[ this whole thing is one big trigger warning so proceed with caution my good kiddos
also human au bc a thot can’t write any one shot without it
tl;dr at end ]

He could feel his heartbeat in his throat, pounding in his temples, thrumming through his veins. Erratic, beating too hard, too quick, slowing and speeding and thumping thumping thumping as his world spun in circles. He hit the wall and everything shifted, tilting, the smooth concrete seemingly giving way as he slid to his knees. The ground jolted and rolled when his hands hit it, and if he could think clearly enough, he might wonder if he’d caused an earthquake. Nothing was clear, however, and he threw up a bottle of wine as the lights flickered and dimmed.

Bad trip? he had laughed, triumphant, crouching besides Rad as she scrubbed the vomit out of her bedsheets just days ago. He knew that he’d hit lower points than her, sweating through the toxins in his system in the corner of her room, but he couldn’t resist the urge to tease her for it – even when he knew damned well that she was going to make him test it next, to see if he reacted similarly. He hadn’t. Now, days later, his fingers slipping in pale-pink rosé scented vomit as he pushed himself backwards, away, sliding back against the wall – now he wondered if Fate’s sister was Karma and if she was just as cruel.

He closed his eyes as he slouched against the wall, and saw stars. God, if only it could just be the stars, but no – she was there again, always, every fucking time he closed his eyes, no matter how fast he drank, how many pills he shoved in his mouth the second he got away from them, from her. “Stop,” he breathed, soft, but she just stared back at him, hovering, crouching in the corner of his thoughts, golden eyes bright and entrancing and flickering with the faintest, briefest flash of fear as she looked at him. So quick that he might have imagined it.

But he felt it, lancing through the bond, and now he couldn’t stop feeling it. He dug his nails into his palms and doubled forward, head in his laps and fingers fisted in his hair as he gritted his teeth and his heart pounded and things spun harder and harder with the sudden movement. His skin was on fire and everything hurt and opening his eyes made the world spin, but closing them made everything worse and on top of it all she was there.

“Stop it, stop it, stop it,” he whispered hoarsely into the dark, but there it was again – a flicker of fear, playing over and over on repeat, and his head throbbed in tandem with the flashes of sensation. Bastille exhaled once, harsh, broken, and then he was on his feet, stumbling against the wall and slipping in his own vomit as everything spun and righted itself once more. His desk was already a mess, things strewn about from where messy, drunken hands had fumbled about early. He’d emptied the bottle Rad had given him last week, the uppers, but they weren’t working and she was still there and he ripped open the baggy she’d given him ages ago, left overs from an older trial.

He swayed, and the first little blue gel capsule rolled across the floor; he shoved the other two in his mouth, swallowing against the bile in his throat, and gave into the screaming in his head and the shaking of his frame. He slid down to the floor, back against the bed, and washed the pills lodged in his throat down with a cup of vodka from the day before, hands shaking, spilling everywhere in his haste and coughing at the sudden burn.

He couldn’t help it, was desperate, needed to get her out of his head, away from him, felt like he was going to scream when he closed his eyes and he could still see her, feel her emotions filtering through. His heart rate accelerated, thrummed harder, and he opened his eyes again to over-bright lights and the room shaking, the lights flickering on-and-off, on-and-off. Two minutes, he remembered Rad saying, her voice murmuring at the back of his thoughts, low and steady and even as she droned aloud and took her notes, Pupils dilated. Looks like it’s starting to hit. His breathing came out rough, weak, and his head hit the bed, too heavy. There was a moment of stillness, of his skin chilling, as it rolled through his veins, sluggish, steady – like a snail trail that he could feel, could track crawling under his skin. His eyes rolled back and for that brief instance, there was nothing – darkness, empty, devoid of light and that tiny flame of fear.

