#It feels like I'm both numb and oozing

[quinklequonkle]

Bad news guys, the downs aren't going back up

[thealbatrovss]

take my hand // logan howlett x reader

summary: it’s probably a good thing logan doesn’t involve himself in school projects, you learn

basically: logan destroys school property but gets a date

oneshot-fluff, this is just fluff. suggestive material. flirting, a bunch of that. cringe but I am free! Not proofread I apologize

-probably ooc idk but i haven’t written anything in YEARS so this is a practice one for me. Enjoy!!! More fics to come.

word count: 1k+

masterlist

Persistent knocking on your bedroom door woke you out of an afternoon slumber gone on way too long.

“Shit!” The alarm on the stand read 7:15pm. You fell to the floor, tangled up in your own sheets. The wooden boards beneath connected to your forehead. You winced, peeling your face from the floor. “Fuck!”

You could hear Logan’s muffled voice from the other side of the door. “Are we going or not?”

“Of course!” You shout, shaking numb legs out from the covers. Trying to stand up took a few tries but you eventually got there.

Logan stood with one hand against the wall and one on his hip as the door opened. A stream of smoke trailed from the cigar nestled between his teeth. You wondered what it would be like to kiss him senseless, letting the smoke permeate your clothing, lips, everything. But you were just friends. Well, friends that also found a way to flirt in most situations.

“What the hell was that?” He cocked an eyebrow, leaning to look over your shoulder into your room, noticing the disheveled bed. “Got someone in there or something?”

“Yep” You went along with it. You turned towards your open window, dramatically sighing. “Looks like you just missed them.”

“I'm sure that’s exactly what happened here.” His lips turned upwards. It was hard not to get lost in his gaze.

“Lost inside that head of yours again?” His thumb slid over a small cut on your forehead that quickly healed itself over due to your mutant abilities. He smiled, his hand lingering on your cheek for a little bit longer. Like he was holding on to a moment. “There you are.”

You tried to hide the way he made you feel by straightening out your clothing. “I completely spaced out. Fell asleep going through Hank’s notes. By the way, did you know he wrote poetry?”

“Hank?”

“Yeah. He must have mixed it in with the papers he gave me earlier. It’s very good.”

“Great. Now you'll be serenading me with poems about science and shit all night.” No sarcasm oozed off him, he was dead serious. “As soon as we get to that party, I’m heading straight for the booze.”

Your eyes widened. You were still running late. “Orono is going to kill me.” You both started down the hallway, your pace out matching his for once.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I’m late too.”

You grinned at the nickname, walking backwards to face him. “You wouldn’t be, I don’t know, avoiding this night because you were supposed to help and didn’t?”

He shook his head. “Look, I didn’t agree to work here just to end up becoming a gardener.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have destroyed the old one in the first place.”

“Hey,” he pointed his cigar at you, “it’s not my fault those government bastards decided to sneak in through the greenhouse. I can’t always choose my battle grounds.”

You looked at where his claws came out. “Those plants never stood a chance against you.”

“Nope.”

The way he said it so casually made you laugh out loud. “They were only asking for an hour of our time. Once a week.”

The greenhouse blossomed with life upon entering the new scenery. He took another drag of the cigar, embers floating through the air. “Well, would you look at that. Seems like they did just fine without me.”

You could feel the smoke on your face. “Wow, such a team player.” Logan laughed at that.

Ororo’s end of the year project with the entire student body was finally finished. A brand new, beautiful garden for mutants to study, take care of, and admire lay before them. Hopefully Logan could keep himself from destroying this one.

“It’s so pretty.” Your fingers lingered on a rosebush nearly blossomed. “Ororo really outdid herself.”

“She always does.” Logan put out his cigar, making sure to avoid the plant life.

Strings of light zigzagged overhead, a soft glow of white and yellow hues going nicely with the greenery. A large water fountain stood in the middle of the encasing plants creating a fork in the road. The pillar in the middle of the fountain had multiple hands reaching out from the center, as if they were beckoning for those below them to take their hand.

Voices came from the very far side of the greenhouse. You could hear your friends' and fellow X Mens laughter all the way from here. It would just be the teachers and staff tonight. The students will get to see the final results tomorrow.

“Fancy stuff.” Logan stopped in front of the large structure. “But doesn’t this seem a bit over the top?”

“I’m pretty sure this was the Professor's idea.”

“Of course it was.”

“I kinda like it. Feels very symbolic.”

He tapped on one of the white marbled hands with the back of his knuckle. “Sounds hollow. How about that symbolism?” But apparently that was a little too hard. One of the fountains arms gave away from the crack Logan made, and splashed into the water below. He stumbled trying to cover up the place where he chipped off the art piece. His feet ended up in the pool of water.

“Do you have some sort of grudge against this place?” You held in your laughter as best as you could.

He groaned, rolling up his sleeves. “Stupid thing.”

You tried to think of anything but him at that moment. But of course that always fell through. Wet skin shimmered against the last fading rays of sunlight. Strains of dark hair stuck to his furrowed forehead as he searched the water below.

“Oh come on, it can’t be that hard to find.” You shook yourself out of those thoughts.

His hazel eyes landed firmly on you. “It’s stuck.”

“What? How?”

“I don’t know, but if I pull it out, I’ll definitely break more than just the arm.”

You sat down at the fountain's edge and dipped your arm in all the way up to the elbow, curious as to how this could of happened. “It’s fucking freezing. Did Bobby have anything to do with this?” Before you could even begin to look a hand dunked your head into the water with a surprising gentleness. You gasped as you came up for air.

Logan held the broken arm up towards you, smirking at his actions. “Got it.” He wiggled it in front of your face for extra effect. “You didn’t need to do all that but I admire the desperation.”

You didn’t let him relish in the moment and splashed waves of water into his face. Beads of liquid clung to his mutton chops, the sweetest smirk clinging to his lips. He licked them, spitting out water. “Deserved.”

He offered the broken statues hand towards you, and you gladly took it. Stumbling a little too close, your chests nearly touching, the only thing separating you both was the broken piece of marble. The quiet laughter quickly faded as you stared back at each other. Your breathing quickened, the marble arm cool against your skin dripping with water. His white tank top was soaked, accentuating his upper body.

“We should try and reattach the arm.” Your voice was just barely above a whisper. “Do you think they’ll notice. Oh god, they’ll noice, won’t they?”

And then Logan gave you the softest smile you’d ever seen. Like there was a secret just between the two of you. He delicately moved pieces of wet hair from your face, as gently as wind blew leaves off the pavement. “And how do you think we do that?” A breeze ruffled your cold frames, but you could only feel a blazing warmth coil within.

The intense yet intimate moment was broken by the sound of Ororo sighing from behind you. “Well, you can start by getting out of the water and giving me that.”

Logan and you shrank from each other, hopping out of the cold water. He held his head high, putting the broken object into her hand. “Sorry about that.”

She put her hands on her hips.

“Again.” He finished. As he stepped back, his shoulders brushed yours. He never once bothered to move. You were more than happy to stand in that awkward yet sweet moment.

Ororo brought the marble hand up to her forehead, shaking her head. “Will you two just date already, this is getting exhausting.” She walked away, murmuring to herself about Logan’s “great” hospitality skills.

The two of you stood there, letting the water drip to the stone beneath. Logan shook his wet hair, trying to light his cigar. “You can ask me out tomorrow.” Is all he said, walking away, leaving a smoke trail towards the mini bar.

All you did was smile so hard you could feel your teeth hurt.

[justchelleing]

hmm I hope I did this right :'D

- Where's My love, SYML w/ Dazai :o + romantic !

Where's My Love?

Pairing: Dazai Osamu x Gn! Reader

Type: Oneshot

Genre: Angst

Warnings: major character death, implied suicide, blood descriptions, mentions of death, cutting, implied death.

Synopsis: Dazai always tries to find his lover and when he sees them, he only says a 'hello' but never did he say his goodbye.

A/n: Thank you for requesting! Reader is refered to as 'them' or 'they'. Hope you'll like this! Dw you did it correct! Italic for flashbacks

Event // Ada.Masterlist // M.Masterlist

There was nothing he could feel, he held the cold and lifeless corpse of his lover; just as he did to his dear friend a few days ago. Cold pulse, it was the only thing he could find; coldness, just as who he was before he met them. How hard he tried to find the love they once held in their eyes. He didn't mind his bleeding hand, he could only focus on holding them. His bloodied hand was mostly theirs and a small mix of his. The tears that dripped to his scarred hand made it sting; just like a wound topped with salt. He tried to make their heart beat once again but it was hopeless, they only held him dearly—as if they were fine and smiled before their eyes completely shut; never to open again. He screamed their name at the top of his lungs before he slowly laid their body on the floor, just like they were resting. He walked away, numb tears escaping his hazel eyes. The room was illuminated by the warm sun they once loved, and the crimson blood was oozing out of the three bullet holes on their chest. He tightly clenched his hand, not minding how much it hurt from the wound. The rain started to pour while the bright and orange sunset was covered with dark, thundering storms. He walked away, turning his back on everything, the Port Mafia, Chūya, his crimes, Oda and you.

"Dazai-san? Are you there? Kunikida-san called me and told me to go to work with you." Atsushi knocked on a small apartment room owned by the Agency.

Dazai sat up and looks at his hand again. It was clean, no blood was leaving his body through a wound that once was. A mark was left there, a memoir that the day he got that wound was the one where he failed to save you.

"That dream again.."

A few tears escapes his eyes and landed itself on his hand, just as that day. He wiped them away after hearing Atsushi knock on the door again.

"Yeah I'm here Atsushi-kun!" He said through the door, trying to sound as cheerful as possible though his voice came out dry and hoarse.

"Are you okay Dazai-san? Are you sick?!" Atsushi asks, his tone full of worry and franty.

"Nop! I just woke up so please wait for me in a few minutes Atsushi-kun!" He said in his usual cheery tone making Atsushi sigh in relief. Dazai's words soon registered in his mind, and he began to panic.

"But Kunikida-san will scold both of us for being late!"

"It's fineee! Its just going to be the same old Kunikida!" He tried explaining while ramaging through his drawer, trying to find his bandages.

"But—"

"I'm gonna be quick Atsushi-kun, I'm just going to dress! You don't want me to go to the agency shirtless do you?" He said in a spiteful voice, wrapping his arms, hands, neck and torso with leftover bandages.

"eww no!"

"exactly" Dazai replied before wearing his shirt and vest. He glances at the scar again before opening the door and throwing in his overcoat.

"Let's go Atsushi-kun!"

He skipped to the agency with Atsushi behind him. They got scolded by Kunikida but it the end he was the one that took his hour long lecture and Dazai got punished by him.

The day passed again, and the moon showed in the midnight sky. Dazai was laying in his futon, staring at the dark ceiling, bottles of sake throws across the floor. He turned his head beside and saw them, a worried look was plastered on their face as they looked at him. He knew that his mind was playing games with him, despite that he came to caress their cheek to feel their warmth; but they disappeared, and his hand only met the cold and empty sheets beside. He clenched his fists tight before standing up and grabbing his overcoat and leaving his messy apartment. Walking in the dark streets lighted by the faint moonlight, was something both of them used to do. He gently smiled at the small memory before continuing to walk, he arrived at a small greeny fields in the outskirts of the city.

"Darling! Osamu! Wait up!" They said before panting.

"You really need to run faster my love!" He turned around and saw them with furrowed eyebrows. He chuckled before going to them.

"You're so unfair! I'm on my slippers because you called me and told me it was an emergency!" They pouted, taking his assistance and grabbing his hand for support.

"It is an emergency! I was bored and I missed you!" He pointed out.

"Haii.. whatever.. Don't you dare try to lie to me" They sighed shooting him a worried look before caressing his bruised cheek, and he leaned on her hand.

"What do you mean love?" He sent them a cheeky smile, trying to feign innocence and ignorance.

"Osamu." They said his name in a serious tone, and he only laid his head down.

"I-its nothing" He quietly muttered, getting closer to them, trying to feel their warmth.

"Shh, it's okay. I'm here" The hand cupping his cheeks snaked it's way to the back of his head, as he leaned his head into their shoulder.

Their hand slowly and gently patted the back of his head while he hugged them. The silent crickets are the only thing that was heard. He felt scared, he didn't want them to know his line of job in fear that they would leave him. They were a civilian and he was a mafioso—no an executive of the Port Mafia, the rulers of the night. He needed comfort, he wanted to tell them how his friend betrayed them and now the other was dead; but he couldn't, he was afraid of them abandoning him too. Nobody spoke a word, they didn't bother to ask him more, they just waited for him to open up. They gently hummed a tune as they waited for him, their voice was like a lullaby that comforted a scared and crying child.

The event plays on his mind, seeing illusions of that day in the fields, he could not remember what happened afterwards. He put his hands on the pockets of his overcoat as his fingertips got colder and colder. Walking to a small cliff near the ocean, a name was carved in a rock just near the edge, beside it, was a fresh bouquet of roses. He leaned against the grave as he closed his eyes, reminiscing the old memories.

"Hello love... I missed you" He gently smiled, feeling the cold breeze pass.

A faint voice whispered comfort in his ear.

"I missed you too.. tell me.. is that little girl, the one you told me about—Kyoka, I think—is she okay?"

He felt his hair ruffle, as if someone was playing it just like they did. He wanted to open his eyes to know who it was, but he knew that they would disappear just as he looks behind. He knew that he was just thinking how they would respond but he didn't mind it.

"Mhm.. the conflict was over and the Moby Dick returned to the ocean... Kyoka's now home with the agency" He whispered, trying to feel their warm.

"That's good.. How is the agency treating you.?"

"hmm.. Atsushi-kun is as usually kind.—" he faintly smiled.

"—oh, Kunikida tied me to a chair earlier and beat me up because I was late, it hurt a lot. Ouch" He dramatically whispered and they faintly laughed in return. Silence once again came, the howling winds and the clashing waves are the only things that can be hear besides his lone heartbeat.

"Come back to me please.." His voice cracked. He heard no response, he opened his eyes and looked behind to see nothing but a view of the night sky and the dancing leaves. A part of the cloudy sky was clear, showing the moon perfectly, as if it made way for someone to go high above.

"I'll go to you soon love.. and if the heavens forbid it... I'll fight against God myself just to return to your embrace" He sat up and glanced at the grave once again before finally returning to his apartment.

He closed his door and muttered a small "I'm home" hoping for someone to respond. Taking off his shoes and overcoat, he took a blade from his bathroom drawer, and then made himself comfortable in the bathtub. He rolled up his sleeves and sat up, positioning the blade just perfectly on the veins in his wrist. With one quick and deep slash, blood started gushing out of his left wrist. He winced in pain, taking the blade once again, he slashed his right wrist; it was less deep than the cut in his other wrist but nonetheless, it was deep. Blood started to drip to his garments and bathtub, his vision started to blur and he leaned completely to the wall, closing his eyes. At the last moments of his life, he remembered what happened after that day.

"Hey... If you don't want to tell me it's okay, but don't ever try to hide your emotions from me.." They smiled at him, their fingers playing with his hair.

"What do you mean? I don't hide them—" He left their embrace and tried to put on a facade.

"Osamu. You don't need to hide them" They said, walking upfront, their voice was full of calmness, just like a lullaby. Their arms was behind them, their right hand holding their left arm

"Fine... But let me ask you this then." He looked at their back with a serious tone.

"Why did you come in the middle of the night to a cliff just because I told you to do so?" He asked, his gaze following them as they walked forward to the edge, admiring the moon. They continued to hum before they responded to his question.

"Because I love you" They turned around and smiled at him. They put a strand of hair behind their ear, as the wind passed by.

"mmm.." He opened his eyes to see their illusion planting a kiss on his forehead.

"I..finally..found..you...." His voice slowly faded into nothing but air.

It was as if time stopped for a mere second. The pain that engulfed him whole was now only faint. Their warmness returned to him and his vision completely faded to black, submitting to the sleepiness he held after hearing them hum his favorite tune...

