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+---- Thread: tell me that you love me even if it's fake | open + relapse (/showthread.php?tid=2858)
tell me that you love me even if it's fake | open + relapse - BASTILLEPAW - 07-09-2018
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SING, GODDESS, OF THE RAGE OF ACHILLES
Bastille wished he could say that there was a reason for it. In reality, there wasn't one. That was just the thing about relapse, though -- sometimes there was no logic behind it, nothing to push you over the edge; sometime everything was fine and then it hit in the most unexpected way. He liked to believe that he was stubborn enough to resist the shuddering cold sweats and the hallucinations, the puking, all of it, but the truth was that some times willpower just wasn't enough to combat something like this on your own. He couldn't even say with any clarity what exactly had broken him down in the first place, how hard he had resisted, if he had resisted -- all he knew was that now he was a bottle of wine into the evening, and everything was warm and a little fuzzy, close to that warm-gold-happy feeling that Hazel's presence prompted through the bond (minus the gold).
The tension in his shoulders had melted away at some point, and while this was a familiar scene to some, it was also... different, in a sense. There was absolutely no trace of Zaniel in his actions and movements. He held Player's hands captive in his, holding one of her hands up with their palms pressed flat in a comparison of their hand sizes. The other held onto her free one, loosely. She'd said something to prompt his curiosity for the comparison, but his attention was fleeting, losing interest pretty quickly. The points of contact -- their hands, his knees pressing against hers as they sat across from one another -- were warm and reassuring in a weird way, and that was good enough for him. He kept forgetting his trains of thought.
"Oh," he said, his hand falling away from hers before finding it once more, losing track of the comparison. There was slight slur to his words, face flushed and eyes too bright, but his grin was his own when he grinned lopsidedly. "Right. Um, Ovid's work. Look, people say they don't know, uh, why he got kicked. Out, I mean. Exiled. But that's such bullshit. It was Metamorphoses. I mean, look, people think it's-- Am--" The Latin was a bit choppy on his tongue, lacking his usual fluid grace with the language, "Ars Amatoria. But that's... so wrong. Look, Meta is entirely a big, um, fuck you to Augustus."
He was fiddling with just one of Play's hands now, holding it between two hands as he messed with her fingers aimlessly. Touch. Touch was good, and he grinned down at their hands before his unsteady gaze was back on her face. "Meta's all about... the gods, and how terrible and cruel they were," he said, slurring a bit, before he added, "And how modeling ourselves after them is... ironic. Pathetic, even. It's, uh, a shot. At Augustus. For that." An amused grin. "Ovid was a bit of an ass, but I like 'im."
[ [member=1166]Playerone K.G.[/member]
also i forgot this wasn't canon human au midway so here we are, with a human au version, bc im a terrible person ]
The tension in his shoulders had melted away at some point, and while this was a familiar scene to some, it was also... different, in a sense. There was absolutely no trace of Zaniel in his actions and movements. He held Player's hands captive in his, holding one of her hands up with their palms pressed flat in a comparison of their hand sizes. The other held onto her free one, loosely. She'd said something to prompt his curiosity for the comparison, but his attention was fleeting, losing interest pretty quickly. The points of contact -- their hands, his knees pressing against hers as they sat across from one another -- were warm and reassuring in a weird way, and that was good enough for him. He kept forgetting his trains of thought.
"Oh," he said, his hand falling away from hers before finding it once more, losing track of the comparison. There was slight slur to his words, face flushed and eyes too bright, but his grin was his own when he grinned lopsidedly. "Right. Um, Ovid's work. Look, people say they don't know, uh, why he got kicked. Out, I mean. Exiled. But that's such bullshit. It was Metamorphoses. I mean, look, people think it's-- Am--" The Latin was a bit choppy on his tongue, lacking his usual fluid grace with the language, "Ars Amatoria. But that's... so wrong. Look, Meta is entirely a big, um, fuck you to Augustus."
He was fiddling with just one of Play's hands now, holding it between two hands as he messed with her fingers aimlessly. Touch. Touch was good, and he grinned down at their hands before his unsteady gaze was back on her face. "Meta's all about... the gods, and how terrible and cruel they were," he said, slurring a bit, before he added, "And how modeling ourselves after them is... ironic. Pathetic, even. It's, uh, a shot. At Augustus. For that." An amused grin. "Ovid was a bit of an ass, but I like 'im."
[ [member=1166]Playerone K.G.[/member]
also i forgot this wasn't canon human au midway so here we are, with a human au version, bc im a terrible person ]
[b]BASTILLEPRISONER AURELIUS — ASTRAL SERAPH — THE ASCENDANTS — TAGS
Re: tell me that you love me even if it's fake | open + relapse - Cosmic - 07-10-2018
I had no clue about Bast's past, and therefore no idea that he was relapsing. I listened to him closely though, talking about great writers and philosophers from years past, and to be honest I was enjoying it. I gave a nod every now and then to show I had been listening.
When he took my hand in his hand, I paused, becoming rather silent. I still listened, but the fact that our bodies were so close and touching, like our knees and hands... well, it was both a welcome feeling and not. Somehow a part of me knew it was wrong on so many levels, and I wanted to politely break contact but at the same time... yeah you get it.