And then it really hit, and pain exploded in his temples as the beat resumed at double the pace, his heart beat loud in his throat as golden radiance lit up the back of his eye-lids. Bast doubled over, gasping, slammed his forehead against his knees as chills set in and wracked down his frame. “Fuck,” he gasped, that sliver of fear creeping through the darkness, eating into his skin, rooted itself in his chest until it was his own and he couldn’t breathe and, “Fuck, fuck, stop—” 

Seems to mix poorly with wine, Rad of the past whispered, distantly, and he closed his eyes harder as she stared at him and he screamed through clenched teeth, the noise coming out breathy and choked off. His throat was tight and all he could feel was the fear, her fear shooting through his veins in the wake of the drugs and it was going to consume him and he couldn’t think when his thoughts were a jumbled mess, filled to the brim with thumping thumping thumping and the soft, faint tendril of a voice saying hesitantly before cutting herself off, I want to teach Hazel to defend herself, from—

You, echoed in his thoughts, unsaid but implied, as he choked as he turned his head slightly, fingers clenching, feverish as he babbled absently at the golden eyes staring back at him in the darkness, “Stop, stop, I wouldn’t— I’m not g-going to hurt you,” hiccups interjecting the mumbling, his breath coming shallowly as everything spun, “Stop, stop, stop, go away go away go away—”

Something in him crackled and surged, breaking apart, and his blood chilled as he stared into fearful golden eyes and watched them bleed into soft green. He could taste her terror on his tongue and it was like waves crashing through him, jolts of lightning in his spine, wrenching out something dark and nasty and his head was throbbing as he choked, broken, “No, no, no, nonono—”

She looked back at him and backed away and there it was again, the flicker in her eyes, the burst of emotion in his chest, amplified, harsh, brutal in the darkness of his room as his pulse skyrocketed and hammered dangerously, as he shook his head against his knees and babbled to himself – convincing himself that he wasn’t going to hurt her, that she couldn’t fear him, please, please, don’t leave, it’s okay, he wasn’t going to—

Red hair, soft and silky as ever, darkening with blood as it pooled across the floor. Even in death, his fucking brother had to pollute her, somehow, and he wished he’d shot him a few more times for good measure. The nasty flare of anger was derailed, however, as her pulse thrummed erratically against his fingers, soft green eyes brimming with tears and terror, mumbled prayers on her lips, sobs in her throat.

Bast’s fingers clenched in his hair, knotting into fists and pulling as his heartbeat pounded in time with pulse against his fingertips – quick, panicked, the sound of thrumming amplified against his skull, Hazel’s fear fresh on his tongue even as this older fear washed through him, radiating off of her. “No, no, no, please,” he whispered into his knees, paralyzed with the terror, hands shaking in his hair.

“Little dove,” he whispered, leaning his forehead against hers, feeling her flinch away and whimper – the movement made her throat move, shifting under his hands, and he pressed harder with his thumbs as he breathed, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I couldn’t shoot you like the rest. I’m sorry, darling.”

Her screams in his ears as he pressed, pressed hard enough to block her airways, pressed his love into her skin and peppered kisses along her jaw as she sobbed and choked and gasped for air—

And suddenly, gold. Gold in the place of green, curls everywhere, shrill Latin tumbling off of lips wet with tears as she thrashed and pushed against him, fingers clenching in his shirt, pulling, pushing, yanking, her pulse violent against his palms.

“Stop it stop it stop it,” Bast sobbed, something panicked and wild crashing through him as he struggled to get away, to shut it off, to make himself stop, stop hurting her, stop stop stop, but his pulse was roaring in his temple, mingling with hers, thrumming in tandem, and he couldn’t stop shaking as the ground beneath him cracked and splintered.

There was no where to go, no where to get away from it, it didn’t matter how hard he curled in on himself or how much he shook his head, panting, whimpering, dread and terror in his throat because he was fixed in place on his bedroom floor and there was nothing he could do to make it stop—

There was a moment, there, where his fingers slipped on blood and tears and he lost his balance in the face of her thrashing. His elbow his the ground beside her head and she screamed, pushing at him, lunging to the side, struggling to escape, the scent of vanilla drowning under copper.

He yanked her back to him, gritting his teeth as she rolled and sobbed, trying to get away, and then he had her under him once more and something vicious was roaring in his blood, screaming that she was trying to leave him again. His fingers were rough on her throat now, the brush of soft kisses gone as he crushed her windpipe and enjoyed it. He didn’t realize he was crying until she was already dead, as he nuzzled her cheek and apologized again and again but he [i]had to and didn’t she understand? [/i]

Bastille screamed into his jeans, nails driving into his skin, pressing into his temples, screamed because he couldn’t make it stop and he’d killed her he’d killed her and the aftertaste of her terror was thick in his throat as he trembled and screamed and tried to tell himself that he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t, he couldn’t and wouldn’t hurt her, that she was fine she was fine she was fine—

But he couldn’t think rationally through the haze and he rolled up on to his knees, threw up again from horror and disgust or from the violent clenching in his stomach, he couldn’t tell, everything was closing in on him and all he could see where terrified golden eyes dimming and he killed her—

He was shaking so hard that he stumbled when he tried to stand, the world shifting up and shifting back down, and he choked on a sob when he landed on his knees again because he had to get out of her, away from her, needed to get away but there was no where to go and he could never hide from what he had done to her, anyway. Blindly, he shook his head, gaze swinging to his desk, unfocused.

