rescue. There is a story to that, but nothing as important as this one which I tell now. Now I knew that my hard-won peace of mind might be shattered by the mere contact with him, but he wanted me to come, so I went.

[...]

Of course I knew the very moment that he left this world. I felt it. I was in New York already, very near to him and aware that you were there as well. Neither of us meant to let him out of our sight if at all possible. Then came the moment when he vanished in the blizzard, when he was sucked out of the earthly atmosphere as if he'd never been there. Being his fledgling you couldn't hear the perfect silence that descended when he vanished. You couldn't know how completely he'd been withdrawn from all things minuscule yet material which had once echoed with the beating of his heart. I knew.

[...]

I didn't fear for Lestat, not really. I had no hopes for his adventure, except that he would appear sooner or later and tell us some fantastical yarn. It would be regular Lestat talk, for nobody aggrandizes as he does his preposterous adventures. This is not to say that he hasn't switched bodies with a human. I know that he has. This is not to say that he didn't wake our fearsome goddess Mother, Akasha; I know that he did. This is not to say that he didn't smash my old superstitious Coven to bits and pieces in the garish years before the French Revolution. I've already told you so. But it's the way he describes things that happen to him that maddens me, the way that he connects one incident to another as though all these random and grisly occurrences were in fact links in some significant chain. They are not. They are capers. And he knows it. But he must make a gutter theatrical out of stubbing his toe. The James Bond of the Vampires, the Sam Spade of his own pages! A rock singer wailing on a mortal stage for all of two hours and, on the strength of that, retiring with a slew of recordings that feed him filthy lucre still from human agencies to this very night. He has a knack for making tragedy of tribulation, and forgiving himself for anything and everything in every confessional paragraph he pens. I can't fault him, really. I cannot help but hate it that he lies now in a coma on the floor of his chapel here, staring into a self-contained silence, despite the fledglings that circle him for precisely the same reason as I did, to see for themselves if the blood of Christ has transformed him somehow and he does not represent some magnificent manifestation of the miracle of the Transubstantiation. But I'll come to that soon enough. I've ranted myself into a little corner. I know why I resent him so, and find it so soothing to hammer at his reputation, to beat upon his immensity with both my fists. He has taught me too much. He has brought me to this very moment, here, where I stand dictating to you my past with a coherence and calm that would have been impossible before I came to his assistance with his precious Memnoch the Devil and his vulnerable little Dora. Two hundred years ago he stripped me of illusions, lies, excuses, and thrust me on the Paris pavements naked to find my way back to a glory in the starlight that I had once known and too painfully lost. But as we waited finally in the handsome high-rise apartment above St. Patrick's Cathedral, I had no idea how much more he could strip from me, and I hate him only because I cannot imagine my soul without him now, and, owing him all that I am and know, I can do nothing to make him wake from his frigid sleep. But let me take things one at a time. What good is it to go back down now to the chapel here and lay my hands on him again and beg him to listen to me, when he lies as though all sense has truly left him and will never return. I can't accept this. I won't. I've lost all patience; I've lost the numbness that was my consolation. I find this moment intolerable."

THIS CHAPTER ISN'T OVER YET AND IT'S ALREADY PEAK INSANITY OMG

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happy bisexual day to monsieur lestat de lioncourt, me, and all my bi iwtv tumblina family <3

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love it when he looks like a mischievous cat that's clearly up to something

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I'm trying to get back into the groove of things. I am currently diving headfirst into one of my oldest hyper fixations. I finished this a few days ago after taking too long to work on it, but well....

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Vampire Lestat and those damn music videos