I had asked about comparing palms since I was curious. I thought that maybe animals that became humans had different traits compared to us, but it didn't appear so. That was really nice, actually. Maybe they were just like us, like I originally thought, and humans were hypocritical jackasses.
I swear though, if Bastille began to play with my hair then we we're going to have problems. Not in a bad way, more like 'holy fuck I love this I mean stop- no, I mean don't stop- this is nice' kind of way. I was a sucker for people playing with my hair or fur.
"They sound like they didn't like each other that much. That's still really cool though." I said after a moment, tone soft and thoughtful. I decided it would be best to make sure we stayed on a different topic rather than focusing on touch. Maybe he would think I was oblivious. Maybe not. I knew that this would probably go somewhere though.
"I don't know Latin that well... Maybe you can teach me more...?" I inquired, eyes looking into his with an intense curiosity. It was always really awesome to know another language, especially Latin, because it was kick-ass. I allowed Bast to keep a hold of my hand, knowing that he was likely doing this out of curiosity for curiosity's sake. Like me and paws. And tails. And ears. Because it was all new and fascinating.
Touch was good at times. I wasn't going to argue with that. Touch was fine. I just hoped this wasn't going to go too far. Otherwise I didn't know what would happen. I really didn't want any trouble. Not when I just joined a few weeks ago and everyone was on edge. "Ovid seems like a decent dude. I'd like to read more of his work if you're up for it." Oof. Was I being flirtatious? Who knew.
I tried threading my fingers between his, but mostly subconsciously. I didn't know I was doing this. Huh. Interesting...
Re: tell me that you love me even if it's fake | open + relapse - ★ HAZEL - 07-11-2018
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ooc oh hi muse
It was supposed to be a good day.
The end of a good day, at least. The end of a day where Hazel felt like watching the sunset melt everything it touched into gold and the fireflies blink in the coming dusk. The end of a day where she didn’t feel like curling up in her room, preparing for another night of avoiding sleep: drifting in and out of consciousness, dipping into the beginnings of nightmares and startling awake with a French lullaby on her tongue and sweat beading on the back of her neck. Those nights — the ones where she forced her eyes open until five in the morning and shadows moved like people and nothing seemed real — were horrible, and they’d been going on for weeks.
But real? Real was in the flood of liquid warmth that slipped down her spine, coaxing and easing her into an unfocused state. Real was in the taste of wine that stung the back of her tongue and the little voice convincing her that this felt good. That this felt damn good. Hazel slumped against the wall, skin warm and mind sated, not caring that her vision was starting to blur.
“Dumbass,” Titanium’s voice was like frigid ice that whipped across her brain: sharp and clear and stinging. “Too stupid to notice that the sudden happy-high came from your boy-toy’s wine cellar.” She leered, giddy on the impending panic upon Hazel’s realization. And Titanium got her entertainment: the slow creep of thought pushing through the haze, the sudden plummet of her heart through her chest. Titanium laughed, gleeful and wicked.
Hazel shook her head, trying to force the cackling from her eardrums so she could think clearly. Trying to force the drunken fog from her mind so she could orient herself. It didn’t take long — the hand that forced her to her feet; the voice that taunted he’s drinking again, he’s falling, and you’re not there to catch him; the little spark of anger and fear returning to simmer low in her stomach. Locating the source of the bond and finding its floodgates had grown easier, and Hazel hardly struggled to shut out the thoughts that weren’t hers.
Because goddammit — just like Mother. The promise, the relapse, the crying, the giving up, the apathy. Bastille was paving the same path for himself, and Hazel would be damned if she didn’t use her experience to help her — her — her friend out of it. Part of it might have been disappointment: the fall of her hope that he would be stronger than Mother. That he would endure it and take it and get past it. The withdrawals were awful, true; Hazel was being dragged through a lesser version of them. She knew. But may her soul rest in Hell if she hadn’t had faith in him.
The closer she got, the more she realized there was a different sort of warmth filtering through the part of the bond she hadn’t managed to close up. A warmth that was pulsing and comforting. A warmth that reminded her a lot of what she’d experienced on a certain day not too long ago. And then there was a new rush of something different — of something selfish and angry and hot hot hot. Titanium’s satisfied chuckle fell on deaf ears as Hazel fell to jealousy, knowing exactly what was causing the added source of warmth.
Admittedly, she tried to look nonplussed: strolling along, hands tucked in the pockets of her dress, bare feet skimming the ground inconsistently, almost distractedly. But it was clear she was headed in a certain direction, eyes and veins lit with an odd fire that felt like it was confirming fears she never let see the light of day: she wasn’t enough. She knew that logically, of course; Genevieve made that evident. But Hazel clung to the little idea that Bastille might see her differently. He stepped between her and Gen; he blushed when she laughed and stared at her scars with an odd mix of morbid curiosity and anger and shame. He spoke Latin with her — thought it was a private thing — and wanted to teach her to read English. He read The Iliad and The Odyssey to her late at night. He called her Princess, looked after Arion and held her close when all she could see was her Mother and kitchen knives digging into her skin.
So she hoped. And she thought maybe.
