#monstroum

[stlispenard]

CONTINUED FROM HERE / @monstroum

he strode across the stage as if it belonged to him and lestat de lioncourt was but a mere guest ( perhaps not even that ) . santiago held in his hand the script . though he followed the directions written down by the coven's maître , the vampire appeared to be more concerned about everyone's positions within the macabre scene . " -ㅤ─ ㅤwelcome , first play during day time , blah , blah , blah , enter the three defendants who'll kneel before the court in a neat little row just like ... oh ! " when the englishman glanced to his left , he realised that one VERY IMPORTANT member of tomorrow's performance was missing . two hay-filled dummies leaned pathetically against each other , half-sewn and half-finishedㅤ─ ㅤ but where was the third one ? santiago lifted his head , searching for a fellow coven member which ought to be up somewhere in one of the theatre's boxes . " sam ! it appears we're missing a dummy . " the other vampire shrugged and santiago , exasperated by his coven's lack of professionalism , turned to his scene partner ㅤ─ ㅤ oh , and how honoured he should be ! for he was face to face with lestat de lioncourt himself ! santiago had been told so much about the man and now that he saw him in the flesh , he found him profoundly DISAPPOINTING ; all of the bravado and wit he had been told about seemed like nothing more than the protests of a moody teenager . lestat did not wish to be there , that much was clear . hell , he had hardly memorised his lines ! but still , santiago pressed a hand to his chest and approached the other vampire with a small sheepish smile . " monsieur lioncourt , i'm so terribly embarrassed to even ask ㅤ─ but would you be so kind as to fill in for louis du lac ? just for this bit of the rehearsal ? " such a cruel request ㅤ─ ㅤ but santiago had been hurt by his acting partner's disdain for ( himself ) the craft ! and watching a glint of discomfort flash behind those pretty blue eyes of his would bring santiago a sick sense of joy . " if you could kneel down right ... " his free hand rested upon lestat's shoulder . " here . " suddenly he pushed the other down with so much force that all of the stage's floorboards shivered . oh , how his fingers lingered there , his nails threatening to rip through the fabric of the other's shirt if he were to tighten his grip . but santiago merely tilted his head , admiring lestat's unhappy compliance before muttering a small sarcastic " lovely " .

     santiago’s pompous strides, the click-clacking on the stage’s greasy floorboards, hits a surprising nerve in him. like a dog pissing up a tree! ha! lestat wants to laugh at his hubris and squash him under the heel of his shoe. the great laws this and the great law that, all so unconvincing from the mouth of a self-important vampire child. everything about his being is irritating but not intimidating. in fact, if they were not there to discuss the crime of vampires killing vampires, well then, perhaps, lestat might have jumped at the chance to relieve his excessive hunger by draining him for sport. 

     and lestat does fantasize about it as he recites the condemning lines written for him. he lets them eat away at him and he dances lifelessly to armand’s tune. that is his one-way ticket inside. the performance of a lifetime, lestat! lestat complies as lestat can comply to anything; he has never quite mastered the art of controlling his temper, it only takes so much humiliation to provoke it. the dummieshad nearly done the trick the second they had been brought on stage and now here it is again. 

     that smile he would pry off with his bare hands. what a hideous thing.and then that same mouth saying louis name like it is the ugliest word in the world. it is sacrilegious. he corrects him and sneers as he feels santiago’s fingers bury themselves deep into his shoulder and himself sink onto his knees: “louis. de pointe. du lac.” 

     lestat feels the strong vibration through his legs. he knows his quads shiver enough for all of them to see, but he is not well enough to stop it. curtesy of armand, who he turns his head to see, “the power dynamic here is…well, strange. you let your pet pretend he can do what he pleases?” he doesn’t wait for an answer before looks back to santiago hovering above him, “or perhaps you can and armand has lost his touch, hmm?” who of you are taking their lives? 

     he straightens his back and smiles his most devilish smile. he gets back on his while maintaining the lack of distance between them, “chéri, i know how tempting the idea of me on my knees can be, but it is in bad taste to not wait for my consent.” lestat clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth and leans to his ear: “you put louis on his knees like that i will not continue to play nice.”