[honey-minded-hivemind]

Charles and Jean never speak of the presence they heard, at least not verbally. They just silently agree to look for them and hope that they can find them. (And hope they are who they think they are)

But the presence left the house after that night. All the scratching and crying stops, along with the nice favors ( much to the Logan's chagrin, he was getting used to someone making his coffee for him in the morning.)

Charles and Jean are worried for a bit, until it becomes very, very obvious that it's in the woods surrounding the school.

Kurt and Rogue found it. A dead spot. Literally dead. Dead trees, dead grass, dead air, dead animals. The whole place looks like it's been dead for decades rather than a few days.

It's a bit of a walk from the school, taking almost all day to get there. Bloody, thick footprints, and handprints are all over the area, successfully scaring the two of them away. That's when they find out the weirdest part of the area. Mutations hurt there. Literally. Kurt teleported them back to the manor and passed out from the pain.

Charles and Jean make the connection and go under the guise of training. It dark by the time they get there, and at first, they think they wind is howling. But if they focus, they realize it's crying.

That kind, clumsy, painful pressure comes back. A little less painful, but still debilitating. Until Jean finally hears that voice she hasn't heard in forever. It's both in her head and whispered right in her ear. The voice is in pain, scratchy, and haunted, but it sounds so sweetly familiar.

"Please sis, you can't keep looking. It hurts but it's not safe for you. I'm not safe. Please, I don't wanna hurt you."

The wailing is strong, an alien cry amongst the cove of rotted trees and shriveled grass. The wind grows fiercer here, near impossible to hear over. But it's not wind, is it? It's the painful, shrieking howls of someone they thought was dead...

The air seems to pulse with pain, sending Jean and the Professor into migraines... The weight of it crushes everything in its grasp, begging someone someone take it away, to end it, to make it stop stOp SToP-!

Between her and the Professor, they're able to contain it, bubbling it with a popping sound, and the wailing is muted, the air breathable again, the shrieks growwing numb... And suspended in that sphere of darkness, pulsing with black and red and purple, sobbing amd crying and broken in mind and spirit, is Reader...

It's hard, seeing them like this.

The scars and oozing wounds that litter their skin... The burnt patches of flesh... The sharpened fingers, more claws than nail and bone... The way their shoulders shake and heave with each ragged, gasping sob... And their eyes, burning bright and glowing in the darkness, broken and begging for it all to end...

It doesn't take but a heartbeat to overwhelm them, just for a minute, that's all it takes-

Then Reader is slumped over, the bubble popping, and their form falling to the ground, tired and broken like a doll. Jean and the Professor are quick to collect them, alerting the others they found someone they'll want to see-

And then they're off, dragging their marred sibling and child along with them, mindful of the shards of thought that cry out, carefully pushing them under where they won't wake...

They're going to have to be very, very gentle with how they handle this... No one outside of them, their team, their family, can see Reader like this, this vulnerable and hurting... And sadly, they can't let Reader go, now that they have them back... Hank and Logan and Scott will hopefully have some ideas on how to sedate the fearful side of Reader, while hopefully the other teens can help smooth over any lost memories or feelings of loneliness.

It's all going to be okay now... They have Reader back, and they'll piece them back together, no matter what it takes...

(Hahaha! Now we're getting to the platonic yandere goodness, @sugar-soda!)

[owchie-wowchie]

How would Witch in the Web go in the Uncle Otho AU?

sorry this got me inspired

Hannah's mouth felt numb as her heart roared, eyes wide and searching around this terrifyingly empty theater she found herself in. Her hand squeezed Miss Holloway's tight, nearly crushing her fingers.

"It's ok," Miss Holloway repeated over and over again. Hannah couldn't help but read too deep into her tone, wondering if she was aggravated at having to make sure Hannah didn't mess things up again.

The two crept onto the stage and the air went suddenly quiet, warmth vanished from Hannah's palm. She whirled to the side to see Holloway gone. Her heart sank, veins turning into lead. Hannah froze to her spot, both breaths and body trembling.

Not far away, a skeleton miraculously appeared in the middle of the floor, rotted and prone, the complexly detailed hilt poking out between a few ribs. From her, she was attacked by how horrid it smelt.

Flight won out in the end and she began to simply book it for the exit but a sudden invisible force prevented her movement, stopping her like a wall. She slammed her hands against the solid air as she spotted glittering blue sludge moving across the stage floor.

Spinning around, she rested her back on the unseen wall, eyes glued to the goo. It slowly dragged onto the skeleton, wrapping around it tight. The goo grew thicker, dense and brighter by the second. It pushed the knife out of the chest, making it fall into their hand. Lines of muscles and veins and nerves materialized inside the ooze, dangling off the frame before sliding into the proper spots. Pale leather spread on the fingers, moving out towards the arms and torso.

The face was the last part to grow back, messy brown hair sprouting on the top and eyes that were voids of pure black. A gasp shot out the recently created person as a flash of light made clothes appear on them, a brightly colored, slightly 80s-esque button up and jeans. The sight dimly reminder her of Holloway, it almost felt like this thing was stealing her style.

Whoever this person was, Hannah had no clue. They looked around Lex's age, a bit younger even. A wicked smile creased the stranger's cheeks, sending a shiver down Hannah's spine.

"Well, if it isn't little Banana Foster," they said. Hannah wasn't a fan of how they knew her nickname, she tried stepping back but was still prevented from leaving.

"Hannah!" A familiar voice yelled behind her. Before Hannah could turn to confirm her thoughts, a hand wrapped around her arm, tugging her from her trap.

Miss Holloway threw Hannah behind her, glaring at the stranger. Hannah was glad Holloway wasn't staring at her like that.

"Hannah, don't worry about him. He's dead," she stated, barely hidden vitriol clear in her tone.

The stranger responded with a barking laugh, rising to their feet. "Oh, if only! I'm afraid death wasn't really a respite from where I was trapped." They pointed at her with the knife. "Y'know if I was just a bit faster, I would've gotten you."

Holloway looked at Hannah over her shoulder. "Get to the exit quick, I'll make sure they don't come after you."

"15 years!" The stranger shouted, making Hannah jump in her spot. "That's how long I was trapped in The Black with no body." They chuckled humorlessly. "Did you know that the soul can feel just as much pain as a body?"

Holloway took a deep breath and raised her fists, ready to jump on the kid at a moment's notice.

The stranger wagged the knife at her a few times. "Last time, I was just doing what I needed to survive but this time," Their face fell, a sneer appearing in the smile's place. "I just wanna see your fucking heart ripped out."

[artdecosupernova-writing]

Find the Word Game XXIX

tagged by: @space-writes!! my words: select, through, missed, disbelief tagging: @drippingmoon,  @drabbleitout, @oh-no-another-idea, @celemee, @druidx, and open tag! your words: inside, outside, front, back, top, bottom

select (Aurora)—

An insurmountably large nebula, blood-red and angry like a contusion, stretched out across space, swallowing everything in sight. The Lithuania was at the front of the line of ships ahead of them, leading the charge. "We've got eyes on Torris," Sig said through the comm. "We stick to the plan as best we can without Orthrive'poliea—our goal is to get to the surface and plant the nukes. Then we get the hell out of there and detonate." Warren snapped out of some kind of reverie at that and spoke up for the first time in quite a long time. "Wait...nukes?!" "Fourteen of 'em," Dazia said. She approached the viewscreen and crossed her arms. "Select teams will set the charges while the rest of the fleet distracts the Emmuli long enough for us to do it." "Us," Warren echoed. "That's why you guys are here." "I originally just wanted to fight," Guetry said, shrugging. "But sure, I could set off a nuke or two today."

through (Warpath)—

"There are too many," Kyxen exclaimed. "He's just getting warmed up," Warren said, squeezing his thigh, which was now almost completely numb as well. Thrive's movements were fluid and graceful, even when he stuffed the barrel of the gun into [a FaiTh member]'s mouth and pulled the trigger. He had been fighting like this for millennia, and it showed. He didn't make a single mistake or falter once. He ran, jumped, flipped, and spun his way through the throng until there was only one left. "Wait!" Warren shouted. Thrive stopped on a dime, his fingers curled around the last one's stumpy throat, gun aimed right between their wide-set, shark-like eyes. He hadn't even broken a sweat, and the FaiTh member was breathing hard beneath the mask over the lower half of their face. Quara lowered her shield and Warren shuffled to them with ———'s help. "Where's the nuke?" he asked the FaiTh member. When they didn't answer, Thrive shoved the gun against their head. They said something Warren couldn't understand, but the expression on Thrive's face changed in a very subtle way. He looked at Warren and shot them, throwing their body to the muddy ground. Fluid oozed from the center of their head and glopped onto the dirt. Warren, having been startled by the gunshot, cleared his throat.

missed (Aurora)—

Thrive took it and chewed slowly. "It's not happening yet." "I know it's not happening yet," Warren said, his tone somewhat clipped as he stuck his utensils into his food to spear another bite. "But I'm allowed to pre-grieve over this." "Time you're spending 'pre-grieving' is time that could be spent taking full advantage of my remaining presence." "I know." Warren managed another swallowful of starch. He lowered his voice to a near-whisper. "But it's so fucking hard to watch you try to hide the fact that you're terrified out of your mind." Thrive grimaced, but it was quick and Warren almost missed it. "That's a strong assessment of my feelings." "Your feelings that I can feel without even having to be close to you, now." There was a pause. "We always knew, in a way, that this would happen. We've always felt it. We couldn't put a name or a face to it, but my eventual loss was something we both expected." Warren dropped his utensils with a sharp clatter and folded his hands together. "You cannot be serious," he snapped.

disbelief doubt (Eternal)—

Just when Warren began to doubt that and the pain would ever end, the water streamed away, revealing the ocean and the dark clouds once more. The rain had stopped, and Thrive dropped the shield and staggered, breathing hard. Steam rose from his body, the water clinging to his form boiling away. "Thrive," Warren said again, and his lips stung as if dry and cracked. Thrive turned to look at everyone, assessing them as his eyes went back to normal. He looked at Warren, then down at the black fog crawling over the ground as the others continued to fight around them. Warren swallowed, and Gouna rushed to him with medical supplies, ducking away from the rain and the Emmuli. "Are you good?" Warren asked Thrive. He nodded vacantly. "Yes. I…think I've—" A spear of smoke shot out of the ether, piercing Thrive's left side. He stumbled sideways, shock dawning on his face, and he looked at the spear with wide, dazed eyes. Another spear darted into his shoulder, sending a spray of blood behind him as the tip exited on the other side. "Thrive!" Warren yelled, his pulse skyrocketing. The force of the second spear knocked Thrive backward, and in the span of a heartbeat, his momentum carried him over the edge. He dropped off the cliff, disappearing faster than Warren could process.

[skylermadness]

Clouded Judgement (Vander TF/MC)

(Original Date of Upload: July 27, 2023)

Original Description:

I watched Arcane for the first time last week. Probably one of my favorite experiences in regards to media watching! So much happens in that show and it's just so satisfying to watch from so many angles, it's just hard to articulate perfectly how good it is. Inevitably this also meant Vander would become a mood for me. Big hairy dad with an Australian accent, that's basically the best bait one could have for me. Also meant that during my high of Arcane fixation I had to write a TF as soon as possible. Also helps that Furii threw in some interesting ideas I wanted to try and write out! Admittedly this is a TF that involves a first time for a lot of things in regards to my writing. Lots of moving parts in the TF segment and I believe this is my first time in full having some kind of gaseous trigger. Unfortunately I think I ran out of ideas as to how to really handle the concept towards the end, since I realize I actually wasn't fully sure how I wanted to do the MC and what I wanted to do for the actual post-TF segment. So in the end I do feel like the mental aspects fall a bit short and things definitely fizzle out towards the end. I feel like I could've done better with the final scenes but in the end this story was written with no outline and very little direction. Plus I can always revisit it later and fix it. But for the time being I'm at least 90% satisfied with the end result enough to share it out. Plus I am relatively proud of the TF segment itself. Anyway, watch Arcane.

   Flames. Smoke. Oranges and grays… light was shrouded behind the thickening smoke.

   That's all his hazy, blurry vision can see. He can't even tell if he's looking up, down, or to the sides. Is something overhead? And… wasn't he supposed to be doing something… 

   There is a certain level of pain coursing through him as well. Multiple sharp pierces in his back like shards of glass had embedded into his skin. His spine felt bent, and his nervous system felt like it was in a numb overdrive. An even sharper, stronger pain was in his abdomen; stabbing into his gut and radiating the pain throughout the region. All the while he could feel more spots of suffering around his face than he could count. Then there was the setting in of fatigue, a feeling akin to getting off some kind of adrenaline rush.

   The smell of smoke mixed with the smell of his own blood. He could taste his blood too, and he could swear some more of it was crawling its way both up and down his throat.

   Where was he? Who was he? What was he doing?

   A sense of urgency panged in his chest. Like he had to do something. He had to move faster, he had to…

   A finger twitched, he moved his arm closer to something. He could detect something cylindrical near his hand. He had to grab it, it was his only chance.

   A low grunt emanated from his throat as he swallowed a lump of fluid. Pain, urgency, danger. Pain, urgency, danger. The same three feelings circling through his mind, his body, his everything. 

   His finger grazed metal and glass. Something seems to enter him from there. Some kind of final rush that starts his heart back up again. The hand grasped onto the cylinder and the man almost instantly pulled it towards his mouth. He wasn't sure when or how he had opened it, but all the movements were so fast that it felt like he had instantly started consuming whatever fluid was in the object.

   He wanted to regurgitate it. The taste was atrocious, the feeling of it oozing down his throat was repulsive.

   But it all passed as in an instant everything in his body ran into overdrive.

   His heart beat faster, faster, faster, the rate was getting inhuman. He could feel his muscles cramping, bulging outwards, a chorus of rips piercing from his shirt as his body was forced larger and larger. Breathing deepened, low and dying becoming rampant and growling. Monstrous.

   A purple glow rushed through his veins, running higher and higher up his body before it reached his face. The last sound he heard is metal and glass crunching in his hand as his eyes were forced open.

   His eyes were forced open…

   His eyes were…

   …forced open.

   Ashton groaned, body leaning forward in his bus seat while he rubbed his head. He blinked his eyes a few times, trying to dispel the grogginess in them while taking in just where he was. Window beside him, sparse amounts of people in seats in front and behind him. Bus, evening, getting home from work…

   He sighed. "Shit, I missed my stop didn't I…"

   Eyes trailed upwards to look at the street display board, an act which only reaffirmed that statement. He was roughly seven or eight stops behind where he was supposed to get off to get home. Disappointed, he pulls the cord on the wall beside him which causes a soft ding to play out before an automated voice says, "Stop requested!"

   He then hauled up the satchel that sat beside him and stood up, walking his way towards the front of the bus so he could get off. All the while he had two thoughts in his mind. The first thought was that of plans to try to get home in a timely manner. Bus lines were rotating around his mind as he tried to come to some kind of conclusion as to what to take and where. 

   The other thought was of that dream he just awoke from. Of the visceral, realistic feelings it spurred. Of the strangeness of it. Of the meaning behind it. Why did he get it? What did it signify? Why did it feel so real? He could still smell the smoke. Taste the blood.

   "It's not real…" he muttered to himself as he turned to walk off the now stopped bus.

   The sky was a mix of a calming blue and burning orange, Ashton flinching slightly as it entered his peripherals. He chose to ignore it though, preferring to get a good look at the surroundings of this bus stop. The street was noticeably divided. One set of towering buildings and streets was on the side Ashton was on; meanwhile the opposing side had a different set, only reachable if you tried to hop into the rounded drainage ditch that cleaved the area in half. Or you could just walk over the bridge that was off to the side.

   He hummed to himself. He'd have to cross the bridge in order to reach the bus stop that would allow him to ride in the opposing direction back home, but that would be annoying since the stops in that direction are different from the stops going forward. He could also try to just walk home since he was only six or seven stops off, but the city's above ground infrastructure was annoying to traverse to say the least.

   He eyed the ends of the street for a few seconds, then crossed it to reach the sidewalk on the other side. It was evidently railed off thanks to the existence of the drainage ditch, but that didn't stop him from casually leaning over the railing to look into it. With the exception of a pitifully miniscule stream of water in the middle of it, the ditch was effectively void of liquid. His eyes trailed towards the two massive holes that were beneath the bridge nearby, the man casually thinking about how the sewer system the ditch drained into was barren as well.