“Maybe is for daydreamers and idiots.” Titanium hissed. “He’d drop the act in a heartbeat if he knew how broken and damaged you really are — how those scars are just stitches across your ripped seams.” Hazel believed it. Hazel believed every goddamn word she said, because she knew it was true. People lied and people stole — but no one ever warned of a person who might steal her heart. It didn’t matter to her, not really. She still wanted to help him, still considered him a friend. Still considered him someone who deserved the help.
It didn’t take long to find them; their bond leading Hazel there like a odd game of “hot or cold.” She couldn’t say she was relieved upon discovering his aura was still icy blue, not flickering between shades like it was the last time. Titanium surely wasn’t pleased, a noise of a child’s pout echoing in Hazel’s brain as confirmation. Nonetheless, Hazel’s eyes fell to their joined hands, her own subtly playing with the fabric of her dress as she remembered the warmth of his skin pressed to hers; the sound of his heartbeat under her ear and the scent of smoke and pine that clung to his shirt.
Jealousy burned, hot and bitter in the back of her throat, sparking that impulsive anger that drove her forward. “Yeah,” She quipped, “you like Ovid because he’s a bit of an ass.” The gods knew she had picked that up from their time spent reading together: the little upward tilt of the corner of his mouth when he came across particularly wry. Hazel planted herself next to him, cross legged, her leg bumping against his purposefully. She wouldn’t pretend that her fingers weren’t shaking, that she was suppressing memories and fear as best she could. But the one memory of that panic attack had smoothed over her hesitation in touching him, knowing that the feeling was possible again if she just moved.
She hardly glanced at Player as she reached for one of his hands, determined and too far ahead to quit (too far ahead to start thinking, really). Player wasn’t the subject of her focus, despite Titanium muttering something about the other girl having the audacity to make a move on the boy-toy. Hazel could feel the strings of Titanium’s direct anger, pointing, demanding Hazel say something to Player, but Hazel bit her tongue. By then she’d attempted to gently pull Bastille’s hand away, instead gently pressing her fingers between his. And she could feel the heat spark, fuzzy and content, and she tried to let it wash over the fact that Bastille was drunk and basically flirting.
And then Player asked if he could teach her Latin.
And alarms blared in Hazel’s mind, annoying sounds that shrieked louder than Titanium. She recalled, not too long ago, stumbling upon Bastille coming down from a particular drug in the stables. It hadn’t been pretty, and there was certainly more to the story, but Hazel only wanted the one piece: ”I guess I figured you would be able to talk to Margy in Latin and learn from her and you wouldn’t be forced to hang out with me any more.” It had crowned the moment Hazel realized Bastille thought she was just being nice, and that he’d considered their shared language as something special. Now, Hazel felt obligated to preserve that. And while she spoke Latin freely with Margy, she reserved most of it for Bastille.
“Latin’s a great language to learn,” Hazel piped, smile all thought. “It’s the base of the five romance languages. Margaery would be a great teacher. She’s been fluent all her life.” Was Hazel being a bitter bitch? Yes. Was she doing a good job of pulling it off as sincerity? ...Maybe?
[sup]c) miithers[/sup]
[align=center]hazel elise caelum . nine months . the ascendants . golden girl . tags
ooc oh hi muse
It was supposed to be a good day.
The end of a good day, at least. The end of a day where Hazel felt like watching the sunset melt everything it touched into gold and the fireflies blink in the coming dusk. The end of a day where she didn’t feel like curling up in her room, preparing for another night of avoiding sleep: drifting in and out of consciousness, dipping into the beginnings of nightmares and startling awake with a French lullaby on her tongue and sweat beading on the back of her neck. Those nights — the ones where she forced her eyes open until five in the morning and shadows moved like people and nothing seemed real — were horrible, and they’d been going on for weeks.
But real? Real was in the flood of liquid warmth that slipped down her spine, coaxing and easing her into an unfocused state. Real was in the taste of wine that stung the back of her tongue and the little voice convincing her that this felt good. That this felt damn good. Hazel slumped against the wall, skin warm and mind sated, not caring that her vision was starting to blur.
“Dumbass,” Titanium’s voice was like frigid ice that whipped across her brain: sharp and clear and stinging. “Too stupid to notice that the sudden happy-high came from your boy-toy’s wine cellar.” She leered, giddy on the impending panic upon Hazel’s realization. And Titanium got her entertainment: the slow creep of thought pushing through the haze, the sudden plummet of her heart through her chest. Titanium laughed, gleeful and wicked.
Hazel shook her head, trying to force the cackling from her eardrums so she could think clearly. Trying to force the drunken fog from her mind so she could orient herself. It didn’t take long — the hand that forced her to her feet; the voice that taunted he’s drinking again, he’s falling, and you’re not there to catch him; the little spark of anger and fear returning to simmer low in her stomach. Locating the source of the bond and finding its floodgates had grown easier, and Hazel hardly struggled to shut out the thoughts that weren’t hers.
