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we know that viktor can see through the eyes of the evolved humans. when jayce lands himself in the pit of zaun, unable to escape until his leg has healed enough, they watch him. they never approach him, yet they watch him all the same. we know this universe lost its jayce, and this universe’s viktor may be shocked, confused, and perhaps elated to see him again… across timelines, and viktor is still watching over jayce.

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blah blah blah colour theory but jayce went from piltover’s pure and golden boy dressed in white to being in mourning black for all that he’s lost (“my partner died in that room”)…

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jayce and viktor seeing each other with no armour nor weapons in their final conversation together. jayce and viktor speaking face to face with both who they were and what they’ve become. jayce and viktor both having white hair and bodies in their projections; they are pure and good when faced with one another at the end. jayce and viktor holding one another in their final moments, and being with the one person they’d rather be with than anyone else. jayce and viktor who both started and ended this. jayce and viktor whose love changed the world. jayce and viktor…

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who needs a kiss when we’ve got i will love you, save you, treasure you (and your imperfections) in every universe?

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“why does anyone commit acts that others deem unspeakable?”

“for love.”

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OK😭😭😭😭😭😭

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JAYCE TALIS Arcane 2.05 — Blisters and Bedrock

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jayce talis, who only wanted to use hextech to help people—and didn’t hesitate to use the hexcore to save his partner (in any way you see it)—got beamed back to existence and immediately went to go kill viktor… although the show doesn’t explicitly say, we can assume months have passed between act one and two. he’s had to deal with the arcane for months, and even after he comes back—and with a leg brace might i add—he’s suffering the effects of it but does not hesitate to complete a mission. i’m terrified to find out what the arcane told him; his time in the arcane irrevocably changed him, and not for the better

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“you promised to destroy the hexcore” versus “i won’t fail [to destroy it]”

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arcane season 2 act 2: letting the gays bury their own gays!

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let me tell you i did NOT find jayce attractive until he went through his homoerotic breakup. once this man’s on my screen, it’s over for me. smash.

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ARCANE LEAGUE OF LEGENDS: 2x03 - “Finally Got The Name Right”

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vi is used to pain. vi doesn’t usually cry because of it. only when it’s at the hands of cait (and not even physically by her hands, but by her weapon) does vi cry. pain from the one person she thought couldn’t bring it. “please don’t change too”, she begs, and that promise is broken… act one has me sobbing; i’m terrified of what’s to come

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with eric as the host? i’m in.

desperately need assad and sam to go head to head with their interview with the vampire knowledge like it is serious to them

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Enduring in B Minor

Lestat de Lioncourt/Louis de Pointe du Lac

Summary: As a hurricane approaches New Orleans, Lestat de Lioncourt sifts through his memories of past loves, familial and romantic. Little does he know, fifty years of waiting to hear of Louis de Pointe du Lac's wellbeing is about to come to an end. Word count: 1.2k Warnings/Tags: canon compliant, missing scene, hurt/comfort, pining, memory loss, reunions. A/N: Wrote this following the finale of IWTV S2. All Lestat needs is a kiss on the forehead and he'll be good to go.

—

The advantage of ivory keys was that they did not have a tendency to wear away as easily as wooden ones. Never did Lestat miss the weight of them beneath his fingertips more than when a finger slipped into the incorrect groove. He would wince, hearing the unfitting note in his head clash with the tinny, electronic score that Siri sputtered out.

She, despite her uses, played but a caricature of what an orchestra could. She could not hold a candle to the feeling of drums that reverberated through him when he performed on stage, beating out an irregular heart’s rhythm through his undead body. She could not replicate the shrill of a too-fast violin that would sing through his veins; he would find the boy’s eyes in the orchestral pit and feel his breath catch, the play slowing around him as he stretched out time for another moment to bask in his attention.

Lestat blinked back into Louisiana. He found his hands clawed, nails sinking into the soft wood. It had been made smooth by both his hands and the humidity. He breathed in deep, scenting the Mississippi river and the hurricane that followed eagerly on its heels. The house, and the bunker he was in, seemed to quake in fearful anticipation. Siri continued her lament, awaiting his accompaniment. His fingers lay poised above the keys, yet the thoughts of Nicolas—young, sweet Niki—had made way for thoughts of another.

Louis was the stage-lights that had warmed him for so many nights. With Louis near, he was reminded of what the sun’s embrace could feel like after centuries of bleak midnights. In his absence, there was a deep ache in his bones that he refused to leave him. On the worst of the lonesome nights, when candles were his only company, his teeth would chatter until he ground his molars together. His jaw would absorb the shaking as best it could before it spread to his shoulders, his hands, his entire being. Only when he tasted iron did he realise he was crying, chest heaving with sobs.