   Come to think of it, there was a similar ditch near his apartment.

   Ashton's eyes widened as an idea formed in his head that instance. The city's sewer system likely wasn't the most convoluted network. It would probably be a simple walk in, take a right turn, walk out. The biggest problem would probably be the lighting, but…

   He fished his phone out of his back pocket. Twenty five percent. It was probably not enough for a sewer trek, but he assured himself he'd only be in there for ten minutes. It'd be fine… 

   …

   His reassurances didn't really work and he could tell this was a risky idea. But sometimes your city's infrastructure makes roaming around the sewer sound more appealing than actually walking around the surface.

   He idly thought to himself 'What's the worst that'd happen?' as he jumped the railing and slid into the drainage ditch. Even then he was only mildly confident in this idea as a whole…

                                        ----------------------------------------------------------

   Ten percent.

   If Ashton's presumptions were correct he might've been down here for thirty minutes. He could've sworn he wasn't lost, especially since he only took a single right turn towards what he would presume to be the drainage system closest to his apartment. And yet he felt like he was walking down the exact same tunnel for ages.

   The tunnel also looked nothing like he would have presumed one to look. It was just a concrete cylinder with a few pipes lining the sides and ceilings. Every so often he'd find himself walking past a large grated opening, although he wasn't sure if it was the same pipe every time or just a different one on the exact same side. At the very least this place wasn't completely flooded…

   His steps continued to echo through the tunnel as he walked. His shoes have garnered a substantial amount of grime as they stepped in the extremely small stream that endlessly trailed down the pipe. And evidently the only source of light he had was from his phone. At the very least nothing could come up from in front of him, especially with the intense luminescence of his flashlight.

   Nine percent.

   "Perhaps it's not too late to walk back," he grumbled to himself. Now he was realizing just how stupid an idea this was. He probably would be home by now had he not taken this 'shortcut'. "Stupid, stupid, stupid-"

   His annoyed sighs echo through the tunnel as well. At least the smell wasn't as repugnant as he would have expected, but it was still pretty terrible. And he was still alone. Just him, the dark, and his thoughts. He then stopped for a moment to lean onto the rounded concrete wall of the tunnel. Walking for so long non-stop was doing a number on his legs. 

   He considered just calling an emergency service before his phone could have the chance to conk out. It would be embarrassing to have to explain that he got himself lost in the city's drainage tunnels, but it also beats being stuck here for days on end. And… "Urgh, is the smell getting worse…?"

   Just the faint smell of sewage fluid and… smoke?

   "Wha…?" he raised his phone up and looked around both ends of the tunnel. Lo and behold in the direction he was heading towards was a small plume of smoke billowing from another tunnel that seemed to connect to the one he was in. It was faint, almost blending in with the darkness, yet it still stood out against the shine of his phone's flashlight.

   There was also no light emanating from the smoking tunnel.

   Against his better judgment Ashton quickly rushed towards the tunnel opening. Shining the light into the tunnel all he found was the same concrete walls, except with a small stream of smoke at the ceiling. The tunnel's end still had the void of darkness as well …

   …it couldn't be like that dream, can it?

   He took a step forward, and another.

   It couldn't have. There was evidently a fire in it.

   Another step, and another.

   Glass. Pain. He didn't even feel like himself in it. It felt like visions or the memories of someone else.

   His steps continued to echo again as he followed the small stream of smoke. Although it wasn't long until the slightness of it was changing and the stream steadily got thicker the more he pressed forward.

   The smoke of a flame was different. Pungent, disgusting, awful. In truth, this smoke smelled vile as well. But it wasn't the same as fires. It was reminiscent of something else.

   And yet his fear couldn't easily be quashed by such a notion. So much unfamiliarity, so much strangeness. It was evident nothing was right. And yet, Ashton remained curious.

   But was it true curiosity, or was it a compulsion…?

   It didn't seem to matter. The stream grew thicker, and the light began to reach a wall that only scattered and obscured it. The source of the smoke, he had presumed. And he still continued to step forward.

   He wants to investigate further.

   In an instant the smoke consumed him. He's surrounded in it, the dense grays and blacks layering around and onto him. His eyelids flicker as he tries to blink it out his eyes, and he can't stop himself from inhaling it. Strangely though, he doesn't cough. The smoke entering his body seems to get absorbed into it once it reaches his lungs. Almost as if it was becoming a part of him. This only caused his brain to grow foggy.

   The haze entering his mind caused him to steadily lower his hand, the light from the phone slowly moving further and further down. After a few seconds the light would be snuffed out, darkness falling into the entirety of the tunnel. The last tangible sound he hears is the echo that emanated from his phone hitting the concrete floor of the tunnel. Everything enters a pitch black haze after that, and Ashton was left unaware of just what the smoke was doing to him.

   In the dark there was a subtle slight swirling of smoke that seemed to spiral around his hands and arms. Dense dark vapors circled around both limbs, the constant whirling forcing changes in the areas that he had been left unaware of. The first was that in his hands, the smoke seeming to practically massage them both and force their size larger. Stretching them out more both horizontally, vertically, steadily growing with each passing second. At the same time there was a thickness settling into them, a sizable bulk being compounded as the muscle and bone within them was getting beefier.

   There was a concurrent set of alterations that was settling into each finger of his hands as well. At first they were thin and narrow, but with the increase in volume that was settling into Ashton’s hands it was causing them to get thicker as well. Meatiness being forced into each finger; density getting more pronounced and replacing their original thinness. Lengthening and thickening, getting all chunky. Almost powerful in a way. The tips of each finger seemed to blunt too, nails garnering a duller end as the man's hands garnered a more brutish appearance.

   That supposed brutish appearance was only enhanced as the constant flow of smoke added another layer to all the changes. A slight darkness was etched into his skin, the softness of both the front and back of his hands getting altered as a layering of aging was accumulating across them. Backs of each hand getting more weathered, dirty, scarred. A slight hardness formed across sections of his palms at the same time, the beginnings of calluses forming in the area above the dorsal transverse.

   The aging had also already quickly reached his arms, easily being accompanied by a slight layering of hair steadily sprouting down the back of each of them. Beneath it all came the bulking that had transitioned beyond his wrists and onto his forearms. A certain level of thickness etched into his lower arms, flexors and extensors both growing in tandem as the muscularity of the regions was getting further emphasized well beyond what they used to be. All a hard layer of strength, a heavy sturdiness constantly getting compounded as the muscles continued growing in size.

   His upper arms weren’t left behind as they too gained a drastic increase in musculature. By now the transformation had already reached beneath the rolled up sleeves of his shirt, but that didn’t allow them to be beyond the reach of the swirling fog that continued to fill his body with rapidly manifesting strength. Biceps getting bulkier, triceps ever increasing alongside them concurrently. It wouldn’t take very long for the creases that divided his muscles to begin to etch into the fabric of his sleeves. This happened more and more as time went on and more muscles bloated; deltoids swelling outwards while his shoulders broadened and increased in size. 

   At this point the small wisps of smoke had been getting more plentiful in their constant swirling around Ashton,small drags seemingly now starting to circle the man’s torso. Although by now everything had just gone numb for the man. He couldn’t tell if he was walking or standing still, he couldn’t hear and he definitely couldn’t see beneath the dense haze of eigengrau that had now consumed his vision. The ability to think was being greatly hindered at this point as well. It was almost like the smoke had clogged up his brain, dense and dazing him out.

   All he could really feel was… warmth. A warmth entering his arms, a warm in his chest. It was starting to make him sweat a bit. He let out a grunt, the sound falling onto deaf ears as he raised one of his massive hands up to his chest. His very core was heating up, and there was an odd feeling of squeezing in his upper torso. Everything was starting to just feel… tight. Evidently that may be in part because of the swelling his chest was beginning to undergo. The influence of the smoke evidently had moved to that area now, prompting the muscles in the region to steadily push forward.

   A crease had started to form in the middle of his shirt, subtle at first but slowly growing as his chest only continued to grow out more. Both pectorals were swelling, thickening in size more with each second that passed. The collar of his shirt got tighter as well as his body was forced wider, the size of it stretching larger and wider. As heat continued to bombard the internals of his pecs, meat amassing more and more, a small layer of fat was accrued in the area at the same time. This was accompanied by a dusting of chest hair forming, coarse in texture and brown in coloration. It also wouldn't be long until that light dusting got increasingly thicker in density as well.

   The hairs then started to trail down the man's midline, creeping downwards towards his navel at a steady pace. As it dusted across the skin of his abdomen, a churning emerged from within it as well. The region rippled, muscles bubbling and hardening as that area followed in the sudden garnering of muscularity. Abs slowly rising up from the once flat area, slotting outwards row by row until he was graced with a six pack. This new musculature would almost instantly begin to indent itself into his shirt, the tightness of it perfectly outlining his new form. 

   However this would be followed by a softness entering the area, the newly formed muscles quickly getting consumed by fat that accumulated rapidly. It wasn't an enormous amount of fat though, only garnering enough to smooth out the abdominal region by a small margin and give his muscles a softer appearance, but still would keep them visible.

   By now Ashton's breathing was quickening, causing the smoke to get inhaled into his lungs at a more rapid pace. Was it getting… familiar? Ugh, it was hard to tell. Hard to think. He just wanted to…

   While one hand was grabbing onto his chest, his other hand had started to grab at the neck of his shirt. He idly tugged on it in an attempt to relieve the tightness to any degree. His shirt had already seemed to be undersized, with his chest squeezing against the fabric of it to a point that his now deep cleavage was indented into the material. The bulky, meaty shelf that consisted of his two pecs constantly pushing at the front of the shirt, and his wider frame tugging at the sides. There was an almost primal urge amassing in his mind to just rip it apart. An urge that was getting more persistent with time, more annoying.

   He continued to tug at the neck of his shirt, and by now he had gone to grab at the portion that laid on his chest. The big, meaty fingers were gripping into the fabric more and more. The urge to rip it apart growing stronger and strong until-

   Shrrp!

   His shirt was partially torn down the middle. His massive pecs were finally allowed to breathe, and the smoke grazed his skin properly. Aging it more, causing more hairs to sprout upon it with bits of gray beginning to speckle it. He was breathing heavily with both his mouth and his nose, the smell and taste of the vapor assaulting his sense of taste and smell at the exact same time. But he didn't seem to care much about that.

   A hand loosened its grip on the fragment of torn clothing before ultimately disregarding it, letting the tattered remains just loosely hang off his torso. The hand just drifted back onto his chest instead. Drifted and… squeezed. Hard. For a moment his face tensed, teeth grinding together as the hand embraced the pectoral. But everything softened as he felt just how… squishy it was. How pleasurable it was just groping his own chest like this. Rubbing the hand around the pec, grazing a nipple, feeling the hairs beneath the palm of his hand. The warmth, the softness, the almost arousing feeling it gave him to commit such an act.

   The only way he could describe his mind now would be… melting? Thoughts vanished beneath the haze that perpetuated around his brain. All he could feel was emotions from his own acts. And yet everything still felt dulled. It didn't really feel like he existed in this space despite the smoke seeming to interact with him. Spiral around him, bombard him. All he could really determine was his own sense of self, which in and of itself felt shrouded. 

   He failed to stifle a moan from exiting his mouth as he continued to grope his chest. He could at least feel himself. The sweat slowly moving down his face and body, the low heat constantly erupting in his form. The constant pressing of his hand against his skin, the feeling of the smoke rolling across his form. 

   His throat itched. It might've been from the smoke, it could've easily been from something else. If Ashton still had enough consciousness to hear what's around him, he'd probably hear his breathing begin to deepen. The pitch and tone lowering more and more as he was feeling himself up. A husky gravelliness etching into it as the constant breathing of smoke seemed to slowly age his own voice. All the while his neck was thickening, head steadily growing alongside it.

   At the same time the changes were already transitioned downwards as well. The button of his jeans starting to strain against his now wider waist, the effect of the smoke having now reached his lower body. A tightness in his pants burgeoned, and it only increased further with each passing second as growth was formulating beneath his waist.

   This was first evident behind him with the seat of his jeans filling out. His rear was bloating, fat filling up the cheeks while his gluteus muscles expanded. A sizable amount of padding was what got added, overall rounding out his ass into a plump thickness.

   At the same time a bulkiness was being added to his legs. The upper portion of his legs was first, thighs growing thicker with the constant addition of muscle being added to them. The seams of his legwear already began to rip against his maturing hamstrings and quadriceps, the opposing swellings pulling his jeans apart at the sides. A few hairs also poked out the holes, a noticeable hairiness sprouting across his legs and cascading downwards.

   The crus of his legs practically burned, his calves swelling and bulging outwards in an instantaneous workout. The ends of his jeans started to run upwards as the bones of the limbs extended longer, some more inches being added to the man's height rapidly. More and more tears formed across the legwear, the continuously growing hairs progressing more and more downwards as the changes became shrouded beyond and beneath his footwear.

   The toecaps of his shoes started to slightly bulge, toes already beginning to push up against the ends of it as both his feet were forced to grow in size. These changes were practically the same as those on his hands; skin garnering the weathered look to it while an extremely light coat of hair was pressing further down the feet and towards his toes. His footwear progressively got smaller and smaller as portions of his feet constantly dug into the material. Heels pushed against the backs while the sides of his feet were doing the same with the sides of his shoes. By now as the bridge of his feet raised thanks to the thickening of both appendages his shoes began to pull apart, toes moving further and further to the point where they might as well break through the material. Rips and cracks pierced the air more and more as the shifts in size continued more and more until it all came to a crescendo. Blunt toes busting out the toe caps, moving forward more as they progressed an inch or two beyond the edge of the sole. Laces were torn apart, cloth splitting more as more portions of his feet were finally given the space to breathe. 

   Speaking of breathing, his own was seeming to be getting labored in a way. All these physical changes, all this haze in his head, it felt so tiring. Although that could easily be a factor from all the smoke he's inhaling. It was practically enough to replace any oxygen he would have preserved. And yet he continued, the taste and smell of the vapor constantly growing in familiarity even more as the changes progressed.

   You'll get used to it…

   Well, he already was wasn't he?

   "Nmgh, fuck…" he groaned out. The first sound he's properly hearing. His voice got so deep, so… accented. Mature, masculine, gruff, and powerful.

   "How'd it get this… dense…"

   He raised his head and looked forward. At least the smoke seemed to be slowly dissipating. He could see faint lights through the fog. Not the light of a flame, seemed way too… colored for that.

   He pulled the hand that was on his chest away from it and raised it up to his face, pressing the massive thing hard onto the side of it. He had to get out of this practically intoxicated haze he was in… And then he began to idly scratch at his face. An itch was setting into it, said itch followed by the feeling of hairs pricking against the tips of his fingers.

   Deep gray hairs were steadily growing down his face, seeming to have started at the tips of his sideburns and moving down the sides of his jaw. They were delegated to the furthest sides of his jaw for a bit, however as they grew closer to the chin the thickness of the newly sprouting beard got more prominent. Dense fuzz rolling across the lower halves of his jaw, maintaining that as they got closer towards the lowest point of his face. At the same time segments of graying hairs were stretching around and above his mouth, a thick and stubbly mustache being formulated by the new growth.

   The feeling of all this fuzz on his seemed to activate another weird urge within the changing man's mind. Scratching steadily shifted to rubbing, letting all the hairs brush against his palm as his mind was overwhelmed with the urge to feel up his beard. Feel up his… face?

   His originally unoccupied other hand soon followed, the man squishing the sides of his face. All of this seemed to cause another swatch of changes, the sensual rubbing appearing to practically sculpt his face beneath his hands. His jawline steadily chiseled out, chin growing flatter as the roundness faded into something more masculine and hard. The overall shape of his head was altered beneath his palms, growing out to be wider and more rectangular.

   His facial features were evidently altering as well. Skin getting older and more weathered as age was settling upon them. Nose broadened out more as the tip got flatter, and the bridge wider. The front ends of his eyebrows bushed while the back ends tapered out. Even more signs of age etched around his eyes as noticable bags formed beneath them, wrinkles around them. All the while the ends of his hairline receded until he had a slight M-shape indented into it.