[prescitia]

@monstroum asked: that was wrong of me , and i know it . / from louis !

"Suddenly he is a man of reason." Inexorable! Obstinate! Inconsiderate! Selfish! Pietous! He questions the very foundation they have built upon. Lessons he has graciously imparted on a disobliging mind bear no fruit. It rots at the roots.

"You continue your impulsive acts thinking only of yourself. Damn the consequences and damn me!" Breath drawn and held until the throbbing in his skull subsides, exhaled in a lofty sigh.

"We will clean your mess together. Comme d'habitude."

[heunmoor]

@monstroum INQUIRED: are you ready for the real party ? / from santiago !

𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐡 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐬 , almost akin to a chortle as smoke trapped itself in the base of his throat and silenced any words that may have come to his tongue . TAKEN OFF GUARD IN THE BACK ALLEYWAY , lax form transforms into a taut arch before loosening once more . santiago . creeping in the shadows , 𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 . just santiago . no golds , or blues , or crimson spewing from neck to blooming white cloth . santiago . santiago . not ..... not him .

" i didn't know there were any festivities going on after the show ? " he posed it as an inquiry , fingers twitching once before allowing the cigarette to fall to his feet and smolder away . SERENE SILENCE NO LONGER WALTZING THROUGH HIS MIND . an edge now set at his throat , keeping him on his toes . careful , louis , don't slip now . " 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 ? "

[absensia]

THERE COULD BE NO LYING TO OR HIDING FROM THAT ABSENCE THAT LIVED WITHIN HER; THE GOOD DOCTOR'S OBSERVATION DID GIVE THE VESSEL PAUSE. WAS IT MEANT TO BE A THRILL? A DELIGHT OR A GOOD SIGN, PERHAPS... THAT THIS BODY COULD BE PROVEN AS REAL, AFTER ALL? OR WAS IT A SIGN OF TROUBLE? INDIGNATION, EVEN, THAT SHE SHOULD ONLY BE REAL WHEN SHE BLEEDING, DYING, OR BOTH?

BLOOD WAS ESSENCE; BLOOD, IT SEEMED, WAS ULTIMATELY LIFE ITSELF. THE LOSS OF IT RENDERED HER PALER THAN USUAL AND THE COLD SUNLIGHT THAT PICKED APART HER IMAGE, DECAYING IT BEFORE THE DOCTOR'S EYES, HARDLY HELPED.

Yet outwardly, Charlotte did not pause nor hesitate. Not for a moment did she indulge the doctor with a look of surprise or shock, for she had come bearing other gifts and those would have to do. Her smile only grew, warm and friendly, as if she expected nothing less from the extraordinary man laying, wounded, in the hospital bed before her. There were no hard feelings, she'd hoped, for what were a couple of murder attempts between friends who understood the value of curiosity, satiation, and the art of trial and error.

From the light that bathed her, she pulled out her gifts: twirled about her right hand was a pretty, silky ribbon, pulled taut by the helium - filled balloon floating near the ceiling. The balloon was perfectly puffed and the exact shade of sunny yellow that no one save for little children could love. It smiled down at the doctor. In her hand, or rather, in the crook of her arm, was a handsome teddy bear in a chef's uniform, no less. This, Charlotte sat at the foot of Lecter's bed so that it, too, could smile at him.

" I won't die from mine, " she replied, making quick work of tying the balloon string onto the arm of a nearby chair. " You might've from yours. . . but you didn't! Even if you did get close. Did you get close? Did you see the light? Or, uh, what's the other one. . . feel the flames? "

Without waiting for an invitation, for it was a fool's errand to wait for something which would assuredly never come, Charlotte hopped up onto the bed, seating herself at the doctor's feet. The bed had been raised high enough that she had enough space to allow her legs to dangle. The agent began to kick her feet at a languid tempo. " When do you think we can try again? " she asked, gaze flickering down at his sewn - up forearms. / @monstroum, CONT.

[lechroniques]

@monstroum : “You're just very bad at explaining.” from Ferris.