Because goddammit — just like Mother. The promise, the relapse, the crying, the giving up, the apathy. Bastille was paving the same path for himself, and Hazel would be damned if she didn’t use her experience to help her — her — her friend out of it. Part of it might have been disappointment: the fall of her hope that he would be stronger than Mother. That he would endure it and take it and get past it. The withdrawals were awful, true; Hazel was being dragged through a lesser version of them. She knew. But may her soul rest in Hell if she hadn’t had faith in him.
The closer she got, the more she realized there was a different sort of warmth filtering through the part of the bond she hadn’t managed to close up. A warmth that was pulsing and comforting. A warmth that reminded her a lot of what she’d experienced on a certain day not too long ago. And then there was a new rush of something different — of something selfish and angry and hot hot hot. Titanium’s satisfied chuckle fell on deaf ears as Hazel fell to jealousy, knowing exactly what was causing the added source of warmth.
Admittedly, she tried to look nonplussed: strolling along, hands tucked in the pockets of her dress, bare feet skimming the ground inconsistently, almost distractedly. But it was clear she was headed in a certain direction, eyes and veins lit with an odd fire that felt like it was confirming fears she never let see the light of day: she wasn’t enough. She knew that logically, of course; Genevieve made that evident. But Hazel clung to the little idea that Bastille might see her differently. He stepped between her and Gen; he blushed when she laughed and stared at her scars with an odd mix of morbid curiosity and anger and shame. He spoke Latin with her — thought it was a private thing — and wanted to teach her to read English. He read The Iliad and The Odyssey to her late at night. He called her Princess, looked after Arion and held her close when all she could see was her Mother and kitchen knives digging into her skin.
So she hoped. And she thought maybe.
“Maybe is for daydreamers and idiots.” Titanium hissed. “He’d drop the act in a heartbeat if he knew how broken and damaged you really are — how those scars are just stitches across your ripped seams.” Hazel believed it. Hazel believed every goddamn word she said, because she knew it was true. People lied and people stole — but no one ever warned of a person who might steal her heart. It didn’t matter to her, not really. She still wanted to help him, still considered him a friend. Still considered him someone who deserved the help.
It didn’t take long to find them; their bond leading Hazel there like a odd game of “hot or cold.” She couldn’t say she was relieved upon discovering his aura was still icy blue, not flickering between shades like it was the last time. Titanium surely wasn’t pleased, a noise of a child’s pout echoing in Hazel’s brain as confirmation. Nonetheless, Hazel’s eyes fell to their joined hands, her own subtly playing with the fabric of her dress as she remembered the warmth of his skin pressed to hers; the sound of his heartbeat under her ear and the scent of smoke and pine that clung to his shirt.
Jealousy burned, hot and bitter in the back of her throat, sparking that impulsive anger that drove her forward. “Yeah,” She quipped, “you like Ovid because he’s a bit of an ass.” The gods knew she had picked that up from their time spent reading together: the little upward tilt of the corner of his mouth when he came across particularly wry. Hazel planted herself next to him, cross legged, her leg bumping against his purposefully. She wouldn’t pretend that her fingers weren’t shaking, that she was suppressing memories and fear as best she could. But the one memory of that panic attack had smoothed over her hesitation in touching him, knowing that the feeling was possible again if she just moved.
She hardly glanced at Player as she reached for one of his hands, determined and too far ahead to quit (too far ahead to start thinking, really). Player wasn’t the subject of her focus, despite Titanium muttering something about the other girl having the audacity to make a move on the boy-toy. Hazel could feel the strings of Titanium’s direct anger, pointing, demanding Hazel say something to Player, but Hazel bit her tongue. By then she’d attempted to gently pull Bastille’s hand away, instead gently pressing her fingers between his. And she could feel the heat spark, fuzzy and content, and she tried to let it wash over the fact that Bastille was drunk and basically flirting.
And then Player asked if he could teach her Latin.
And alarms blared in Hazel’s mind, annoying sounds that shrieked louder than Titanium. She recalled, not too long ago, stumbling upon Bastille coming down from a particular drug in the stables. It hadn’t been pretty, and there was certainly more to the story, but Hazel only wanted the one piece: ”I guess I figured you would be able to talk to Margy in Latin and learn from her and you wouldn’t be forced to hang out with me any more.” It had crowned the moment Hazel realized Bastille thought she was just being nice, and that he’d considered their shared language as something special. Now, Hazel felt obligated to preserve that. And while she spoke Latin freely with Margy, she reserved most of it for Bastille.
“Latin’s a great language to learn,” Hazel piped, smile all thought. “It’s the base of the five romance languages. Margaery would be a great teacher. She’s been fluent all her life.” Was Hazel being a bitter bitch? Yes. Was she doing a good job of pulling it off as sincerity? ...Maybe?
Re: tell me that you love me even if it's fake | open + relapse - Margaery - 07-11-2018
MARGAERY FOLIE-MIKAELSON
[table][tr][td][/td][td][/td][td][/td][/tr][/table]MAKE ME QUEEN OR
I'LL MAKE YOU BLEED
I'LL MAKE YOU BLEED
[b]"Ad verecundiam quod non accipere alumni."