   His hair itself wasn't left unchanged either as it slowly grew out a bit, darkening to a deep brown coloration as they did. The style was shifting into a more swept back appearance as the follicles lengthened out behind him, although they only got long enough to graze his upper neck. Either way, they had gotten longer than they were before with many bits of them sticking together and causing a look of thickness to form within his hair. There were also portions that stuck up slightly above other portions, bits that curled towards the end, all of which gave a slight messiness towards the ends of his hair. Last came the sprinkling of grays that formed in the portions of hair at his temples.

   A shock of bright blue entered his irises, a headache growing more and more prominent in his head. The smoke was getting less and less dense, although his mind and vision both remained hazy. Thoughts and memories were hard to formulate, his sense of self feeling like it was muddled and shifted beneath the fog that perpetuated in his brain. He would panic, but the smoke deadens it. The smoke deadens everything, the chemicals within it altering his own brain chemistry to a capacity. How much had he inhaled? He usually tried not to inhale enough to get this high. That felt like such a foreign thought, and yet it felt right.

   His breathing continued, each inhale forcing more smoke into him. Of course with it all spiraling around him and constantly pushing into his skin with age, forcing itself into his very form whenever it can, the density of the vapor was progressively getting less and less prevalent. The lights on the other end were becoming more visible, familiarity yet again creeping into the man's mind as they did so. Of course his body wasn't the only thing the smoke seemed to pelt with itself as the ashes finally started settling on his clothing.

   The density of his shirt steadily increased as the smoke got into the threads, the material shifting from soft to hard as it evidently shifted into leather. At the same time it was also changing color, deepening into a dark brown. The size of his shirt increased as well, and the rip that he had made seemed to extend further downwards in the middle until it hit the shirt's hem. The torn segment rippled as it appeared to smooth out and fix itself, shifting more into a proper split of something like a jacket. This was further exemplified by a small, flat collar blooming from the former shirt's neck. All the while a mostly white undershirt manifested beneath the jacket, his chest hidden again from the world as the newly formed and noticeably baggy attire covered it.

   His jeans were the next part to extend, sliding back down his legs while the tears at the sides sewed back up as if nothing happened. There still seemed to be a slight tightness within the jeans, but it wasn't uncomfortably so. Furthermore was the addition of a larger, darker blue patch that stitched itself to the legwear's right side. Meanwhile, manifesting out of nowhere was a metallic looking pauldron that strapped itself above his right knee. Similar 'accessories' seemed to appear around his body shortly after; such as a leather cuff forming around his left wrist and tightly holding onto it, and a thick and snug leather waist belt manifesting on the lower end of his abdomen.

   The last bit of clothing that had alterations was his shoes. His toes were consumed by the toecaps once again as the footwear started to increase in size. The damage done by his massive feet was easily getting reversed, the cloth fixing itself before shifting into hard leather. The soles of the shoes thickened, the now larger toecap got covered with metal, and the topline was increasing rapidly until it was nestled halfway up the crus of his legs. Any form of lacing was consumed by the leather, the newly changed boots seeming to mostly be smooth with only a few interruptions found within the material.

   All of those changes had caused the smoke to thin out even more, and it was only getting thinner with each passing second. With each breath that the man took. The world around him steadily grew more and more visible, the deep haze fading away into what seemed to be a dingy alley in the Lanes.

   Urgh, how did he know where this was?

   Such a question felt inane after just a few seconds. Of course he'd know where this was, he… lives here? There's a hint of doubt in that notion. There's doubt in a lot of notions really, but the fog within his brain wouldn't let it go. His mind was getting filled with conflicts. Conflicts between his interests, his personality, his age, his identity-

   "Need to cut back on the smoking…" he groaned before idly leaning on a wall of a random building that sandwiched this alleyway. A part of him was surprised it didn't curve inward, but the thought vanished just as quickly as it appeared.

   Still, more thoughts cropped up. That wasn't his voice, was it? And he never smoked, did he…? The more he questioned it the more the inquiries didn't feel right anymore. Constant thoughts of wondering what's right and what's wrong with him slowly but surely getting buried under a single notion.

   That notion was he must've been high as fuck.

   He used the wall as a crutch of sorts as he steadily inched forwards a bit more. The blurriness of the lights ahead had mostly been put into clarity, the man immediately calling forth the name 'The Last Drop'. Although a nagging feeling in the back of his mind was already being tipped off that something was off about it, but with the persistent fog in his mind it was hard to concisely trust that feeling in full right now.

   He turns away, fully leaning on the wall with his back now. Slowly but surely the feeling that this body was his was finally setting in. Any unfamiliarity or weirdness that came with it subsided as it practically felt like the connection between his body, mind, and soul was finally being forced properly. It made the density of the haze in his mind a little less prevalent, even if it still remained.

   Vander. At least he could still remember his name. A low, gruff chuckle escaped his throat. "Ain't that high yet…"

   Although he knew he never smoked this much. All he had to do was dredge up whatever memory existed that explained just how he got here.

   For that second the haze lifted as if to appeal to his demand. A small door that opened within his mind, although it was enough to inadvertently release a flood. Something in his face drained as the high stupor faded in an instant.

   Flames…

[decks-writing-blog]

Use This Power for Good

Summary: Gordon discovers that upon dying, he comes back and everything resets, including other people who had died.

[A/N] I'm a sucker for video game protagonists having the power to reset via death. It's neat and full of good angst opportunities. Also when I played Half-Life for the first time I was fairly save-scummy to save as many scientists as I could so upon Youtube reccing me a video about just how many it's physically possible to save, I of course watched it (I missed a bunch in my playthrough). Which, combined with the first thing, is what inspired this fic.

Also, my first Half-Life fic, yay! I'm late to the party but that's okay. Such is the case with most of the fandoms I write for these days.

Content Warning for temporary Character Death. He also commits suicide to purposefully trigger one of these resets.

~

Upon stepping out of the destroyed test chamber and realizing just how bad things had gotten, Gordon had been pretty sure he wasn’t likely to live much longer. The military showing up to clear out the alien invasion and all who knew of it made death inevitable. The HEV suit had done a lot to keep him alive but it could only do so much. But hey, he’d made it further than he ever would’ve thought he might, if he’d been given the time to think about it anyway. Along the way he’d helped as many as he could. Hopefully a few of them would be able to get out… somehow.

Gordon shifted in a vain attempt to make himself more comfortable. All he accomplished was sending a fresh stab of pain through his side as more blood welled out between his fingers. It was pooling on the floor around him and smeared on the wall behind him, filling the air with its now familiar coppery smell. If it spread a little further it’d soon start mingling with the pool of blood leaking out of the solider that had snuck up on him while he’d barely manged to fumble his way into taking out the rest of their squad. They’d died for the effort – Gordon may have never killed anything before today but he had been taught how to use a gun – but the fatal blow had already been made.

Perhaps something profound could be said about their blood mingling in death whilst surrounded by more dead, both alien and human alike. Something about the fragility of life even amongst beings from another world. Or maybe about how violence and killing wasn’t just a human trait but that of all life, regardless of its origin. … Or maybe Gordon was just starting to grow delirious with blood loss.

The end couldn’t be far off. His extremities, gone cold were now growing numb. He couldn’t even properly feel the blood oozing from where he clutched his side, his grip weakening letting it flow even more freely. Not that he’d been able to staunch it particularly well anyway. If his attempt to do so slowed his demise, it hadn’t been by much.

Darkness pulled at him, eating at the edges of his vision, tempting him to close his eyes and fall asleep. He didn’t. Fighting was futile but he’d known that for a while now, far longer than he’d been sitting here waiting to bleed out for. He was going to keep breathing for a long as he possibly could if for no other reason than to spite the world for just that little bit longer because fuck it for trying to kill him so hard.

~

Gordon blinked. Before him was a familiar hallway, leading to a closed door. On the other side of which would be a military squad, waiting to ambush him. He shouldn’t know that but he’d already gone through that door and… hadn’t survived the encounter.

Shaking a little, he looked down at himself. He was holding his shotgun as he’d been upon first going into that room, down but ready to snap up and fire should the need arise. The HEV suit was a bit scratched up and dented in a few spots but it was intact, no glaring hole in the side from an almost point blank shotgun blast that also tore up his side bad enough to leave him to slowly bleed out. It was fully charged too, meaning it could likely take such a blow and leave him only a little bruised. A quick check with the suit revealed all his ammo wasn’t as depleted as it should’ve been either.

What the hell was going on? One moment he’d been bleeding out, struggling for each and every breath. But now he was hearty and healthy again, as if the last twenty or so minutes hadn’t happened. … A dream or hallucination perhaps? This was the single most stressful day of his life after all, surely such things weren’t too far out of the question. It had felt so real though, especially the pain. Surely such pain couldn’t have been a dream. What else could it have been though?

If he went through that door, would the military squad be there again? Would the fellow who’d killed him? Only one way to find out.

He crept forward and pressed his ear to the door. … Nothing for a while but then… low muttering and the shifting of heavy boots. The door muffled the words to the point he couldn’t understand them but someone was certainly on the other side. Multiple someones since the speaker was most likely talking to someone else.

Straightening, he reached up and pressed the button to bring the HEV’s helmet up before adjusting his grip on his shotgun and bursting into the room. Exactly as before he was met with three soldiers immediately. Last time, he’d been somewhat surprised and had had to scramble. This time he knew exactly where to go and wasted no time in doing so.

Two more soldiers were waiting for him there but he was ready for them this time. As he got into position, he lifted the shotgun and blasted the closer one in the face, making their head explode in a shower of gore. Kicking the body into the guy behind them gave the perfect opportunity to blow their head off too. He hadn’t gotten a good look at either of their faces in either instance he was here but they had been standing in about the same exact spot. No time to think about that now though.

In response to Gordon moving to cover, the next two soldiers moved to the same positions as before. And then, sealing the deal that his death hadn’t been a dream, while Gordon was looking at them, the third came up behind him, ready to try to blast through the suit with a point blank shot while he was busy taking out the others. Knowing it was coming, Gordon turned and fired before they could get that close. Another close range head shot. Effective, especially with how heavily armored the soldiers’ torsos were, but gosh were they horrific. But with that guy down, the last two weren’t too much of an issue to take out as well.

As the gunshot’s echoes petered out, he lifted a hand to lower his helmet, allowing him to see properly once more. These military guys all looked similar, especially with their heads blown off, so there was still technically room to doubt they were the same ones he’d killed before dying himself. But they’d been in the same spots and had tried the same tactics to kill him so that doubt was rather small, bolstered only by the impossibility of not just Gordon coming back to life but the soldiers too.

Then again, before staring to work at Black Mesa almost a handful of years ago now, there’d been plenty of other things Gordon had thought impossible that proved to not be. Perhaps direct exposure to the resonance cascade had done something to him, altered the way time affected him or dropped him in a parallel universe upon dying. Or something else he was too frazzled to consider right now.

It was fascinating whatever it was. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to be back in the lab, studying it. … Except well, testing it would likely involve him dying some more or just again, assuming it could only happen once. In which case he didn’t really want to test it after all. After he got out of here, he’d try to find a way to study it that didn’t involve dying… assuming he ever got out of here. He’d just learned the hard way that, no matter how many aliens, zombies, or military goons he killed, he was still a soft squishy animal protected only by a hazard suit that even as advanced as it was, was still far from infallible.

~

Three more accidental deaths sealed the deal that when he died, he came back a seemingly random amount of time before that death. As before, with his death, everyone and everything else who’d also died in that time came back too, ignorant of the revival. Annoying when it came to the beings responsible for his death – though it did make killing them again easier – but a great good for the scientist he managed to save as a result. Which sealed the deal on him using this power for good.

How long had he been in this state? Presumably since the resonance cascade. If only he’d known, there were so many he’d tried and failed to save. Too late now though, he’d just have to do whatever he could to save everyone else that he could. … Which would undoubtedly mean he’d have to eventually face the decision of killing himself to reset things. Not a thing he was looking forward so he could only hope it wouldn’t happen soon. But of course it did.

The scientist screamed as the giant worm-like alien burst through the window to impale him with its sharp beak like protrusion. He kept screaming, his voice gurgling and wet, as it dragged him across the floor and out the window. It finally stopped a few moments later, leaving Gordon in a heavy silence as he stared at the trail of blood, leading to the broken window.

He took a couple steps forward and peeked out. There were three of them and they were huge. Or perhaps it was just one being with multiple appendages. Even after the horror he’d just seen it commit, it was still awe-inspiring. Alien life was likely just a complex and varied as that of Earth’s. Biology wasn’t Gordon’s passion or expertise but he still had an interest in it, enough to make him wish studying these beings were an option. … Especially since that would mean they wouldn’t be killing people because now he had to make a choice.

Continue forward and if he happened to die and come back at time to allow him to save the fellow he’d just watched die horribly or kill himself now and save him for sure. Not a comfortable choice. He didn’t even know the guy, this wasn’t the part of Black Mesa he worked in. But if he had the the power to help, he was morally obligated to, right? He certainly would’ve if he’d known it was an option back when he failed to save people he did know.

With a heavy sigh, he pulled out back stepped to where the alien creature couldn’t easily reach him through the window. That had looked a painful way to die, he had no wish to experience it. Instead he pulled out his pistol and placed it to his the side of his head. It was cold against his flesh, held steady only by how firmly he pressed it there. It would be okay though, he’d already died and come back four times, a fifth wouldn’t be too bad and this should be a much quicker death, maybe even painless. He would never be able live with himself if he had the power to prevent people’s death but refused because he was frightened.

If he had to do it though, it’d be really damn nice if he could send himself all the way back to the start though. Even if that meant restarting this whole nightmare, it’d be worth it. But even if he hadn’t known of his power then, he did now, meaning he had to use it. So after taking a deep breath, he held it for a few seconds before pulling the trigger.

~

Sirens blared as lights flashed and sparked around him, making him feel dizzy and unwell. Pushing himself up and the back to his feet, he looked around. … He was in the test chamber again, right after all everything had gone wrong. Seems, his thought of wanting to go back had somehow brought him back here; he had some control over whatever this was.

A good thing, this was what he’d wanted. But also… he’d made it so far. Now he had to do all that again. Lying down for a nap first would’ve been great but he didn’t have time. Lives were at stack and depending on him. Also, he was bound to learn more about this power of his along the way. That was going to be interesting, though likely unpleasant as well, to say the least. So he squared his shoulders, shook himself off as best he could and marched out to begin the nightmare again. This time, he was going to save everyone he possibly could, even if that meant dying a dozen more times.

[hurtcomfortficstilltheend]

Sometimes it´s just better (not to know).

Chapter one: The beginning of the end.

Lucy Carlyle x gn! Reader

Summary: When you get a gut feeling that something is targeting 35 Portland Row, and therefore your family; how far will you go to protect it?

or

Reader has Touch and the gift of premonition, and knows something is brewing. Lockwood is their traumatized cousin, Lucy their badass (and slightly confused) girlfriend, the relationship with George is a little rocky; but they would do anything to protect each other, as the family they are.

Warnings: angsty angstt, violence, a lot of nightmares and witchy stuff.

A/N: This will be a multichapter because I'm invested, reader is Anthony's cousin, and has the gift of precognition (and Touch).

Word count: 2.2k

Everything was quiet. Or your ears had stopped working. Maybe both.

There is no light, but you can perceive your surroundings. Ruins of something, a life maybe. It felt like the calm after the... or was it before the storm?

Something had happened. Something important, you guessed. Your body was spent, on the floor; your glazed eyes looking up at the sky. If not for the shallow movement of your chest, one would have thought you were dead.

You noticed that you were outside of your own body, watching from afar. Something had happened; something bad.

You saw when a figure put their knee, and with it their entire weight, onto the body’s chest. You weren’t inside it, but it still belonged to you. You knew how it could feel, but you were numb to the actual sensation.

A gasp was heard when the shadow brought out a dagger from somewhere in its clothing. The body lying on the floor hadn’t opened its mouth. There was a resignation written in its face as the eyes closed.