He held her until she was cold, whispered his apologies and his goodbyes and his love until he couldn’t stand it anymore and he was stumbling to his feet, gaze scanning the mess. His brother’s blood was pooling and drying by now, and he stepped shakily over hazardously strewn limbs, incapable of feeling remorse for the bastard. He’d done this. He’d killed her, not Pollie. He had deserved to die, even if she hadn’t, and his fingers were sticky with blood as he found the gun he’d dropped.

He didn’t want to live without her.

Things clattered to the ground as he dug through his bottom drawer, woozy and hiccupping through his tears, heartbeat loud in the back of his thoughts. He dropped half the things he grabbed the first time, fingers shaky and slick, fumbling around but it wasn’t there and he sobbed in frustration as he yanked the whole drawer out and threw it, even if it barely flew a few feet. He wanted to scream with his desperation, with the wild, blazing terror in his heart, the sorrow threatening to suffocate him—

“Oh, baby boy,” she whispered, soft. Vanilla wafted through the air and he froze, staring up at her once he lifted his head, his breath coming in soft gasps. Frenchpaw was just as he remembered her: young, now a year or two younger than he was now, pale blonde her falling in delicate curls, dressed neatly in a dainty dress. Baby blue eyes were soft as she knelt in front of him, cradling his jaw, and he shook as he felt phantom traces of warmth seep into his skin.

“M-mom,” he whimpered, voice scratchy from screaming and sobbing, and he slouched towards her, exhausted and miserable and hating himself as the grief sank into his bones. His words came out cracked and raw, trembling, “Mom, please, I killed her, I killed her, please— I need, I need it, where is it?”

“No, baby, you don’t,” she said, sighing softly as one hand swept through his hair, and he leaned into it even as something screamed at him that he’d killed her, too, killed her in birth and that he killed everything he touched. She shushed him, soft, even though he hadn’t spoken aloud, and murmured, “Oh, baby boy. When did you get so cold? Why do you let them do this to you?” He shook his head, pleading with her, but she only said, “You know this isn’t who you are. That—that isn’t who you are, either.”

“Y-yes, yes it is,” he gasped softly, his heartbeat still thrumming loudly, and he inhaled, once, as something twisted in his chest. It was muted, however – dull, faint, a scream in the distance being blocked by… something. Her, he realized, distantly. It must be her, forcing him to relax, forcing his heart to stop racing, the panic to quiet down, the shaking to slowly stop. “She was right. She was right, she was right, she knew I would hurt her and I did, mom, I killed her and I couldn’t stop it because I wanted to and I—”

She hushed him again, and there was another wave of sensation, crackling along his nerves. It felt like exhaustion and drowsiness, making his limbs feel heavy, and he shook his head as he whimpered, tried to fight against it. “You have to stop telling yourself that they define you. You don’t get to break down and lash out and claim that it’s because of them, baby. You can’t keep doing this to yourself, giving yourself excuses, letting it be okay because there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re better than that, Bastille.”

He shook his head against the hand in his hair and the slender fingers on his jaw, wanted to tell her that he wasn’t, that he was nothing, that he couldn’t beat them, couldn’t be better than what he was made of, but he didn’t need to hear it to know what he was thinking. She stared into his eyes level and said, quiet but firm, “You won’t hurt her unless you let yourself. It’s time for you to stop letting yourself, baby.”

“Mom—” he whispered, but she pressed a kiss to his cheek and stood. The room shifted, rotated on its axis, and he shuddered at the sudden loss of warmth as he struggled to stand after her. She put a hand on his shoulder to keep him down, and everything was swaying and darkening around the edges, his thoughts going hazy. He barely registered it when he slid to his side, some far, far away flare of rationality mumbling absently in the back of his mind that you were supposed to sleep on your side.