“Did  you  ever  consider  that  perhaps  you’re  just  incompetent  in  the  realm  of  listening?”  Lestat  is  a  spitfire  with  a  temper  that  paralleled  his  own  father  at  times,  though  he  shot  back  with   ᴵᴿᴿᴵᵀᴬᵀᴵᴼᴺ  thinly  veiled  in  a  layer  of  calm.  Silent  agitation,  a  tilt  of  the  head  paired  with  lips  pressing  into  a  thin  line,  the  corners  of  his  mouth  sliding  upwards  into  a  forced  grin.

“Your  heightened  senses  are  clearly  useless,  and  rest  assured,  I  won’t  continue  to  waste  my  ᴮᴿᴱᴬᵀᴴ  when  it  does  nothing  but  fall  on  deaf  ears.”  Petty.  Catty,  even.  Though  he  cared  very  little  about  being  polite  when  the  other  was  nothing  more  than  a  crude,  pedantic  individual  in  the  eyes  of  the  vampire.  The  stench  of  disrespect  made  his  nostrils  flare  as  he  sucked  in  his  breath.  

“Find  someone  else  to  assist  you  if  you  insist  on  behaving  like  an  untrained  dog.”

[pluresque]

@monstroum | stop acting like a hillbilly and sit down .

louis laughs, right in his fuckin' clown face.

stays standing; crosses one leg over the other and leans, easily, hip propped up against an aisle seat. it's all the same shit — same shit he had to put up with from tom, same shit he's been putting up with, enduring past the limits of endurance, except this time louis isn't stuck at the whims of some puffed-up egomaniac. doesn't have to bow to santiago's drama-queen stage-star bullshit just for the sake of plain old human appeasement.

" nah. " lazy, easy; unbothered. not louis's problem if someone's feeling upstaged. not his problem that santiago can't take not being the one with everyone's eyes on him, all the time. hillbilly; jesus. is that the best he can manage? louis folds his arms and laughs again, softer this time; dismissive. " don't think i will. "

[cultfic]

⎯ @monstroum, dr. lecter : “ you can always talk to me. ”

it's been requested by bureau hierarchy that, for holden to reinstate his position as occasional field agent, he undergoes therapy for the mandatory period of a month ⎯ longer if deemed necessary by his psychiatrist. and here he sits in dr. lecter's tastefully decorated office, hands folded over his lap as if an inexperienced schoolboy facing his tutor despite his years spent analyzing minds himself. ❝  i, uh .. well, i suppose you want to hear about the panic attacks?  ❞ he smoothes his tie, ❝  i'm sorry, this is new to me, i've never been to therapy before.  ❞

[vampien]

(@monstroum),‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎santiago said:‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎" hell's better than this shithole. "

" you're lucky no one else is around to hear you say that. "‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎there's a playful raise of her brow, one that when thrown in the right direction, creates an enticing aura about her.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎there's parts of her waiting to be deconstructed, like the performance in privacy that she seeps into, opting for dramatics over vulnerability‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎(and when the two mix, maybe she's truly as close as she can be to her true self),‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎but it's hard for her to pull apart, what part of her is performing to santiago and what part is true expression?‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎" come on now, you don't mean that.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎you preform to applause every night, and you're very good may i add, i would know. "‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎one leg falls over the other, an act of ease as she offers him a gentle smile‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎(she can feel it, a genuine compliment, and slowly any anxiety of a one-on-one conversation, with transactions voided, becomes a bit simpler). ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎" you know i used to come see you before i turned?‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎i loved it, every second‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎...‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎so why the long face? "

[stlispenard]

continued from here / @monstroum

    if he knew there was a chance of him dissuading louis, he might have pushed harder for them not to go. he had folded without pressure. i want to spare you the pain of it, louis, he might have said, but instead he had given a simple nod of his head and followed. you wouldn’t want me to. he understands why it is something he must do. lestat had felt that same nagging urge to go back - satisfy his longing - but it had reopened the deep gash in him; by now decades too old for there to be any satisfaction in peeling off the scab. it left him in agonizing pain.