The blade made contact with the neck’s soft tissue. Grazing the skin, once, twice, three times, almost in a caressing motion. There was something unusual about the blood that oozed out. It seemed to float upwards in thin tendrils-

-the attitude of the aggressor changed. The air tested of ruthless violence when the figure held the weapon above its head. 

The knife fell down in the middle of the victim's face. A gut-wrenching scream was heard. The body didn’t move. One would expect blood to appear, but it never did. Pitch black smoke came out of the wound, the eyes, the mouth…

…The murderer turned towards you. Not your body, but your omnipresent conscience, the part of you that wasn’t in the real plane of existence. Behind the black hood there was, once again, impenetrable black smoke. 

Inky ghost fog comes out of the body -your body- covers the floor. You can’t see anything anymore.

The screaming continued, you noticed. Different voices, belonging to different people; it never stopped, and perhaps, never will.

-

“Love, wake up.” A helping hand through the black smoke. “Hey, hey. You’re here, you are safe.” A soft but sturdy grip in your arm, a subtle shake.

You open your eyes at last. There is no dead body, no attacker. Only the ceiling of your room in Portland Row’s attic and a familiar face. Trying to wake you up. You were asleep. 

Slowly, you start catching up with reality. You are home. “Lucy?” Your voice comes out hoarse. Your throat is dry, you notice. 

“It was just a dream darling, you were screaming.”

Oh. A dream. It was all a nightmare.

You incorporate, sit up and rest your back on the headboard. When you rub your face, you notice teartracks.

You stay like that for a while. Unfocused eyes staring blankly forward, you can feel your girlfriend’s concerned gaze on your side.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You shake your head. You don’t have the energy to talk, or at all. This happens quite often, with the lives that you carry and the horrors you see on a daily basis, it isn't weird to get horrifying nightmares from time to time. 

Still, this one felt different. Apart from your Touch; you inherited from your mother -and your ancestors way back, centuries before The Problem- the gift of precognition. Just like this dream, all the messages you get are sketchy and heavily symbolic. You would ask the Tarot cards in the morning.

If you could be honest with yourself, most of the time it doesn’t feel like a gift at all, knowing certain things takes a toll on you. It’s something heavy to carry.

Lucy reaches out to stroke your shoulder. You flinch and choke on air, jumping away from her. You didn’t mean to. Her hand retreats as if she’d touched a burning kettle, and the confused hurt in her face is evident. 

“Sorry.” You take her hand in between yours and place it on your chest for a bit. “Can we just sleep?” Your voice cracks. You know she can tell, she always does.

“Okay.” She whispers. She seems to understand.

-

When you wake up again, at quarter to nine in the morning, you decide to make breakfast for the team.

The house is quiet, your footsteps make the old wooden floor squeak.

Having brushed your teeth and checked Lucy’s still asleep, you go downstairs as is, barefoot and on your pajamas. You check the fridge and decide on pancakes for you and a mix of savory stuff and biscuits for the rest. You don’t get how anyone could possibly eat lunch for breakfast, but who cares.

A ticking noise catches your attention. You stop stirring the eggs in the bowl, turn around. The house doesn’t have a clock, does it? You get a wave of deja vu. The dream you had last night comes rushing back to your mind. You should really dig a little into it…

The kitchen door opens loudly. You let out a shriek, the whisk that previously had been in your hand is now striking the wall, right next to- 

-oh. Anthony.

“Good morning to you too, cuz.” He looks like he’s still asleep, his survival mode seems to not have been activated by the flying, egg covered, utensil.

You have a tendency to throw projectiles when threatened. Most agents do. Salt-bomb throwing training does that to people. “Sorry Ant. Shitty sleep.” He nods, as if saying it be like that sometimes and lets it go. “Eggs?” He nods once again.

You walk to the threshold with a rag, clean up the wall and retrieve the whisk, in one fell swoop. With your other hand you squeeze his shoulder as you pass by.

The others arrive not long later, and soon enough you’re all gathered around the table. You start scribbling on the thinking cloth with a random pen, alternating between munching on dry cereal and eating a pancake with milk caramel as a taco. “There isn’t a ticking clock in the house, right?”

Three pairs of half asleep eyes look at you, puzzled. “Nevermind.” Your loud cereal-eating ritual resumes. You gulp in one go what is left of your tea cup. “Remember that case we have scheduled for tonight?”

“The Geralds’ House?” George chips in, more alert, while stealing a pancake from your plate. 

“Yeah, that one. I don’t think we should go.” 

A moment of shock. A clatter of a fork hitting a plate.

“Why would we-?”

“We can’t cancel-!”

Lucy and George speak at the same time. The former rather confused, the latter downright defensive. Lockwood just stares at you. He lets out a breath, knows a quarrel is coming.

“I know we were all so excited about this one, but we can’t go. Not today at least, we have to postpone.” The back of your head starts to hurt, just like every time you are forced to change the company’s plans because of a gut feeling.

Anthony knows you very well, and knows not to doubt your judgment. He knows from experience your intuition never fails.

“You can’t just decide that for all of us!” George seems about ready to launch the table or something. If you didn’t know him as well as you do, you’d start running.

“If this is about last night’s nightmare-”

Your eyes lock on Lucy. Your cousin’s eyes lock on you. George is just fuming, and your girlfriend doesn’t know what she just unleashed.

“You had a nightmare?” Lockwood asks, you’re a deer caught in headlights. “Like a nightmare nightmare?” He sits straight up, suddenly very awake. You stare at your hands and start to fidget with your rings, leting out a quiet ‘yeah.’

“It’s settled, then. We do as they say. George, call John Gerald and inform him we have to delay the service by-” He looks at you expectantly.

“Two days, until I figure it out." Comes out of your lips.

“-two days. Lucy, you can go and check if your pet skull wants a cookie or something.” He seems energized -eager, even- but you can see right through him. He must be reliving the last time you had one of these nightmares, and the one before that; you knew you were. It never went well. For one reason or another, the times you had not been heard or taken seriously when stating things like this, it had always ended badly. 

When everyone stands up, deeming the meal finished, Anthony takes you by the elbow and almost drags you to the library, you don’t even have time to explain yourself to your girlfriend. He closes the door behind him. 

You settle into your designed armchair, and so does he. You stay quiet for a while, looking at each other's eyes, letting the news sink in. “I’ll bring the Tarot.” 

You both know what happened last time you read the cards about a nightmare. You do general readings quite often, but at times like this, it feels like stepping into the coffin. This type of reading always seems to be much more explicit and terminal than any other. Sometimes you just wish you were ignorant. 

A sudden vulnerability crosses Anthony’s face when he answers. “Yeah, we should… do that. Do you need me to light some incense?” You nod. It isn’t a necessity for divination, but you find that the smell helps to calm the energy somehow.

-

The library’s door is locked from the inside. With your deck on one hand, and the coffee table already set in front of you, you take a deep breath. You are sitting cross legged on the carpet, Anthony is right in front of you. Connecting with the cards is similar to using your Talent, but you get a sense of loneliness much greater. Even though visitors are not good company, they are there , and you find comfort in the knowledge that they were once human; with your readings it’s just you, and fate. 

You start shuffling. Alternate between riffle and overhand shuffle, a few minutes pass until you feel that they are in the correct order. You leave the deck on the table, cut it three times, place the cards face down in a V shape. You turn them around. 

The Tower.

The Chariot, upside down.

And Death .

Lockwood gasps. You try to keep your cool. This could mean anything, you know it. The meaning is not on the cards themselves -even less on their names- but their interaction and placement. You conjure your intuition. Against your will, your eyes blurry with tears, your head starts to pound.

A sudden change, a chaotic outcome; no way out, no direction or possibility of escape; a deep and irreparable loss.

No, it’s not going to go like that, I won’t let it.

A change in point of view, a new direction with an inimaginable outcome, a new beginning.

Too sugarcoated. Try again.

Something terrible, there’s no way to change it or make it better-

No.

“Anthony. Please shuffle.” You hand him the deck. He takes it, stares at you as he would a ghost. His hands start the movement as if in auto-pilot. “Take any card and put it wherever you see fit, don’t try to rationalize it.”

His hands seem clumsy, but he finally takes one and places it over The Chariot, he turns it: Six of Swords, upside down. It serves as clarification for the Major Arcana under it, the message sounds the same, no place to go, no way to run…

In the same motion, a card from the bottom falls into his lap. He goes to place it back to where it came from, but you gesture to the table. He leaves it right in the middle, above the new card. He doesn’t turn it. 

You get a feeling of finality. That is the last piece of the reading. No more trying to change things or ask for clarification. Your hand is trembling, a shiver runs down your spine. A second before seeing it, you know you are not going to like it. 

A lifeless body stares at you from the illustration, on the floor, impaled by Ten Swords.

That's you. 

No, no, it can’t be so literal, it never is-

A sudden, awful turn of events; no way to run, it’s coming towards you, even if you try to stop it; an impending doom, deep and permanent loss; you are already dead .

You don’t let it sink in, don’t let it fester in your mind. In one swift motion, you place every card back in the deck, and the deck back into its linen drawstring bag.

You look up. Lockwood’s eyes are brimmed with tears. “What does it mean?”

“We can’t stop it.” You croak out, you are already crying.

“What was your nightmare about? Maybe we can figure it out together, or find a way…” He trails off when you shake your head repeatedly.

“It’s not even about the Geralds case- Hell, if George still wants to, we can get it done tonight!! This is much bigger and it can’t be stopped.” High pitched, strangled words come out. You let out a sob.

He starts crying too, scrambles to get around the coffee table and hug you. You are both trying to hold onto one another, crying for everything that has ever happened to you, your family, and whatever seems to be coming your way. You can’t help but feel a bitter guilt, sharing this with him, he shouldn’t have to carry the burden of knowing if he is able to just not .

“Why does this keep happening to us?” A broken whisper, followed by an honest:

“I don’t know.” Spoken just as softly.

-

-

-

-

-

Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! Tell me if you want to be added to the Lockwood and Co or Sometimes it's just better (not to know) taglist, feedback is welcome :D

I do Tarot readings and this might or might not be slightly based on personal experience.

[ficbrish]

F.I.C.B.R.I.S.H.

Tagged by @sushee to make an URL playlist. Thank you! I love games like these!

Rules: Create a playlist matching the first letter of a song to each letter of your URL.

I'm completely obsessed with Vistarion [Astarion/Tav w my OC, Vistri as Tav], so I'll be extra af about this and choose songs that also fit my ship 💀

(Y'all I'm obsessed 😭)

BG3 SPOILERS BELOW

F - "Feeling Myself" by Nick Hakim [Spotify] [YouTube]

This is so Vistri and Astarion starting to fall in love. Maybe Act II, before they confess that this is something real. It's there, and it makes them happy, and they don't know what to do with it.

I - "I Dropped Out" by And The Kids [Spotify] [YouTube]

After the Cazador fight, like right after killing him. The time between that and the graveyard scene. They have their lives back, but both of them are also super triggered. (Vistri killed her abuser pre-canon, and Dark Urge Vistri has a slightly different version of that.) They're both just reeling, hopeful, and ragged. It's a brand new world.

C - "Come As You Are" by Nirvana [Spotify] [YouTube]

Accepting each other for who they are, as well as accepting themselves. They don't have to be perfect, they can just be Vistri and Astarion. This is a good thing, but it's also got a very deep pain attached to it for both of them. They're afraid of it, but it's also welcoming because they're there to accept and celebrate everything they learn about each other.

B - "Blah Blah Blah" by The Oozes [Spotify] [YouTube]

Their initial meeting. When Astarion tackles Vistri and holds his dagger at her throat, and she finally feels something other than numb. They don't trust each other because they recognize how similar they are right away. It's unsettling. They're drawn to each other and despise each other because of it. Flirting is knives. Their charms and witticisms are a subtextual war.

R - "Rocket" by Beyoncé [Spotify] [YouTube]

Act III, post-Cazador. Y'all know what this one is. Completely involved, devoted, passionate, rough lovemaking after they decide to live their lives again. Indulgently in love.

I - "I Found Out When the Day Had Come" - bb sway [Spotify] [YT]

After sleeping together that first time. It was "just fun" but they feel a euphoria they're not used to feeling. They have no idea they're falling in love.

S - "Sanctuary" by K.ZIA [Spotify] [YouTube]

Vistri and Astarion finding safety in non-sexual intimacy together after a lifetime of hypersexuality as a trauma response. Just laying together, holding hands, and talking for hours. Not needing to do or be anything. Not needing to perform to be worthy. Loved and adored exactly as they are without giving anything.

H - "HEATED" by Beyoncé [Spotify] [YouTube]

Post-canon. Astarion and Vistri ruling over the 7,000 vampire spawn in the Underdark. Happy, thriving, fabulous.

Tagging: (No pressure at all!) @malabadspice @ourladyofmaplemurder @elfjpeg @girlstandstill @lauraceaaee @tealenko @unicorn-farm @vela-ad-astra @ace-trash-boi (And anyone else who sees this and wants to play!)

[madaboutmunson]

I kill the lights, now, baby, watch me explode

I Think I Could Have Been Someone - Chapter 8

Ao3 Link

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Link to fic overview and all parts

Chapter Summary: Steve makes a nightcap get way out of hand

Author Notes: This is a mature story, definitely 18+ only.

Tags/Warnings: rockstar!AU; band; touring; music industry; alternate universe; drug usage; alcohol abuse; performing; enemies to lovers; road trip; stobin; platonic stobin; platonic with a capital P; canon typical violence; angst; masochism; fist fight

Word Count: 4.2K

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I Think I Could Have Been Someone - Part 8 - Steve POV 

Steve blinks back at him, mouth partially agape. His world's walls slowly crumble and ooze away as he asks, "What do you mean, you just wait for the marks to be hit?"

"This is off a fucking list. I used to do this shot all the time. I've done it for countless artists." Eddie bites back.

Steve shakes his head. No, there must be some mistake. Eddie had captured him. The real him.

"Don't believe me?" He grabs Steve by the arm and yanks him over to the laptop, roughly shoves him into the chair in front of it, as he types ‘barrier’ into the search bar. As the results hits fill the screen, Steve's heart empties, "Open one. Anyone you like." Eddie taunts him.

Steve swallows hard and gingerly opens a file. The air is taken out of him. It's almost identical, except the people are different. Forever greedy for hurt, Steve starts opening the others, and with each one, a new droplet threatens to form on his lash line.

"It was just chance! You ruined my life for something I could have explained in a matter of seconds!" Eddie yells, and all Steve can do is look at him and blink a tear from his eye.

"Just chance," Steve repeats, eyes locked on Eddie but not looking at him, through him. He'd been so wrong.

The rattling of the door gets louder.

"Do you have any idea what you did when you put up that fucking post?" Eddie paces, shouting at the top of his lungs, but Steve cannot respond. He feels numb. The one thing he'd been clinging to all this time wasn't real, either. His head swims with nothingness. All he can do is look and listen. Eddie squats down so his face is level with Steve's, "Let me fucking enlighten you, asshole!" He spits through gritted teeth, "First of all, I was harassed relentlessly personally, publically and online, as were the people around me. Then, because of that backlash, people didn't wanna work with me anymore. Then, of course, my savings are dwindling as I'm trying to keep a non-existent business afloat. Now I'm losing money, now I'm in debt, ok, and for you and your little horde of fucking fanatics, it's still not enough. I couldn't market my business without getting snide comments or being reported, so I'm working off networking and word of mouth. Which, as you can appreciate, is tiring and soul-grating. And then you all finally win. I'm at my lowest. Money was helping me achieve my dreams. You took it. Photography was my passion. You took it. My Happiness you stole. My love, you stole him too. And for what, Steve? For fucking what? A fucking ridiculous picture. I saw nothing in. It was a checked box. That's all." Eddie's chest is heaving, spittle flies out his mouth in a rage, and all Steve can do is watch as his insides fall apart, piece by piece. Eddie stands up to walk away.

Something in the abyss of Steve stirs. It glows a firey red, orange, yellow in the dark until it's white-hot and rapidly expanding.