“Sleep, baby boy,” was the faint murmur as his eyes closed, the spinning and the heavy weight on his chest dragging him down. This time when he closed his eyes, there was only the darkness.

[ tl;dr: bast rolls away from the wine thread shooketh bc he realized that hazel is afraid of him
he took uppers after tryna escape the Yikes emotion but they didn’t work so then he took some bad drugs that do poorly with wine
cue bad trip and paranoia as he relives pollie’s memories and thinks he’s killing hazel
mama frenchie rolls up to stop him from doing something dumb and then knocks his ass out ]

Things had been...quiet. Quiet as they could possibly get, at least. Hazel had managed to catch a wink of sleep that was probably closer to dozing than napping, but now she felt a little better: her vision wasn’t swimming and her headaches were less frequent and painful. Light didn’t hurt her eyes anymore. It was easier to keep the voice in her head quiet. It was getting easier to absorb the little shocks of emotion that startled her every now and again, knowing that it was Bastille.

Unfortunately, not everything had lessened. Tremors still jittered in her fingers, under her skin, in her knees. Unease still rattled her bones; still put her on edge. Now she was aware that there was another person inside her head — a person that had access to classified memories Hazel had put under lock and key for a while now. A person that, seemingly, enjoyed using them to throw Hazel off her game. Hazel could feel the girl waiting for a weak moment, a flash of vulnerability, to punch through the crumbling remains of her wall. Hazel was incredibly weary of that day and struggled to procrastinate its arrival, though she knew it was inevitable, like the setting of the sun.

Everything with Bastille had seemed a little more muted than it should be. A little...duller. Maybe it was his apathy, or maybe that was just how bonds worked. Nevertheless. She had felt the tug and pull of his withdrawals before; the restlessness, the itch for the next fix. It was bland in her mind compared to his, but she could still feel it. Hazel had decided that she would take withdrawal symptoms over the risk of a bad trip or a bad come down. Bastille didn’t seem to care, but the moment Hazel felt the false light leak into her brain from the uppers, she’d be on edge until she felt the drag of the come down.

Sometimes the come downs made for really interesting charcoal pieces, she discovered. At least, when she could see straight. Some were more intense than others. And she could feel it, his anxiety and misery, and she wanted to help. She wanted to be the one to comfort him in his agony, not the other way around. Though if she went, she wasn’t terribly sure of what she’d find. Was she scared?

Yeah. Terrified.

The sudden slam of something jittering and restless and painful made Hazel drop her pencil, a gasp stuttering out past her lips from where she sat against the wall in the grand circle. She knew immediately that it was from Bastille, but what the fuck — this was more painful than anything she’d experienced through him so far.

She curled in on herself, forehead hitting her knees as wave after wave of the worst come down slammed against her nervous system. Something shifted, deep and soul-rooted and perfectly fucking awful, because Hazel could practically taste the fear on the back of her tongue, shocked that for once, it wasn’t her terror. It was the roll of knowing that Bastille had done something he had tried so hard not to that had Hazel leaning back against the wall, trying to blink through the pain, the agony, the fear and the horror crashed into her mainframe. It hurt to breathe, hurt to move, hurt to fucking think because everything was just screaming —

Then a pause. A waft of vanilla. A chill of familiarity. Grief so heavy it pulled her heart to the floor and desperation so miserable it made her hands shake. Baby blue flashed behind her eyelids, and a sensation flooded her veins, something oddly familiar. Eerily familiar, but unplaceable.

Hazel was moving as soon as she could, exhaustion tripping her feet and sending her stumbling into walls as her vision tunneled, but she was too close — a few more steps, and she was there, she could help him —

But his room was empty. Empty and reeking of vomit, his lingering presence doing little to soothe the fire that burned under her skin. Hazel had just missed Cooper and Suite carrying the unconscious boy to Rin, instead left with his mess of a room. The girl leaned against his doorframe, struggling to keep her eyes open against the amount of weight pulling them closed. Because what the fuck. There was still a wisp of the unplaceable aura hanging in the air, but Hazel couldn’t spare the mental space to identify it. All she could do was steady herself, steady the tears, the ache in her bones and the exhaustion crawling up her spine.

★ — hazel — "speech" — eight months — the ascendants — tags — ★