    at least, this second time, both of them are here. lestat stands a few steps behind louis and watches as he takes it all in. it is easy for him to imagine the claudia that louis pictures there and he knows her to contrast his own. even here, where she is more tangible and alive to him than anywhere else, she is disfigured and screaming and a far cry from the lively, stubborn girl they raised. she is always the same. even here, he could not bring her back to what she was before. he had stood near the same spot as louis now and wished for nothing but to be held by him. the comfort of someone who might understand.

    louis' talking elicits something else in him other than sadness. being the selfish creature that he is, he clings onto the feeble expression of louis wanting him in paris. if not for something breaking in louis’ voice he might have let it distract him. he doesn’t need louis to finish his sentence, he knows he’s stumbled onto the horrible realisation that the room is nothing but a room in the end. he shakes his head even knowing that louis won’t see it. i know. 

    “you could still feel me because i was not dead, mon cher.”lestat can’t bring himself to say what is obvious to him: i was not dead, but she is. he steps closer to him but he hesitates before reaching for his shoulder: “i am sorry that she is not here and that there is not a world in which i could bring her to you.” he is sincere and, for all his ambivalence about claudia, he never wanted this. not once in seventy years. “i understand if you… hoped she might here. it’s okay, louis.” he comes close enough that when he inhales he feels louis’ back against his chest, “come here…” he says, pressing his mouth to his shoulder, “please.” 

[wolfkilermoved]

@monstroum ( LOUIS ) said : ❛  21 .   a  kiss  on  the  cheek .

most would deem it pathetic , the way his slow beating heart flutters over the simplicity of this touch . but most have never known louis , nor loved him , nor have they —

they are taking things slow . a perfectly modern phrase for these perfectly modern times in which time now reigns in abundance . in the distance , the sounds of his thousands of fans is slow to dissipate , wholly uneager to let the grandness of the night go . and were it any other night he would be more than tempted to indulge them , but . . . louis is here , pressing a chaste kiss to the high arch of his cheek and smiling that little smile that makes the world feel as though it's just for the two of them . louis is here to offer his congratulations and nothing more , and lestat is ( will be ) alright with that . of course , this does not prevent his responding smile from being positively soppy nor does it keep his hand from lingering at the delightful curve of his elbow . " always kind to me , mon cher . "

[nycterent]

@monstroum ( harvey dent. )

everyone's talking about harvey dent. it's something that even bruce, still half-holed up in the tower most days, can't ignore. gordon can't do it all on his own, and—well. dent may speak out against the bat, but that's something bruce can work with. he's never needed that kind of support. he's built all this to function outside of it.

he asked gordon, and all gordon said was dent believes what he's saying. if we had about twenty of him around, maybe things would finally get done. that's about all you can ask for in gotham. so bruce sits, gaze flickering around the room to take it in. the window. the desk. harvey himself. "thanks for agreeing to see me."

as if any politician in gotham would say no to an ask from the prince of gotham. but it's still polite.

[desolades]

INT. THE WATCHTOWER NIGHT

@monstroum  sits  by  the  window,  his  face  barely  illuminated  by  the  dim  light  of  the  lantern  hanging  from  the  ceiling,  soft  warm  tones  cut  sharply  at  his  face,  half  shadows,  half  light.  But  what  is  there  to  see  in  the  light?  Unremarkable  details,  hands,  knees,  chin,  all  the  fleshy  bits  that  make  a  person.  Except  they  don’t  make  a  person  at  all.  The  structure  of  a  man  then,  the  external  configuration  of  a  tangible  being.  What  is  below,  inside,  the  light  can’t  unveil.  It  remains  a  mystery,  left  to  blind  guesswork  if  one  is  bold  or  stupid  enough  to  try.  He  would  know  about  that.  There  are  swamps  in  those  depths,  a  mire  that  might  swallow  the  self.

“  What  is  there  to  be  faithful  to?  ”  says  the  man,  or  the  mouth  of  the  man,  opening  and  closing,  moving  under  command  to  create  words.  The  smell  of  coffee  warms  the  room  as  the  pot  heats  up  on  the  kitchenette,  its  fragrance  is  rich  and  dark,  the  essence  of  life.  It  warms  him  from  the  inside,  as  if  he  were  already  sipping  it,  his  tired  bones  waking  up  with  every  taste.  