Steve springs out of his chair, grabbing Eddie by the collar and sending the desk contents clattering to the ground as he sends them both reeling towards the wall until Eddie's head bashes against it.

"Where do you get off speaking to me like that, fucker?" Steve quietly seethes through his clenched teeth, "Do you know who I fucking am?" He picks Eddie easily off the wall and roughly shoves him back into it, making him yelp, "Got nothing to say now, huh, tough guy?" Steve twists the collar of Eddie's shirt and tightens it around his neck, "Is that why you agreed? To make a fool of me?" Eddie's face starts to redden, and his eyes begin to tear up. "Here is what you don't understand. You jumped up, little prick. I fucking own you. You do what I want. What I fuckin' say! Understand?" Steve sneers, as he listens to Eddie make a choked noise before releasing him. As Eddie slides to the carpeted floor, he crouches down to meet him, looks directly into his glassy, deep brown eyes and whispers, "My money will always be louder than any tantrum you could dish out. People are outside that door right now, biting at the bit to use their training on someone. So I suggest, unless you want that someone to be you, you shut the fuck up and be a good little photographer and take some goddamn pictures."

Eddie gets to his feet, and Steve mirrors his movement and scowl, "I fucking knew it would be like this. You're just what I thought you were. A walking stereotype. You're a piece of shit."

"Me? No, man. That's you all day!" Steve laughs, "Stereotype, maybe, but you are the only piece of shit here. I told you what that picture meant to me, and you fucking ate all that praise up on the plane, but once something didn't go your way, you lashed out. Have you ever thought that the reason you lost so much wasn't because of me but because of how you reacted to it? Maybe you would have thrived on the attention if you manned up."

"Oh fuck you! We aren't all attention sluts like you, ok? Some of us have creativity in our bones and a passion for what we do that isn't based on how big our house is."

"Do not ever presume that I don't have passion for what I do. I have plenty. I don't throw in the towel like some people."

"You can't even play an F major chord properly. You play the cheat version!"

"What are you even talking about? This is ridiculous!" Steve throws his hands in the air with a sarcastic laugh.

"No, buddy! What is ridiculous is that I'm still standing in this room with you. I don't need this shit. This project is over. Stick your money up your fucking ass!" Eddie seethes and walks over to his stuff to pack it away.

"You know what. Fine! Now I know you don't have the talent to capture what I thought you had. I could hire anyone to do your job!"

"Back to talent again. Do you think any of your peers like your stuff? Or do you just have a rabid set of fans you cultivated because of your appearance? And as you bury yourself in the ground line by line, gram by gram, they clamour for you more, but one day Harrington, they aren't gonna give a shit because the next new thing will be out, and you will be forgotten. As you should be!"

"You know what? If this is how you prey on people’s insecurities when you don't get your way, I can see why he left you."

"Say that again!" Eddie threatens, pointing viciously at Steve.

"What are you gonna do about it if I do? Hit me? You don't have the balls!"

"Oh no?" Eddie’s eyes widen, leaning toward Steve.

"Absolutely fucking not. You've got coward written all over you. It oozes out of you. You wouldn't dare. Go on, take a free shot."

“Mr H! Can you let us in, please? We’ll remove him from the premises.” Robin yells from the other side of the door, rattling it. He can hear her vain attempt at keeping her voice level and calm.

Eddie laughs, “That’s right, big man Harrington is gonna start a fight for his minions to finish,” he rolls his eyes, “I’ll just leave to prevent further injury from your fucking estate.”

“We’re fine, Buckley!” he turns back to Eddie, “I’m serious, go ahead, hit me. Put those years of pent-up frustration into a fist and send it my way.”

“What, and get sued for destroying your moneymaker face? I’m not that stupid, thanks”.

Steve just stares back and almost smirks.

"Do not try me!" Eddie threatens, the intense anger emanating from him. Steve can feel Eddie is right on the edge of doing something stupid, and Steve wants him to. He wants Eddie to hurt as bad as he does. He wants to make him feel so small and powerless that all he has left is violence.

Steve lifts the metaphorical hammer high to drive the final nails in the coffin of this partnership. He knows Eddie’s buttons and will keep pushing until he breaks him. "Your partner left you because you were an asshole to them, not because of me! Because you are a weak and selfish man. Because when the going got tough, you let the fallout hit everyone, didn’t you? Your precious boyfriend had no choice but to leave you, Munson. Otherwise, they would have got dragged under with you!"

Eddie launches himself at Steve, sending them crashing into another wall. His eyes ablaze, searing into Steve’s as he slams him against the wall, “Do, fucking, not ever speak about him. You hear me? You fucking junkie!” Eddie seethes through a face twisted with pure fury before Steve feels Eddie’s entire weight pressing on him now. A sliver of panic pierces him, concerned about what this man could do, how angry he was. Right now, it wasn’t as if Steve wouldn’t welcome the respite from betrayal and disappointment that a violent death might offer, but did this guy deserve to be the one to do time for it after everything? A tensed hand finds Steve’s throat. Eddie was not playing around anymore. He was livid, “A dumpster fire of a creature like you doesn’t get to comment on my relationships. Not after you openly cheat on your doting wife, and then the people you cheat on her with you want to be cuckolded by. What is wrong with you? You have everything. Four platinum albums, homes worldwide, money, awards, and accolades. Half of what you fucking have could change the life of a small town, and yet you squander it on your wares and wants and the chemicals propping up your zombie-like form. You’re disgusting to me. Vile, scum of the earth.”

Steve starts laughing under Eddie's grip. A few gentle laughs at first, but they get louder. Eddie looks at him in disgust, shoves him,  and walks away. His body is still tense and angry, but the absurdity is enough to make him back off. But Steve isn’t doing himself any favours by continuing, but he can’t stop. He’s realised something.

Steve shakes his head and catches his breath, “You tragic, pathetic little man, Munson. I just realised why you’re so pissed at me. Why didn’t you just dislike me and become indifferent over time.” Eddie's glare snaps towards him, his form slightly hunched in anger. Steve stands tall, rests a hand on his belt buckle, and drops his head to the side with a cocksure smile, “You were a fan.” He enunciates every word clearly, and each one takes Eddie down a peg or two, “Oh, isn’t this just the tastiest morsel of this whole thing.” Steve claps his hands together, “Bet your ex looked like me too, huh?”

“Keep him out of your cesspool mouth, Harrington, or I swear I’ll do it for you!”

“And now the guy at the hotel makes sense.” Steve laughs, overjoyed he's finally put the pieces together and is making Eddie miserable about it.

“ Guy at the- You’ve been spying on me? Is that why your cronies were there? Oh my god, please don’t tell me that is why he was suddenly working on your plane! You absolute psychopath!” Eddie says, folding his arms across himself in disbelief.

Steve ignores the questions, “And you think my wife dotes on me? Oh my god, hilarious, and Heidi? Please. You know why they’re there, and it has fuck all to do with me.” Steve laughs again.

Then Eddie pauses like pieces are forming together in his mind, like he realises how he’s been duped too, but unfortunately for Steve, that isn’t what Eddie is deducing at all.

He looks him straight in the eyes, a flicker of a smirk, “You wanted me! Didn’t you? How you stopped in the doorway, how you used Heidi as bait. Then you asked me outright if I was gay, and all your little minions laughed, but you genuinely wanted my answer, didn't you?” 

Steve’s inside freeze, but he has to keep up appearances here. This guy could ruin him, “Please! That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard. Get over yourself!”

Eddie’s smile widens, and his eyes scan over Steve. He folds his arms,” I bet you do that a lot, don’t you? Lure unsuspecting men into your bed. So you can watch them go at it with someone else, wishing it was you, don't you?” 

“You need to watch your fucking mouth.” Steve growls and points at him.

“Oh, it does have feelings.” Eddie mocks, “Here’s the thing. See,  I don’t need to say anything at all. This whole thing is being recorded. It’s making its way up into The Cloud right now. Forgot about that, didn’t ya?” Eddie beams a toothy, self-assured grin back at him.

Steve does not know how to deal with this guy. Could he offer him more money to keep quiet? Though nothing was confirmed, Steve knew the conversation had already implied enough. He could blackmail him until the end of time with this. Every fibre of his being hates this situation, stuck under someone else's will again and over something so natural, but Eddie doesn’t realise the problem he’d be creating if he did leak this. A scandal was one thing, but Steve needed his career, which would always be his Achilles' heel. Eddie sought revenge, and he wasn’t going to get it without ruining Steve, and Steve could not let that happen. He needed to keep this together.

For a moment, he looks directly at Eddie in defeat. He thinks about asking him what he wants for the recording? What’s it going to take to delete it? But Eddie looks smug, and Steve can’t stand it. In Eddie's face, he sees the rest of those bastards around their boardroom table, he sees the face of his father and last of all, he sees himself, and that is all it takes for Steve to charge at him, rear back his fist and send it crashing into Eddie’s jaw. Steve expects him to go down like a sack of potatoes, but he seems to just absorb it with a grunt and a turn of his head. Now, Steve starts to panic. He hadn’t thought any of this through past this point, but now he knows what must happen. As it stands, Eddie has rumour mill dirt on him, and Steve just assaulted him. He needs Eddie to retaliate. This has to look like a two-way thing to save Steve from losing the most essential thing in his life.

Eddie rubs over where the blow landed and sets his jaw, “I think we’re done here.” He goes to pick up his belongings, but Steve cannot allow this. He reaches over when Eddie's back is turned, drags him back by the hair and spins him around to land a jab to his guts. And this time, he keels over and down he goes, to his knees, gasping for air.

The door rattles again, and Steve turns toward it, yelling, “Do not come in here. That is a fucking order, Buckley! Do your job and fucking listen! Anyone that comes in here is gonna get fucking fired!” As Steve turns back to goad Eddie further, he feels a kick to the back of his knees, collapsing his legs underneath him, and a bony set of knuckles slam into his lower back just before he crumples to the floor, with a hiss from between his teeth, as he reaches for the site of pain. As his back arches backwards in response, he feels himself being dragged up to his feet, his eyes still clenched shut. An almighty whack meets his face, and he’s sent reeling right back to the floor. A boot on his chest pushes him onto his back, and he slowly and cautiously opens his eyes to look up at the man standing over him but immediately has to shut one due to the sharp sting of pain.

He can roughly make out Eddie standing over him, panting so hard his shoulders and chest visibly rise and fall. He’s just staring, maybe shaking. Steve makes a move to sit up, and a sense of relief appears on Eddie’s face for a second, “We’re done here. Stay down!”

Steve knows he should stay down, and this will be over. They both have their own leverage now. They’ve both channelled their anger, but something curious is stirring inside him. His body aches, his head feels fuzzy, and his skin feels alive. He feels high, and he’s not ready for this to be over. He can’t ask. That might come across as pity-inducing, and he’s not after Eddie’s mercy, far from it.

So he uses the couch to drag himself up to sitting first. 

“Are you an idiot? I said stay down.” Eddie sounds more annoyed and regretful than angry, and Steve can feel what he craves slipping out of his fingers. He quickly pushes himself up, and the room spins, but he’s standing. With a grunt of effort, he shoves Eddie whilst trying to find a centre of balance, “Look, that’s enough. I’m gonna go and let Buckley in, ok? I shouldn’t have done that.”

Steve doesn’t reply, scowls and shoves again, with both hands this time, making Eddie stumble backwards. “Hey, I said enough!” Eddie snaps at him, and Steve can taste the hint of anger in it. Eddie doesn’t like being pushed around. He grabs Eddie’s T-shirt material and gathers it in his fists, one of which is starting to throb from where he’d hit him. He yanks Eddie towards his face, their noses almost touching, and Steve watches his eyes widen with fear until Steve shoves him back with all his might, sending him crashing back into the desk that Eddie just gets a hand to to prevent him from falling to the floor. His eyes are still wide, looking at Steve like he’s insane, and maybe he’s right. He feels insane. But Eddie isn’t retaliating.

Frustrated, Steve begins to stalk, paces towards him, squares his shoulders, grabs hold of Eddie’s jaw, and turns it left to right to see the red bloom of a bruise in the making. Eddie stays still, eyes wide, his mouth partially open to breathe shallow breaths.

“Harrington, what are you doing?” Eddie says as if he’s trying to get through to Steve. He looks confused and tries to wriggle away, but Steve has him in too tight a grip. Steve decides Eddie isn’t going anywhere, and that is precisely what will happen. He feels Eddie make jerky, uncertain movements to push him away, like he’s trying to find the magic combination that will get Steve to let him go without enacting any more violence. But Steve has the leverage and uses it to his advantage, looming over him, squeezing his jaw tighter. Eddie's teeth grit as he kicks and pushes back, but Steve does not relent. These little pushes and squirms weren't what he wanted from Eddie, “You’re crazy, Harrington. Let me go,” Eddie hisses through his teeth, and Steve almost laughs as he can feel him trying to knee him between the legs, but Steve just presses himself closer, forcing Eddie awkwardly backwards, with no room to flail anymore, but he’s still not fighting back enough. Steve’s hand slips down to his throat, and he squeezes. Eddie’s eyes flash with panic, and he grasps onto Steve’s offending forearm and croaks out a pitiful “Stop.”

Steve lets his eyes trail over Eddie’s features  as he shakes his head gently and tightens his grip, “No.” He says softly and squeezes again, watching the redness and panic fill Eddie’s face as his fingernails dig into Steve’s arm, sending shivers up and down his spine.

Then, in desperation, Eddie launches forward, making a choked-out noise in the process, as hurtling forward presses his throat further into his grip. Something hits the back of Steve’s legs and sends him reeling back towards the carpet again. He lands with a hard bump to the back of his head, Eddie’s neck still firmly in hand. But soon, his grip is relinquished as Eddie wails blow after blow on his arm until Steve feels a euphoric numbness spread throughout it. He looks up at Eddie, there is no pity or panic in his eyes now, only survival, and Steve is the only obstacle in his way. 

Even when Eddie is free from his grip, he doesn’t stop his physical onslaught. Eddie pins his forearms down by his sides with his knees, pushing his weight onto them, and Steve wonders if one might snap. Licks his lips at the thought of the potential exquisite pain, but before he can dwell for too long, a succession of well-placed jabs begin to litter his torso. Each one is the same cycle: instant pain, a blast of euphoria and the warm hum of blood rushing to the site before it flows much more hurriedly south, sending his head into a dizzying spin. Eddie’s eyes ablaze with anger almost thrill him more, but he can feel Eddie slowing either from effort or realisation, but Steve isn’t ready for this to be over. He needs his hands on him.

Quick as a flash, Steve bends his legs towards his chest, using them to grip hold of Eddie’s torso, and with searing pain, he uses all his strength to flip them over. Eddie flails wildly, trying to keep Steve’s brutal swings at bay. Some land, some don’t, but it was immaterial at this point. All that mattered was  Eddie was touching him, and if this violence was the only way he could have it, then so be it. He’d hurt him, some part of him hated him for being so cruel, but another part of him still wanted him. Needed him.

The flip-over happens again. Eddie, gripping his shirt at its shoulders to pin him down, looms over him, reddened, swelling starting to appear on the face that his wild hair was trying to hide. Steve braces himself for another glorious torrent of Eddie’s rage, but Eddie is just looking at him. His breath is shuddering, “Enough.” He pants.

Steve turns his head to the side, exposing his neck, like an act of submission, looks Eddie directly in the eye, and proceeds to bite down on his wrist. A hard slap meets the side of his face with a heated sting, followed by a hissed, “You’re insane.” 

Eddie’s hands retract as he inspects the damage, and Steve doesn’t miss the opportunity to have Eddie flat on his back again. Something unexpected happens as Steve rears his fist back to send reeling towards Eddie’s body. Eddie grabs hold of his shirt and pulls him right down with him. A creative act of self-defence, Steve thinks, as he’s being crushed in some sort of bear hug submission hold. He realises this might be the end of his fun, but then a new problem becomes apparent, something that hadn’t been a problem for almost a year now, and it might be that which loosens Eddie’s grip. As his body had been flush against Eddie, so had his growing arousal. He laughs with relief that everything still might be in working order. He thought it had been done for.