She sauntered towards them with a knowing gleam in her eyes and a frown upon her lips, ring adorned hands resting pointedly upon her hips as she assessed the situation- the mess. "A shame I don't take students," Margaery clarified after a moment of contemplation, a stormy gaze passing over Player. Her Uncle Elijah had been her teacher centuries ago, taking it upon himself to ensure that his niece was fluent in the thriving language of the time. There had been brief blips of her own history when the only thing she [i]could speak was Latin, the concept of English and its many complications forgotten to her as she immersed herself in something new. Something that Sybil loved. It was a shame that so very few could understand Latin these days and even more so that some considered the language she loved dearly to be dead. Still, she wasn't interested in teaching anyone about anything pertaining to Latin. The lessons... they would run too close to a nerve.
Something stirred and shifted in the back of her mind as she pondered the subject more, an ancient force that had certainly made less appearances than any of her more active counterparts. "Ego youd 'erit magister eius," Ingrid whispered to her, hope, among other things, lacing a gravelly tone. Margaery could only audibly chuckle, dismissing her counterpart with a fleeting thought: "You have to be able to speak English to teach someone Latin, love."
Self in check, Margaery figured that it was time to address the more pressing matter at hand: Bastille. The woman knew how tricky relapses could be. Dependency on any substance was a hard thing to break away from and the consequences... she knew how atrocious they were. She had been proud of the boy for his committed dedication to staying sober, but these types of ordeals were natural. She, of all people, knew that recovery was not a flat road. Still, the way that he held Player's hand, the way that he babbled and talked of Ovid in a drunken haze... Margaery was concerned. At one time, perhaps she would have brushed this off as a typical day and asked if he had any wine left, indulging her desires, her needs. She could barely find it in herself to generate even a spark of that typical behavior though, instead bouncing up and down nervously on the balls of her feet. She was supposed to be the adult here, full of life experience and the ability to fix a situation. She wanted to help Bast - and Hazel too - but she was utterly lost as to where to begin.
It didn't help that she, too, felt something akin to anger flaring in her chest, lips twisting further and further into a frown when she realized that Player had no desire to shy away from Bast's touch. How dare she? How dare she? She could faintly detect the same reaction in Hazel as well, the words she spoke a good indication of her own discontentment towards the situation. It made sense suddenly why Haze had volunteered her as a teacher- she was jealous.
Things were falling more and more together and Margaery, still at a lack of words, resorted to biting a lip as she thought. "Bast," She extended after a continued period of silence, "Can I get you some water?" If he wanted to drink, then she would not be the one to demand he stop and continue to cold-turkey this whole thing. Even though she saw herself as something akin to his mother, she still did not believe it was her place. "And Play, darling." In spite of herself, the word dripped with a venom that sounded more in line with Genevieve's behavior, not Margaery's. "Why don't you come here? Stand next to me and let the two talk."
She sauntered towards them with a knowing gleam in her eyes and a frown upon her lips, ring adorned hands resting pointedly upon her hips as she assessed the situation- the mess. "A shame I don't take students," Margaery clarified after a moment of contemplation, a stormy gaze passing over Player. Her Uncle Elijah had been her teacher centuries ago, taking it upon himself to ensure that his niece was fluent in the thriving language of the time. There had been brief blips of her own history when the only thing she [i]could speak was Latin, the concept of English and its many complications forgotten to her as she immersed herself in something new. Something that Sybil loved. It was a shame that so very few could understand Latin these days and even more so that some considered the language she loved dearly to be dead. Still, she wasn't interested in teaching anyone about anything pertaining to Latin. The lessons... they would run too close to a nerve.
Something stirred and shifted in the back of her mind as she pondered the subject more, an ancient force that had certainly made less appearances than any of her more active counterparts. "Ego youd 'erit magister eius," Ingrid whispered to her, hope, among other things, lacing a gravelly tone. Margaery could only audibly chuckle, dismissing her counterpart with a fleeting thought: "You have to be able to speak English to teach someone Latin, love."
Self in check, Margaery figured that it was time to address the more pressing matter at hand: Bastille. The woman knew how tricky relapses could be. Dependency on any substance was a hard thing to break away from and the consequences... she knew how atrocious they were. She had been proud of the boy for his committed dedication to staying sober, but these types of ordeals were natural. She, of all people, knew that recovery was not a flat road. Still, the way that he held Player's hand, the way that he babbled and talked of Ovid in a drunken haze... Margaery was concerned. At one time, perhaps she would have brushed this off as a typical day and asked if he had any wine left, indulging her desires, her needs. She could barely find it in herself to generate even a spark of that typical behavior though, instead bouncing up and down nervously on the balls of her feet. She was supposed to be the adult here, full of life experience and the ability to fix a situation. She wanted to help Bast - and Hazel too - but she was utterly lost as to where to begin.
It didn't help that she, too, felt something akin to anger flaring in her chest, lips twisting further and further into a frown when she realized that Player had no desire to shy away from Bast's touch. How dare she? How dare she? She could faintly detect the same reaction in Hazel as well, the words she spoke a good indication of her own discontentment towards the situation. It made sense suddenly why Haze had volunteered her as a teacher- she was jealous.