What  is  there  at  all?  Nothing,  comes  the  edge  of  a  blunt  answer,  nihilistic  and  defensive,  a  wounded  thing  determined  to  never  be  hurt  again.  Everything,  a  quieter,  weaker  part  of  him  sighs.  It  is  the  longing,  its  underground  tunnels  running  deeply  inside  of  him,  looking,  always  looking,  always  digging  as  if  somewhere  under  all  that  rubble  he  might  find  what  he  lost,  what  most  insist  he  never  had.  

But  there  is  something  else  too,  isn’t  there?  Like  a  hand  on  his  shoulder  as  he  pours  the  coffee  into  two  mismatched  cups.  A  hum  in  his  ear.  Faith  has  little  room  to  govern  when  ownership  is  called  upon.  A  meal  already  claimed  by  an  entirely  different  beast,  a  meal  savored  and  protected  for  so  many  years.  That  one  is  a  different  kind  of  longing,  the  longing  of  drool  dripping  from  sharp  teeth,  pooling  inside  the  open  jaws  of  a  famished  wolf,  reaching,  slowly,  gently.  You  don’t  take  food  from  a  wolf’s  mouth,  not  when  it  has  been  left  to  starve  for  so  long.  

“  Faith…  feels  too  big,  my  thoughts  run  a  little  more  earthly.  ”  he  smiles  apologetically,  offering  the  cup  to  his  guest.  “  The  forest,  the  mountain,  the  things  we  have,  what  we  can  be  grateful  for,  that  we  must  care  for.  ”  The  things  we  had,  the  things  we  lost.  That  too  is  a  kind  of  faith,  strong  and  blind  enough  to  rival  any  priest.  Belief  in  things  that  are  not,  that  never  were  to  begin  with,  belief  against  all  logic,  all  sanity.  Hope  with  no  place  to  go  and  no  one  to  claim  it.  A  solitary  church  of  one,  praying  to  a  made-up  god.  Madness,  says  the  blunt  voice.  Love,  murmurs  the  longing.

It  is  love,  he  knows,  and  it  is  pointless.  Faith  is  just  a  self  inflicted  wound. 

[toprayarc]

there's something rumbling in the streets. kicking around in the sheets. black, and blue, and as real as a bruised eye. a split lip. some gross, unsightly thing, that mari dai thinks she ought to carve right open. unzip to its bones. peel back layers, until the grotesque rears its ugly head. she heard it through the grapevine. crooned sweet between the lines. she followed it home; crawled inside its mouth. looking for nothing but trouble, and tussles, and tough guys to send flying— first rule of fight club: don't talk about fight club.

"i explicitly told you not to say my name." — @monstroum, the narrator.

second rule of fight club? ... well, now this one she'll have to stick around to find out. "touchy." mari's lips make the shape of an O, before licking clear to a smile. a bat of her lashes nearly seems innocent, mild, a naive indication to brighter futures— are you fooled? "relax," a foot props itself underneath the bar stool, fingers dancing around the rim of a glass. scraped knuckles, as evidence, marr tanned flesh. "i'm not breaking any r — rules, am i? just having a conversation, and as far as i know—" darkened gaze flickers, focuses, and fixates. "that makes me just as innocent as anyone else here."

[cultfic]

⎯ @monstroum, the narrator : “ what the hell were you thinking? ”

he can still make out the wailing sirens in the distance, heart racing, disheveled but the tie still hangs from his neck while his slippery grip tightens 'round the suitcase handle. ❝  c'mon, just ⎯ open the freakin door will ya?!  ❞ crazed glance cast sideways as he forces his voice to keep low lest the neighbors decide to sneak a peak. ❝  i can't go back to my place. just lemme crash here for the night, man.  ❞ he knows the guy from fight club ⎯ not that he competes himself but he likes to place a bet every once in a while. and they're on good enough terms that he gave him his address once over a late night drink. ❝  cops got no reason t'come snoopin in here. i'll be outta your hair in the morning, i swear, just .. lemme in.  ❞

[absensia]

Unsettling, it'd been, wandering about the apartment as if she were playing a solo game of house, holding onto the very potent sense that while she was definitely waiting for Cohle to come back, the apartment itself wasn't waiting at all. She'd hovered a hand over one of the plain walls, careful to not actually touch the surface in case this day was one of her more. . . substantial days, and wondered if this place knew something she didn't; like, if he wasn't going to be coming home tonight. Or ever again. So, please, you'll excuse her fervent smile when she heard you arrive on the other side of your own front door. It was a relief to see you come home.