He pushes himself up a little, and now the grip is loosened. Face to face, noses centimetres apart, Steve waits for inevitable looks of pure repulsion or to be shoved away, but Eddie’s eyes will not meet his, and he’s swallowing hard. He’d got so caught up in this feeling he hadn’t realised maybe Eddie was freezing, newly afraid of something much worse that Steve might be capable of doing in this state, and that was enough to take the wind out of his sails, and he tries to get up, to give Eddie room.

As he pushes up, there is resistance. Eddie’s arms are no longer tightened around his torso, but his strong hands are splayed out on his back, keeping him in place. Steve looks back at him, and this time, their eyes meet, and both struggle to catch their breath. Steve watches as Eddie’s tongue glances over his swollen bottom lip. They must stay like that for a few seconds in the quiet, Steve busy searching Eddie’s eyes for what to do next. Unsure, he tries to push back again, but Eddie’s hands pull him back down, closer this time. Eddie’s every breath is moisture against the corner of Steve's lips.

“What do you want from me?” Steve mutters, desperately trying to tear his gaze from Eddie's mouth to look into his eyes.

“Nothing. I hate you,” Eddie replies breathily in the least believable way possible, almost like he is trying to convince himself it is true.

“Then let me go,” Steve mutters, his nose and lips brushing featherlike against Eddie’s cheek as he speaks. His prize is a shuddering breath and a growing pressure against his thigh.

“No,” Eddie says firmly, in a low register rasp that almost makes Steve’s thighs quake as it vibrates through him.

“What do you want from me?” Steve repeats the question into Eddie’s ear in a whisper.

Eddie's hands lower to the back pockets of his jeans and grip on firmly, “Only everything,” he replies.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Songs that inspired this chapter:

Frantic - Metallica Heart Attack America - The Bronx

[bitterbelphie]

It's a lot of dishes.

It's easy to think so, but it's more like you just have six brothers and a house guest- And one of them in particular has a reputation for how much they eat. It's a normal amount of dishes, relatively... But unless you're expecting a cafeteria amount of work, listen. It's a lot of fucking dishes.

It's fine, you think. You try not to think past that, try to let the droning of the water rushing out of the faucet keep your mind numb. Try to appreciate the solitude you have being the only one on dish duty today. Wash the day off like all the scraps and crumbs off the plates, the cutlery... Look at the designs on them that you've been looking at for who knows how long.

Of course, it's just as you're finally settling yourself into the idea that it's fine that the quiet is broken.

"Belphie?"

A voice like bells. Part of you is soothed, and another is agitated, exhausted- You'd prefer to be agitated. You turn your head just enough to peer at them- White hair and bright eyes, shorter than you but the way they stand straight while you slouch tends to make you both look about the same height. They're wearing comfortable clothes in corny snowflake patterns for the cold weather despite the warmth inside, and an expression that toes the line between hopeful and cautious.

Winter, the exchange student. The human.

"Win."

They take your level acknowledgement as an invitation, smiling with some relief and making their way next to you. Part of you wishes they didn't, part of you is relieved not to be so alone for such an arduous task in such a big kitchen, and all of you hates how exhausting it is to be split down the middle about this all the time. You go back to focusing on what you're doing while they shamelessly and now fearlessly simply reach in to the sink to start helping you. Like you asked. Like you said they're allowed... Like it's normal to do.

"I thought Beel would be in here, you know? Is he that busy that he can't save you from his own plate pillars?"

"Mm... I think he said something about a work out thing. I wasn't going to stop him, he looked determined..."

What a boring conversation. You try to cut to the chase, you're too tired for small talk.

"What do you want?"

Win frowns. You aren't looking at them still, but you can see in your peripheral the way they turn their head. Feel their eyes on you as you scrub and place another plate like it's nothing to you, none of this is. Start on another mindlessly.

"You-." They pause to compose themselves, and the discomfort begins to ooze out. You're not even looking at them and you can see through them. "I've been worried about you, Belphie. I wanted to check on you... Everyone's worried about you, you know?"

There's a dissonance that spreads in your soul. Something that just itches wrong about that comment. You push it down, scrubbing, placing, but your tone falls a little flatter.

"That's not my problem. I'm not telling anyone to do that, so..."

How you're digging your heels in comes through a little more honestly than you'd like, and you wish you could go back and sound more careless than annoyed, but what's done is done. It makes them scoff a bit, shifting their weight away from you as if you've been any more outrageous than usual. They're too comfortable... And you wish they went away more now.

"Not your problem? Isn't that a little rich? You've been in a bad mood for what has to be... What. Two weeks? If you keep it up, you're going to start attracting things. Bringing shades home from the Mausoleum or something."

They're trying to be funny, to lighten the mood... It'd work if you weren't so irritated suddenly. How when you finally look over at them, they must see something in it, because you can see some of that confidence and comfort slip out of their posture, their expression. How suddenly they aren't so sure they wanted you to look over so bad as they did a second ago...

You press on the pressure point without hesitation.

"That's fine. I doubt anyone's all that worried about me when they're tripping over themselves to hang out with you. I mean, are they telling you all that themselves? Or is it just you worrying while you're going out shopping and getting invited to study groups?

You know how many times anything got said to me by someone that wasn't you about those little trips and get togethers? I'll give you a hint- It was none of them. Zero. That doesn't scream 'worried' to me."

Another scrubbed plate is stacked in the rinsing sink with punctuation. You take your gaze off of them finally, moving along... You're making progress, but Winter's stopped in their tracks. They look embarrassed... You feel bad. You feel satisfied. You're so tired.

"... Belphie...

Are you..."

"Don't."

"You're jealous?"

You sigh with disappointment and irritation, brows creasing with the added weight to everything.

"Don't say stupid things. I can't stand it when you act stupid. You think that little of me?"

"..."

There's a quiet. The only sound is the sink running for a heavy moment, a nonverbal understanding that there's something wrong, and neither of you know exactly how to make it better.

What you did to them... What you did to each of your brothers in doing so, the scars of it are out in the open and you don't want anything to do with it but to mourn what you can't put back together, again and again. Do they understand it? You can't just ask about it in the kitchen, anyone can walk in and ruin it and your mood will only get worse.

"... Um. I didn't mean, Belphie..."

You shake your head.

"It doesn't matter... I don't actually care that much, so don't get all... mousy. It really gets on my nerves."

You can see them purse their lips, and know that you struck a bit of a nerve back with that one. You feel satisfied. You feel guilty. You're tired... And you keep going.

"Speaking of getting on my nerves, stop being such a tryhard. If my brothers wanted to invite me, they'd do it. How do you think I feel when it's always you doing it? I'm not even an afterthought, and here you are, seven entire demons, just... Around, whenever you want.

I'm not interested in being... A set, even if we have a pact and everything."

They sound almost sick when they leap to defend themselves. You don't hate watching them squirm about it.

"That isn't... At all, what's- That's not it at all. You don't really think that. Do you?"

You reach out to shut the water off, since none of you are doing anything with it- The silence punches harder than anything you could say. You look at them- Look them right in the eye, and cruelly you hold it. You know how you look... Empty. Tired. This time, they may not look afraid of you, but the feeling they do experience must run much deeper than just a plain anxiety.

They frown, glum. Almost miserable. You want to relish more in their struggle, but it's complicated. Something in you can't keep the gaze held, and your lips form a thin line as you let your gaze fall back to the soapy water, to the sponge in your hand with a quiet sigh.

"... Belphie... Your brothers-"

"Don't make excuses for them. I hate that even worse than I hate what you're doing already...

Do what you're going to do. But don't meddle around and make choices for me or my brothers where I'm concerned. I know what it's about. And frankly, it's weird that YOU of all people are orbiting around me trying to make it all good.

... It's fine. I'll get over it and everything will keep going, same as it has since you turned this place upside down."

Another... Deeply uncomfortable quiet. You regret it more this time- You're the one squirming now, even if it's all on the inside. You reach out and start the water up again the second it becomes unbearable, resuming your gargantuan task of cleaning up after dinner.

"... Anyway. Good talk, or whatever, Win. I'm not done here, so... If you're gonna go, you should just-"

They don't hesitate. Instead, with a furrowed brow, they resume their helping you- Stubborn, stubborn human. Such a pain...

"No, I'm okay."

Win's eye shows a glint of determination... Or more like stubbornness. They're counting on you being tired. Unfortunately, they're guessing right. You don't want to put effort into anything anymore, this end of your stubborn streak is breathing it's last. They stand up a little straighter, rinsing, racking, looking at you.

"If I left you down here, you'd probably fall asleep standing up... What if the sink overflowed and flooded the kitchen? Lucifer would kill you."

"I guess..."

You try to respond as flatly as you can, but it's encouraging enough that Winter seems to have a lot more to say. You can't wrack your brain any harder about what kind of brainworms they have that makes them so friendly at all of you when probably none of you deserve it- You, least of all.

But the kitchen is a lot less suffocating and monotonous for the rest of dish duty. You're relieved, but the comfort paradoxically makes you squirm... You wish you understood why this strange being making small talk next to you seemed so keen on showing you grace, mercy, after... It would be sensible, wouldn't it? But relieved you are- Comforted, even. So you let Winter talk, and help you get the kitchen in shape. As if you were friends, and it was normal.

[birdsofhands]

10/25/2023

somehow it's always octobers.

and why does this look aesthetic?

today we're falling apart again. me and edgar i mean. will it still matter when i'm thirty? i'm not sure. but as of now, some of my intense girlish feelings at the age of 23 is fading away. watered down. we're calling a rest. a kind of cool off. i guess. the funny thing is that i was all tensed up the entire time we were talking, but when we finally decided to take a break, i felt myself physically relieved. yes it was a bit sad but i shrugged it off and it was easy. im being honest. yes it still is making me anxious. what if he genuinely hates me now? that's my concern. i did not like it that waym him hating me. i know his love the same way i know his hatred. and both are weighty things. i wish i only know his love. it was nice. his love was nice most times and i think ill miss it. but we're really not working out. i think it's probably because of me not wanting to have sex? but that's wrong. i don't deserve such vile treatment. if he loves me he'll respect that. so losing him because of this isn't really a loss. and i don't even see him becoming my husband. [maybe i kinda do sometimes when i remember how he promises to make me a glass of milk when im having a panic attack in the middle of the night or how we danced in our porch in the middle of the night with no music on but then ill remember all the awful things he had said to me] i am confused like a teenager. i am alive and learning how to live. does that make sense? no. and that's the point. do i sound like im trying to make something out of nothing? maybe. maybe that's what im good at. and rambling too. i don't know why im so afraid of journaling when i am this good when i finally start. the words just ebb and flow. when i realize i don't need to make a literary piece like sylvia plath, it becomes easier and freer and i forget why i started this. sorry. i was saying it felt a whole lot emptier when it's done. perhaps it's the thought that he'll come back to me either way like he always does. almost dog-like. and how ill accept him too because well, i have no one and i am afraid to be lonely. is that the truth? i am not afraid to be lonely. [i think journaling to me now also feels like a battle between figuring out whether i'm really being honest with myself or just my old classic people pleasing fake ass self talking? it's hard when you don't know who you are or when you spend your time either wallowing and drowning in your negative energies or distracting yourself with everything you can find instead of figuring out how you feel and processing it. or maybe i just really need help.

ok well let me tell you about today. it was great overall actually, btw im lying in my childhood bedroom that doesn't look remotely close to my childhood bedroom beside my sleeping mother. we just got an aircon. my sister is working below and the blue light of her projector lamp is oozing to the ceiling moving like ocean waves. green laser dots speckled it. my mother just moved and i got scared she'd scold me but she didn't ans that fucking surprising honestly. i fed loki a lot today and we got closer. he lets me pet him now and he comes to me even if I wasn't calling him. he was lovely. that's all for today im anxious.

i forgot to tell you he called me a sad girl today. it hurt actually but he was right i was trying to manipulate him to get him to say sorry to me. and after tht i tried a different approach the narcissist tht i am. i asked him if he really knew the word and that he should tell me what it means and guess what? he caught on my schemes. he said no. cuz im just going to turn it against him which was exactly what i was gonna do but well i was being obvious and it would be really disappointing if he hadn't caught on but damn. that was still shocking. and surprisingly numbing. after tht i just accepted defeat. i wanted to rest i didn't wannafeel like tht anymore. it's like he doesn't love me anymore. he's ok with losing me now.

---

the morning that day, loki went to me and woke me up with a massage. it was the first time ive experienced something like that.

[prolix-yuy]

Congrats on 500 LJ! Can I please request "Heroism – real and perceived" with Javier? I think that could make an interesting and angsty character study, but whatever you want to do I know will be amazing, so the choice is all yours (same for pairing, I'm happy to read something with Reader but I'm not gonna complain if it's only him, whatever works), thank you ❤️

Wonderful Bee! Thank you for being such a bright light in the Pedro community and for being so supportive and kind to everyone around you! I'll be honest, this prompt made me nervous since I haven't done Javi P yet, but I did my "research" (that was the fun part) and puzzled over this request.

I was planning to make all of these requests standalone stories, but the amazing Peña goddess @iamskyereads also sent in a Javi request, and as I read them side by side a two part story came to light. I hope you enjoy both this request, and the follow up to come!

The Road Behind

Pairing: None, eventual Javier Peña x F!Reader

Summary: Home is behind, the world ahead.

Word Count: 1k

Warnings: M, angst, descriptions of violence, smoking, lots of Javi introspection. While this story is not explicit, my blog and the content shared on it is 18+ MINORS DNI.

Notes: This one is a little shorter, but I'm making up for it with a part 2 that's continuing the scene.

Hero.

The words elicit a visceral sensation from Javier, a bullet through his throat, another in the center of his chest. He wants a stronger drink. He wants a real cigarette, not this minty square of nicotine tucked by his gums. He wants to run, like he always does when he’s back in Laredo. 

They didn’t say it out loud, the word too grand for a moment this small. But Javier saw it in their eyes when Luis shook his hand, his wife looking on, Paco watching him like he’s in the presence of a famous ball player. 

“We care about what you did in Colombia.”

You’re a hero, Javi.

“We sure are proud of you.”

Proud of the hero who took down Pablo Escobar.

The words drip with spite when Javier imagines them. There is no heroism in what he did. Men might envy it - the man who saved a nation. Women might desire it - let me touch the hands that pulled the trigger.

Joke’s on them. Sent away at the final hour, Judy Moncada’s treacherous mouth splashing across Messina’s desk. The sticky heat inside the phone booth, whiskey burning in his belly as he waited for Steve to say the words.

“We got him Javi.”

The grounding press of the phone against his forehead, payphone sharp under his palm, centered him when the weight lifted. It was a smaller relief than he’d hoped, still saddled with the burden of what he’d done to stand in that booth at that hour listening to success through a crackling sat phone.

Hero.

The words were tossed around in the days following Escobar’s fall, and maybe they brought some people comfort. But not Javier.

It didn’t feel heroic threatening that “senator” in Gacha’s home, a bullet in his leg and spittle spraying his face as Javier promised another in his head if he didn’t talk.

It didn’t feel heroic letting Carillo slaughter a boy to teach the children of Bogota, and Escobar, a lesson. His dead eyes took days of drinking to fade into the background.

It especially didn’t feel heroic carrying Helena out of the hell Javier put her in, gaze faraway and blood oozing from wounds that would never heal enough to forget. Her face tucked into his neck, body drawn so tight his arm goes numb under her legs. The words he whispers as he carries her to the ambulance are nonsensical - you’ll be okay, I have you, you’re safe. None of it can be true for her again.

No, Medellín had its hero for years. He built schools in the slums, homes for the people, let money fly from his fingertips like those white birds he trained to roost in the trees at his hacienda. Keeping the people thankful. Obedient. Trained.

Pablo Escobar was a hero, for a time. 

Never to Javier, or the Colombian government or the DEA. But for a short while, Escobar was the closest thing to a hero Medellín ever had. Never mind where the money he spent came from. Never mind what blood was hidden in jungles and behind locked doors. Pablo Escobar cared for his community, wanted to save it with his guiding hand. In return he expected what most do: loyalty, respect, adoration. 

But when a man believes himself to be a hero, that’s when the façade begins to crumble.