Things were falling more and more together and Margaery, still at a lack of words, resorted to biting a lip as she thought. "Bast," She extended after a continued period of silence, "Can I get you some water?" If he wanted to drink, then she would not be the one to demand he stop and continue to cold-turkey this whole thing. Even though she saw herself as something akin to his mother, she still did not believe it was her place. "And Play, darling." In spite of herself, the word dripped with a venom that sounded more in line with Genevieve's behavior, not Margaery's. "Why don't you come here? Stand next to me and let the two talk."
© MADI
Re: tell me that you love me even if it's fake | open + relapse - BASTILLEPAW - 07-11-2018
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Bastille let out a laugh at her assessment, startled by the simplicity of her take on things being so... accurate, so to speak. "No, they didn't," he agreed, amused, grinning at her lopsidedly. He rarely smiled so easily these days, albeit he seemed to be getting better at it; the contentment and warmth washing through his veins allowed for a surge of happiness that was not something he was used to. It was nice, though: Player was curious and entertained his flood of Roman history amicably, allowing him a little bit of contact when he had barely had any in weeks. Forcing himself to stay sober had cost him Rad's company, as she was unwilling to let him nap in her room if he wasn't being useful. The warm press of Player's skin against his was satisfying and grounding, even if he didn't seem to be taking it any where. (There was no purpose or intent, just idle fiddling, a stark contrast to Zaniel's mannerisms.) "Ovid did a lot of protesting everything Augustus stood for, really."
He probably should have sensed her coming, but everything was already so warm and heady that the additional flare from her proximity barely registered. He let of a hum, pleased, as the bond heated and shifted to molten gold, and then her voice was cutting through his scattered thoughts. Bast tipped his head back, looking up at her as she stood there for a moment, and grinned broadly. "Well, yeah," he laughed, not at all bothered by her calling him out on it. She was right, of course. Wasn't she always? His grip tightened a little bit on Player's hand reflexively, a reflection of his laughter as he added, "All the great poets were assholes. I'm starting to think it's the, uh, root of their talents. Hi, lumen." The second bit seemed like an after thought.
That underlying slur was still there, mingling in his words, but he seemed coherent. Coherent enough that when she sat beside him, with a sudden wave of fire as she pushed her leg flush against his, he faltered after a moment of satisfaction. It was nice, warm and delightful, but through the haze he could feel something like distress clawing up the back of his throat. He knew he wasn't supposed to be touching her, and he tilted slightly, away from her, towards Player, the protest on the tip of his tongue to point out that she shouldn't be near him, not like this, when her fingers found his.
Bastille blinked, startled, and watched as she gentled extracted his left hand from Play. Hazel was a walking manifestation of how this was all very wrong, the sudden reminder that he wasn't supposed to be drinking, but the brief flare of panic died down as her fingers slid between his. He had no idea what the hell she was doing, couldn't understand how she was sitting here when he smelled like wine and touching him without losing her shit on him. But he could only hold onto the thoughts for so long; his attention, scattered and short, skittered and crashed sideways as he looked down at the scars on her hands and got distracted.
He barely registered, for a moment, the subtle tension in her spine or the confusing flutterings from her end of the bond. Hazily, he traced his thumb over the slightly rise of silver along her index finger, before his head was popping up and he was focusing on Player's voice, suddenly there once more. He hadn't let go of her hand yet, and he didn't seem to notice as he grinned at her lopsidedly. He was a little out of it, didn't place her question, but Hazel's answer provided him with the context he was looking for before he had to ask her to repeat.
The was a moment where something nagged at him, asking him why she'd said that, but it was all swept up into the oblivious blur of warmth occupying his thoughts as he babbled, helpfully, "Well, I don't know how to teach it, really. I kinda got it by cheating. Totally by cheating, actually." Laughter, quick and easy. "The, um, the reading helped Haze. She's getting good at En-- Oh," a pause as he seemed to realize, before his gaze was swinging to Hazel, and he grinned radiantly at her, "Hazel! Hazel's really 'ood at it, too. Better than me. She could, you know. Help. Me, I mean. Help me... help you." He squinted, as if not certain those words made sense.
(A nagging pressure at the back of his thoughts, the brief flare of something dark in his chest, but the vicious demands of Pollutedsoul were muted and blocked out by the wine in his system.)
There was Margy's voice, then, and he glanced up once more at her commentary. "Lame," he chided, hiccuping, at her assertion that she didn't teach people. For some reason, he felt pleased at that information -- something was eluding his jumbled thoughts, something as to why he cared that Margy didn't like to teach, but it was just that: elusive. He got distracted and forgot all about it when she addressed him, and he blinked up at her before smiling crookedly. "I can," he slurred, and there was a wine bottle in Margy's hand a moment later. Bast blinked at it, and then frowned slightly, "Wait, no, that's not what-- sorry, you usually... wine." Eloquent. Another moment and he managed to produce a water bottle in her other hand, peering at it smugly. A ha. See, his powers listened. Sometimes.
His attention derailed from her, forgetting that he was supposed to be drinking the water (his muddled thoughts had concluded he was getting it for her), when Play mentioned Ovid. He grinned at her, pleased she agreed, and added, "I have all of it. Ovid, I mean. His works. If you want to read," the clarifications he was making were sloppy, but he mostly got his point across, "Just, uh, break into my room s'me time. The books are... um." A pause as he sorted the word he wanted. "Organized."