WHAT'RE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE? / @monstroum, CONT.

" Looking for you, of course, " she answered cheerily, stepping aside and sweeping her arm as a welcoming gesture. She closed the door gently behind him, making sure to reset the locks just the way she'd found them before. Grey eyes scanned his form; she was hoping he might have a bag or something of the sort for her to relieve him of but there was nothing. Quite literally, she felt that she was looking at nothing, a piece of plain wall all over again. " Went by all your usual haunts and you weren't there, couldn't help but feel like you're avoiding me. Are you avoiding me? Hm? " She quirked a brow, but nothing in her expression or posture indicate genuine enmity, not even a hint of real annoyance.

Charlotte waited for him to gather his thoughts and make sense of his surroundings. Such things could take quite some time, this she knew from experience herself. Lacing her fingers together, the agent sighed softly and rocked back and forth ( once, twice ) exactly where she stood, that smile still curved across her face, offered still to the detective. " I'm not mad, by the way. Sure you had a great reason for standing me up. Last Wednesday. At the town hall. Where it was raining. All evening. "

[stlispenard]

[ WRAP ]: when sitting astride a horse/motorcycle/etc. together, the sender reaches back, takes the receiver’s wrist, and gently pulls their arm around the sender’s waist in an embrace designed to keep the receiver safe deeply uncomfortable, despite feeling remarkably intimate. / santiago @ lestat :')

PROMPTS THAT MAKE ME GO EYES / @monstroum

     the curtain has fallen. ashes gathered and dusted off the stage like nothing. claudia and the red-haired girl nothing now, but residue on the worn out floorboards. the coven had taken louis backstage and all he feels now is terrible agony. it claws into his heart in constant, wearing tugs. he’d bargain for more, but no one listens to him. “leave it now, lestat,” armand had told him, coldly, looking to santiago before informing lestat about the plans they have made for him, “you will go back to magnus’ tower and you will stay there. santiago will take you.”

     lestat himself feels shamefully numb. like his body no longer belongs to him and emotions are cut short. the world moves dizzyingly fast around him while he stands still. his eyes go from armand to santiago and he manages, in spite of himself, to produce a disgusted snarl. the executioner himself in the flesh, an honour. in the moment, he thinks he really ought to have killed him at rehearsal. jumped at the chance to grab him by his veiny little neck and squeeze, squeeze until his eyeballs popped from their sockets. yes, he would have loved nothing but to see those snake-like yellowy-green things turn lackluster and lifeless.

     “escorting me from my own property. what a fucked up, twisted day it’s been.” lestat mumbles a series of things of the same kind as he’s taken to santiago’s motorcycle and is ordered to get up behind him. he stands defiantly for a moment, close enough to feel santiago’s breath. he grins at him widely, manically, and says, “parading me around paris, are you? well, i can understand. i am certainly a looker. lucky you.”

     lestat gestures towards the bike with his head to prompt the other to get on it and get it over with. he would rather leave paris, but getting away from the damned theatre is a start. he is beginning to loathe the smell that clings onto each one of them, the perfume of their bodies, and santiago’s particularly. that place is rotten, old, a relic from a former age. it nearly makes him lose his mind when he sits pressed up against the other’s back. a final humiliation, undoubtedly. numbness turns into anger. 

     a terrible shiver goes through him when santiago reaches back for his. his grip is so tight he swears he feels his bones crack. he acts as he himself might if their roles where reversed, putting his hand on his body just to show him that he can. it's a terrible testament to their shared nature. “fuck you,” he says, his mouth very near the skin of his neck, “tasteless tactics, monsieur.”