Slowly, he lowered his hands to the wood again, fingertips finding their way into familiar grooves as he tried to shake off the ghosts of past lovers. Lestat took up the threnody again, his movements slow in their practice. With each note, he attempted to compose himself, but mistakes betrayed his usual flawless playing. If he still had use of a proper piano, he would have slammed his hands across the keys, causing the instrument to groan discordantly in protest. He could do no such thing with his wooden imitation, and he gripped it with the intention to throw it aside. After a moment’s hesitation, he loosened his grip and sat back in his chair, letting memory overtake him. There was no use fighting them off any longer; they were a monster who demanded to be heeded.

Lestat remembered the date and time exactly. 11:07; September eighth, 1973. New Orleans had been shrugging off her summer heat yet continued to wrap herself in humidity like one would a favourite shawl. Armand’s voice had come to him, his sultry tones like summer smoke, telling him that Louis had harmed himself. Lestat's breath had choked from him, throat constricting dangerously. The sun and her fledgling—fire—had taken too much from him already.

“Tell him I love him, Armand,” he had begged, “Please.”

There had been no reply. He had screamed Louis’ name long after he knew Armand could no longer hear him.

Worry still gnawed away at Lestat like a worm within an apple core. All these decades later and imagined images still haunted him. He had seen Louis burned before, and had carried him up to coffin himself, but his mind was a cruel mistress. She conjured images of fat and sinew bubbling under the sun to expose the bone beneath, of skin sloughing away into ash.

He had seen this all before. He knew the pain of losing your own flesh and blood; he had felt it in the very marrow of his bones.

He did not know if he could endure it again.

As try as he might, he could not weave together all the threads of memory about the trial. It was an incomplete tapestry, the piece long abandoned. Lestat remembered the script, the stage, the smell of singed flesh. He recalled his limbs feeling leaden, his thoughts fogged. He remembered Louis’ wavering voice, his terrified jade eyes, bloodshot and beautiful. He remembered Claudia’s defiance, her words as sharp and cutting as a razor. He reminisced on her bravery, her protectiveness. He could never forget the way she had turned to him for help. Lestat remembered his own shame in being able to only watch.

He would never forgive himself for not being able to save both of them, but most of all to not rescue Claudia.

Lestat resurfaced from the clutches of memory like a man drowning, gasping for breath. He reached blindly for his piano, clutching it in his shaking hands. The wood grounded him, reminding him that he was no longer in Paris. He hunched over the keys now, hair grazing the wood as his fingers picked up the music again. He could lose himself in the notes, to remind him of anything but those he’d lost.

The door to the bunker slammed open, kicking back against the wall. Lestat refused to let it interrupt his playing, yet the smell of warm blood was tantalising. The two rats his catcher had brought him were larger than most; their heartbeats were frantic despite their quietness. Animal blood was tarter than that of a human with a tang that clung to the back of the throat, yet Lestat could not admit he was overly fond of the taste. Yet, is hunger betrayed him, fangs pricking his tongue.

It was then that another scent caught Lestat’s attention.

He continued to play, his catcher drivelling on about the hurricane, before beginning to question his own existentialism. He had heard all this before, but at least it had come from someone he had loved, let alone tolerated…

He was sure that his senses were deceiving him. Louis had always smelled exquisite, like fresh rain laced underneath cigarette smoke. It was intoxicating. It wrapped around him now, almost suffocating in its closeness. It had to be the hurricane, bringing new scents to him the closer it got to the city.

Then why could hear a third heartbeat in the room?

“Who you?” His catcher demanded; his voice had turned away from Lestat.

“Hello.” The illusion that was Louis replied.

Why did his voice sound so close?

He was in such a reverie that when Lestat answered that the name slurred on his tongue. Louis had always tasted even more deliciously than wine.

“Louis…”

Lestat lifted his head from his piano then, if only to confirm that his mind was playing tricks on him. He turned his head, and there he was, those emerald eyes finding his sapphires from across the room.

Time slowed to a halt, the world quietening around him.

“Hello, Lestat.” Louis said, voice smooth as the darkest merlot. Lestat thought he’d never hear it again, and he had to swallow the tears pricking his eyes.

“Hello, Louis.”

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Rockstar Lestat in honor of IWTV season 2 premiere ❤️‍🔥🩸

You can buy a prints/sticker HERE

Pls rt on twitter