He looked to Hazel automatically, as if she might vouch that it would be easy to find the books he meant, and blinked as he got taken in by her profile momentarily. He'd been too heavily distracted by her hands to stare earlier, but now he stared at her and noted the tiny freckles that scattered across her cheeks and had the sudden urge to poke one. Thankfully, Margy captured his attention before he could drunkenly carry out a rather stupid idea, and he frowned as he held tighter to Play's hand. "Wha'? Wait, I didn't finish answering her questions, 'e can't go."
What had she even asked him to begin with? Everything was a fumbled haze of classics and history. He wanted to say he'd started the conversation, but he couldn't really be certain how they ended up here, only that he felt like he was supposed to be telling her about Virgil. "There's still-- there's the Aeneid," he mumbled, and looked at Hazel imploringly. He wasn't sure why exactly he seemed to think convincing her that Player needed to stay would stop Margy, but then again, he wasn't sure of a lot of things.
SING, GODDESS, OF THE RAGE OF ACHILLES
Bastille let out a laugh at her assessment, startled by the simplicity of her take on things being so... accurate, so to speak. "No, they didn't," he agreed, amused, grinning at her lopsidedly. He rarely smiled so easily these days, albeit he seemed to be getting better at it; the contentment and warmth washing through his veins allowed for a surge of happiness that was not something he was used to. It was nice, though: Player was curious and entertained his flood of Roman history amicably, allowing him a little bit of contact when he had barely had any in weeks. Forcing himself to stay sober had cost him Rad's company, as she was unwilling to let him nap in her room if he wasn't being useful. The warm press of Player's skin against his was satisfying and grounding, even if he didn't seem to be taking it any where. (There was no purpose or intent, just idle fiddling, a stark contrast to Zaniel's mannerisms.) "Ovid did a lot of protesting everything Augustus stood for, really."
He probably should have sensed her coming, but everything was already so warm and heady that the additional flare from her proximity barely registered. He let of a hum, pleased, as the bond heated and shifted to molten gold, and then her voice was cutting through his scattered thoughts. Bast tipped his head back, looking up at her as she stood there for a moment, and grinned broadly. "Well, yeah," he laughed, not at all bothered by her calling him out on it. She was right, of course. Wasn't she always? His grip tightened a little bit on Player's hand reflexively, a reflection of his laughter as he added, "All the great poets were assholes. I'm starting to think it's the, uh, root of their talents. Hi, lumen." The second bit seemed like an after thought.
That underlying slur was still there, mingling in his words, but he seemed coherent. Coherent enough that when she sat beside him, with a sudden wave of fire as she pushed her leg flush against his, he faltered after a moment of satisfaction. It was nice, warm and delightful, but through the haze he could feel something like distress clawing up the back of his throat. He knew he wasn't supposed to be touching her, and he tilted slightly, away from her, towards Player, the protest on the tip of his tongue to point out that she shouldn't be near him, not like this, when her fingers found his.
Bastille blinked, startled, and watched as she gentled extracted his left hand from Play. Hazel was a walking manifestation of how this was all very wrong, the sudden reminder that he wasn't supposed to be drinking, but the brief flare of panic died down as her fingers slid between his. He had no idea what the hell she was doing, couldn't understand how she was sitting here when he smelled like wine and touching him without losing her shit on him. But he could only hold onto the thoughts for so long; his attention, scattered and short, skittered and crashed sideways as he looked down at the scars on her hands and got distracted.
He barely registered, for a moment, the subtle tension in her spine or the confusing flutterings from her end of the bond. Hazily, he traced his thumb over the slightly rise of silver along her index finger, before his head was popping up and he was focusing on Player's voice, suddenly there once more. He hadn't let go of her hand yet, and he didn't seem to notice as he grinned at her lopsidedly. He was a little out of it, didn't place her question, but Hazel's answer provided him with the context he was looking for before he had to ask her to repeat.
The was a moment where something nagged at him, asking him why she'd said that, but it was all swept up into the oblivious blur of warmth occupying his thoughts as he babbled, helpfully, "Well, I don't know how to teach it, really. I kinda got it by cheating. Totally by cheating, actually." Laughter, quick and easy. "The, um, the reading helped Haze. She's getting good at En-- Oh," a pause as he seemed to realize, before his gaze was swinging to Hazel, and he grinned radiantly at her, "Hazel! Hazel's really 'ood at it, too. Better than me. She could, you know. Help. Me, I mean. Help me... help you." He squinted, as if not certain those words made sense.
(A nagging pressure at the back of his thoughts, the brief flare of something dark in his chest, but the vicious demands of Pollutedsoul were muted and blocked out by the wine in his system.)
There was Margy's voice, then, and he glanced up once more at her commentary. "Lame," he chided, hiccuping, at her assertion that she didn't teach people. For some reason, he felt pleased at that information -- something was eluding his jumbled thoughts, something as to why he cared that Margy didn't like to teach, but it was just that: elusive. He got distracted and forgot all about it when she addressed him, and he blinked up at her before smiling crookedly. "I can," he slurred, and there was a wine bottle in Margy's hand a moment later. Bast blinked at it, and then frowned slightly, "Wait, no, that's not what-- sorry, you usually... wine." Eloquent. Another moment and he managed to produce a water bottle in her other hand, peering at it smugly. A ha. See, his powers listened. Sometimes.