Javier’s skin itches, catching eyes with his father as he fusses at the Nicorette in his cheek. He’s too used to working in shadows for events like this, discomforted by eyes sliding over him, the leaned-in conversations. His only brief comfort, speaking with Lorraine, now softens into memory. She looks good, happy, and fulfilled in a way Javi covets. It pulled unbidden smiles to his normal grimace, hands nervous, emotions more on the sleeve of his flannel than he intended. 

But he knows he couldn’t have been the husband she needed, the steadfast presence of Randy, family man. 

Can you imagine if we were actually married?

Could he, before all the blood and the cocaine, the plata o plomo that ruled his life for so many years? Could he have been father to those two children, a little boy who looked up to him, a girl that wrapped his heart around her finger?

He’d never know now.

He needs the bite of air without the film of sweat and wedding cake dancing on his tongue. As quietly as he can leave - which still involves some hand-shaking and hair-ruffling - he slips into the twilight outside the wedding venue. 

God, he could use a smoke, the familiar warmth of the cherry cupped in his palm, the curl of smoke as gentle a kiss as any lover’s. He misses the way it perfumed his collars, how the first pull released tension before the nicotine even hit, and the ritual of the carton, the tap, the flame hot and dangerous, the warmth on his lips as it burned down almost to the filter. Gum just doesn’t cut it, and the mint gives him a headache.

Like the tiniest beacon on the horizon, he catches the crackle of flame, the metallic zip of a lighter wheel. Then a faint exhale and thin white smoke curling around the corner of the building. 

Javi doesn’t want to talk, to perform for another audience of one or many, but the temptation of the secondhand smoke tugs him around the corner, thumbs tucked into his jeans pockets and head downturned. He pretends he didn’t see her, like it was only happenstance he stumbled upon her and not because he’s a moth to the flame of her lighter. 

She doesn’t notice at first, leaning on the railing as she pulls the cinder to a glowing red between her lips. It’s a rare moment, to watch someone as they are without an audience, and Javi debates on leaving her be. But her head turns, his silhouette catching her eye.

“Looking for someone?” she asks, her smile easy. Even with all the time in the world to prepare, her question catches him off guard.

Maybe he is.

NEXT

[roosterbruiser]

Landslide ☾☽ A Special Treat

welcome everyone! this is a special treat to all of you readers out there. here is a snippet of the bonfire scene from Bob's perspective. if you're new here and have not yet read chapter ten, this is your official spoiler alert! and obviously this event is canon but it's just a fun little drabble of how Bob views things :)

☾☽ Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Faye "Clover" Ledger

☾☽ Description: It’s been almost three years since the accident that took half of her, and Faye “Clover” Ledger seems fine, really. She loves her old house, she has a perpetually expanding vinyl collection, she’s got a job she likes on base, and she is only a short drive from the beach. She’s grounded--literally. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw feels like he’s been homesick his entire life. He’s always on the move;  jumping from one squadron to another, living one mission to the next. Somewhere in between losing both his parents and carving a successful career as a Naval aviator, he’s never found himself a home. When a call to serve on a high-priority mission with an elite squadron brings Rooster back to Miramar, he finds that home. Except it’s not a house that he finds--it’s the former backseater that observes and records the mission for the Official Navy Record. 

☾☽ Landslide masterlist

☾☽ roosterbruiser's masterlist

☾☽ playlist

“How many?” 

It’s Coyote that asks her. He sounds like he's about to laugh. He sounds like he's about to laugh.

I can feel Faye staring, doe-eyed, at Hangman from behind me. Fuck, I don't even have to look at her to know that there are fat tears welling in her eyes. She's drunk--I know she's drunk. But she's not drunk enough for it not to matter that he's asking, not drunk enough for it to hurt any less that she's being dissected in front of everyone.

I'm quick to turn to him, furrowing my eyebrows. His eyes are wide, like he's never seen me move that fast before, like he's never seen my face unsmiling.

“That’s not how you play the game,” I say flatly, “Rooster, it’s your turn.”

It's a call to action for Rooster. Do something. Say something. Get the attention off Faye. But he's just looking between Hangman and Faye with a stupefied expression, his eyes glassy and his lips wet. Fuck.

Rooster doesn’t say anything.

My face is hot--and it's not just because I'm so close to the fire and it's not just because my voice is thin as tissue paper. There's something sitting in my chest, something wide and long, something that's wearing my skin. I feel like I'm going to start sizzling in a moment, feel like I'm going to burst into flames that put the bonfire to shame.  

It's tense suddenly in the group--no one knows what to say.

But then Jake speaks. He's grinning.

“Well, now we’re all dying to know,” Hangman says languidly, “c’mon.” 

The saliva in my mouth is thick--so thick that it's hard for me to even swallow.

“This isn’t how you play the game,” Phoenix suddenly defends, turning to Bradley, “Bradshaw, go.”

Even Phoenix is trying to call him into action. Say something. Do something. But Rooster isn’t saying anything.

“What is it?” Hangman says again, still smiling.

His ego is oozing from him, beer-scented. Bile churns in my belly. My fingers are starting to tingle.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Hangman says before winking, the fucking bastard.

I glance at Faye--and fuck, she looks shell-shocked. Her lip is quivering and her eyes are wide and her face is pale, but her cheeks are bright pink. She doesn't know what to do, doesn't know what to say. She's just staring at him, waiting for the kill, unable to stop him from maiming her. I know that if I reached for her hands right now, her fingers would be numb with cold.

It happens before I can stop it--the thought bursting across the forefront of my brain like a thousand tiny shards of glass: is this what she looked like when she found Maggie? This grief-stricken, utterly hopeless, dejected, lost look?

Those warm brown eyes--they're swimming in grief. Pure, unadulterated grief.

“Hangman,” Rooster says softly.

It's not enough.  

“Stop,” I command, voice suddenly louder than the fire, the waves. 

There's a long pause where no one speaks. My cheeks are pink, my throat aching. But Hangman is still only looking at Faye. He's leaning forward, smiling at her. He licks his lips, bites down and waits for her to say something. 

If Maggie were here, she would've already pounced him. She would be tearing into him like a wild animal. She would have him in her grip and shake him until he cried out for his mother. It's a violent image, one that makes my tongue thick with grief, but it's what he deserves right now.

“Don’t be shy,” Hangman finally whispers to Faye, “what, don’t kiss and tell?” 

“Why do you care, Bagman?” Phoenix bites.  

Thank God for her.

“Lay off,” I repeat, harsher than before, “really, man. You’re drunk.”

“Everyone’s fuckin’ drunk,” Hangman spits. 

I turn to Rooster again--he's looking right at Faye. He's grimacing, his face pulled together in an expression that sits somewhere between shock, grief, and disgust. Fuck--I want to just step in between them and take Faye away, take her home. I want everyone to fucking sleep this off, I want Jake to shut the fuck up, I want Rooster to fucking say something.

Faye has not shifted once. She's still just blinking at everyone--utterly frozen.   

“Not judging,” Hangman says, shrugging, “just curious, darlin’.” 

Hangman's looking at her now, watching her watch Rooster. It's all so twisted--him liking her, her liking Rooster, Rooster saying nothing to squish Jake's idiocy.

“Here,” Hangman says, his smirk growing, spreading, “let me narrow it down. What number is Bob, what number is Rooster, and what number will I be?” 

I'm sure that I blackout for a moment. The tips of my ears and my fingers are suddenly vibrating with rage--my throat coated thickly with repulsion. The muscles in my legs, my arms, spring without me even trying. But I feel it--I feel Jake's mouth beneath my curled fingers, feel my knuckles split, feel the cider pooling in the sand at my feet.

Hangman's chair is rocking from the impact. He's cradling his lip, staring up at me dumbfounded. And I'm standing now, staring down at my bloody knuckles, breath hitching. My knuckles are immediately burning, warm from my blood or Jake's blood--which makes me feel woozy. But I don't waver as I stare down at him. I don't even move to inspect my knuckles, don't even move my pupils a centimeter from his.

Oh, fuck.

Hangman's eyes pour into mine, wide and crazed, deep with rage. I'm sure I look different to him right now than I ever have before--my chest is heaving, my ears are ringing, my pulse is thrumming, my fingers are bleeding, my glasses are sitting low on my nose.

No one makes a sound.

I have to clear my throat before I start speaking.

“You shouldn’t talk to her like that,” I say harshly, pushing my glasses back up my nose, “you shouldn’t talk to anyone like that, man.” 

Then Hangman is standing up, stumbling in his drunken stupor to stand nose-to-nose with me. He's puffing his chest out like stupid boys always do when they want to be bigger than me and I, for once in my life, am not flinching. Coyote and Payback are quick to jump in, putting their arms between us. And Phoenix is holding my shoulders, just squeezing me. But I don't move. I just look at Jake, look him right in the eyes.

I want to spit on his pretty face. But there's already a steady stream of blood flooding his chin and neck. Bullseye.

“C’mon,” Phoenix whispers softly in my ear, “walk it off.” 

That's all she has to say. I turn and Faye is already looking at me. She doesn't look afraid, she doesn't look upset with me. She looks humiliated--her face is flushed, her lip quivering, her eyelashes thick with tears. It makes something ripple in my chest, something sharp and jagged; my Faye. My sweet Faye.

If It Wasn’t For The Nights by ABBA starts.

When I hold my hand out to her, the bloody one, she doesn't flinch. She takes it at once. Because this is how we operate--I would do anything for her, even split Jake Seresin's lip. Our hands effectively function as each other's lifelines.

I squeeze her fingers, just once, very softly. And she lets me pull her out of her chair, onto her feet. She's wobbly like she hasn't gotten her sea-legs yet.

“C’mon,” I whisper quietly to her, “let’s go for a walk.”

Phoenix walks with us as we start down the beach. I'm holding Faye, keeping her close, clasping her cold fingers in mine. She's shivering, shaking, silent. But Phoenix is inspecting my knuckles as they wrap around Faye's. 

“Nice form,” Phoenix says softly, the hint of a smile on her lips, “he had it coming.”   

[thelioncourts]

:)) As another new fan, when you reposted just now a post about Armand and saying his love for Louis and a lot of people in the comments sound really excited for it, I feel a bit 😞 as will it be a case of they will be s1's version of Loustat? As in people will be raving over the chemistry of Armand and Louis? I just, idk, feel confused bc being a non book reader, I feel like we've just had Loustat and now it'll be gone? 😅 😭

Okay, anon, I'm so sorry. I went to answer this, had a ridiculously lengthy and detailed answer, and as I went to hit 'post now' tumblr deleted it all and said 'our servers aren't cool enough to handle your post right now!' and I was so nauseous, I spent so much time. I'm afraid this won't be as good, but I remember most of what I said, so I'll try to rehash it all best I can.

So, first of all, welcome to iwtv/tvc! it's always been chaos here. second of all, let's spend some time discussing the Armand-Louis-Lestat relationship, particularly in context of the first book and of the show, in turn!

Armand-Louis-Lestat has always been incredibly interesting and the show is, obviously ("the love of my life!") setting us up for continued interesting vibes. Here's what I will tell you about Armand and Louis in Interview (the book). As the show is setting up as well, Louis meets Armand in Paris following the "death" of Lestat. Up until Armand, Louis had been in an incredibly depressive episode (moreso than normal) because of Lestat's death. Meeting Armand fills Louis with this infatuation, and Armand, like all vampires, immediately falls deeply in love with Louis and his beauty and his remaining humanity. It's a beautiful couple of weeks/months, and I have no doubt that the show is going to capitalize on that and show us many many many cute, loving, sexy, and tender moments of Louis and Armand's relationship. What I will also tell you, without trying to spoil too much of the book, is that the period of happy and loving in Louis and Armand's relationship is very limited and, by the end of the book, Louis is so numb, so distant, so cold to Armand.

Now! I feel like I need to clarify that, in later books, Louis and Armand always reconnect, but I very much have always viewed it as a true friendship/companionship. I think, in a lot of ways, they both saw each other at their worst and have a trust that will always let them find solace in the other, even if it's just platonic.

With all that in mind, I actually have two passages from Interview (the book) that I'm going to type out and that I think are exceptionally important to Louis and Lestat's relationship, especially in comparison to Louis' relationship with anyone else.

In my version of Interview, the first passage is on page 123. It takes place immediately following Louis and Claudia "killing" Lestat:

"Claudia had wrapped Lestat's body in a sheet before I would even touch it, and then, to my horror, she had sprinkled it over with the long-stemmed chrysanthemums. So it had a sweet, funereal smell as I lifted it last of all from the carriage. It was almost weightless, as limp as something made of knots and cords, as I put it over my shoulder and moved down into the dark water, the water rising and filling my boots, my feet seeking some path in the ooze beneath, away from where I'd lain the two boys. I went deeper and deeper in with Lestat's remains, though why, I did not know. And finally, when I could barely see the pale space of the road and the sky which was coming dangerously close to dawn, I let his body slip down out of my arms into the water. I stood there shaken, looking at the amorphous form of the white sheet beneath the slimy surface. The numbness which had protected me since the carriage left the Rue Royale threatened to lift and leave me flayed suddenly, staring, thinking: This is Lestat. This is all of transformation and mystery, dead, gone into eternal darkness. I felt a pull suddenly, as if some force were urging me to go down with him, to descend into the dark water and never come back. It was so distinct and so strong that it made the articulation of voices seem only a murmur by comparison. It spoke without language, saying, "You know what you must do. Come down into the darkness. Let it all go away.""

The second passage is just a few paragraphs later, on page 124:

"...'He deserved to die!' she [Claudia] said to me.

"'Then we deserve to die. The same way. Every night of our lives,' I said back to her. 'Go away from me.' It was as if my words were my thoughts, my mind alone only formless confusion. 'I'll care for you because you can't care for yourself. But I don't want you near me. Sleep in that box you bought for yourself. Don't come near me.'

"'I told you I was going to do it. I told you...' she said...'Louis, I told you!' she said, her lips quivering. 'I did it for us. So we could be free.' I couldn't stand the sight of her."

The reason I think these passages are really important, especially in context of the show, is because this is Louis when he wasn't telling us everything. According to the show, Interview (the book) has already happened, at least up to a point. Louis has told Daniel this story before, but is doing so now with more truth, more nuance, more history. He kept out a lot, namely the depth of his relationship with Lestat, out of hatred or disdain or repression or something, towards himself, towards Lestat, towards life, etc. And yet these passages highlight something so so incredibly important, which is how much Louis loved/loves Lestat.

Lestat's death haunts Louis. In Europe, he talks about his grief in the narration, and it appears that in Claudia's diaries in the show, she discusses his grief too, namely that he is worse than ever following the death of Lestat.

Have you ever heard of how the opposite of love isn't hate, but apathy? I've heard it a lot in my life, never understood it until I got older, and I think Louis and Lestat, and Louis and Armand, are perfect examples of that.

Lestat drives Louis crazy. He lights fires in him, both good and bad, and, no doubt, damages Louis' blood pressure (if vampires have blood pressure to worry about, I guess), but he makes Louis feel, he makes him be alive. He drives Louis so crazy that Louis interviews TWICE about his relationship with the man.

Louis and Armand, while sweet in its own way, and will, undoubtedly, have its sweet moments, is going to fizzle out. And I think the show will very much do that on purpose to show us how any relationship Louis has (and Lestat has) pales in comparison to what he has with Lestat.

I've talked about it in a couple of asks before, about how I think the show is going to take a slightly different direction than the books re: polyamory and re: Loustat as a whole, and my general consensus is that Louis and Lestat are endgame in the books, but it's going to be so much more apparent, and will happen so much quicker, in the show. The show has so much content to work with re: storylines that there is no need to play relationship will-they-won't-they with Louis and Lestat. They can stabilize them (to a point -- any relationship with Lestat is always going to be slightly unstable) and have the actual plot (Akasha, Memnoch, Amel, etc.) be the main problems to work through versus relationship drama 24/7.

To sum up, I think Louis and Armand are going to get their light, yes, in season 2. But I think it is only going to set it up for us to get an even more passionate Loustat, an even more loving Loustat, an even more present Loustat, come end of season 2 and into season 3.