His attention derailed from her, forgetting that he was supposed to be drinking the water (his muddled thoughts had concluded he was getting it for her), when Play mentioned Ovid. He grinned at her, pleased she agreed, and added, "I have all of it. Ovid, I mean. His works. If you want to read," the clarifications he was making were sloppy, but he mostly got his point across, "Just, uh, break into my room s'me time. The books are... um." A pause as he sorted the word he wanted. "Organized."
He looked to Hazel automatically, as if she might vouch that it would be easy to find the books he meant, and blinked as he got taken in by her profile momentarily. He'd been too heavily distracted by her hands to stare earlier, but now he stared at her and noted the tiny freckles that scattered across her cheeks and had the sudden urge to poke one. Thankfully, Margy captured his attention before he could drunkenly carry out a rather stupid idea, and he frowned as he held tighter to Play's hand. "Wha'? Wait, I didn't finish answering her questions, 'e can't go."
What had she even asked him to begin with? Everything was a fumbled haze of classics and history. He wanted to say he'd started the conversation, but he couldn't really be certain how they ended up here, only that he felt like he was supposed to be telling her about Virgil. "There's still-- there's the Aeneid," he mumbled, and looked at Hazel imploringly. He wasn't sure why exactly he seemed to think convincing her that Player needed to stay would stop Margy, but then again, he wasn't sure of a lot of things.
[b]BASTILLEPRISONER AURELIUS — ASTRAL SERAPH — THE ASCENDANTS — TAGS
Re: tell me that you love me even if it's fake | open + relapse - ★ HAZEL - 07-13-2018
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She’d be lying if she said she could feel Margy approach; normally, she was better at sensing people behind her, but right now? Her focus was split in so many splintering, sweltering pieces that Margaery’s Latin tongue startled her.
The sentence sounded redundant and a bit bothersome as Margy repeated herself in English, momentarily grinding the words into Hazel’s ears. She could hear the careful judgement in Margy’s voice as she assessed the situation, the contemplation as she picked the scene apart. And for once? Hazel’s attention didn’t break.
There was the delicate flush of pink that rose high on her cheeks and neck, betraying her admittance of the awkward-looking situation, but the fire in her bones was insistent. She still wanted to pry Bastille away from Player, still wanted to call him hers and tell the other girl to quit flirting. She still wanted to drag Bastille all the way back to her room and not let him out of her sight until he was sober; she still wanted to help stitch him back together.
Hazel wanted far more than she was willing to admit, if she was being honest. The warmth that glowed between their points of contact was something she wanted to hold on to for the rest of her life; the feeling of her fingers locked against his a physical tether she was near afraid to let go of. The weight of realizing that she’d never felt this strong over someone was damn near crippling, especially with Titanium listing the reasons Bastille would choose someone over her. She realized that letting go would probably be better, be healthier. Instead she tightened her grip, afraid of losing the connection between them that she treasured so much.
Margy’s offer was welcome and encouraged — both of them. Hazel’s fear of being left alone again had her barreling into this, skimming the fact that she could still taste wine on the back of her tongue and that Bastille slurring his words. Something about the complete lack of physical threat had soothed her terror just enough — distracted her just enough — to let it slide and fly under the radar.
The start of it had surely been when he called her lumen — light. Hazel’s heart had slammed against her chest, recalling the last time he had let something similar to that slip out. Don’t say it unless you’re going to say it to me sober, had been her first thought. It felt oddly...personal, oddly nostalgic. Something that didn’t sound right falling off lips stained with alcohol. This time, she had stared at him, brows knit with the ghosts of the past. He was smiling at her, bright and big and Deus it hurt Hazel’s heart. Made it ache like she’d never felt, like she wanted to see that every day and be the cause of it. He was laughing like she hadn’t heard in weeks, like he’d finally seen the sun.
However, that slip-up had paled in comparison to the fleeting touch that graced a certain scar marring her finger. Hazel had gone near rigid: spine snapping straight and grip tightening even further on his hand. She hated her scars — and yet? There he was, brushing his thumb along the pale line like he was admiring something in a museum. Reverent, soft, imploring. Curious. Her eyes went saucer-wide, something like panic flaring up just a bit because what if he was thinking, what if he was wondering why she had so many —
Not that it mattered, because a second later his head was bouncing up and he was babbling, laughing again and making her chest ache and her veins burn. “Wow,” Titanium commented suddenly. “He’s never laughed like that at something you’ve said.” Hazel wanted to tell her to shut up, that this was different and that he was literally making himself laugh over something that wasn’t funny. But it wasn’t different, because Hazel was positive she wouldn’t be able to get him to laugh like that if she tried.
Then her name was between his lips, his tongue slurring the z and l in his stupor. He was stumbling over his words and Hazel could only offer a small smile, her facade crumpling rapidly because he was stupid cute when he was drunk and she hated herself for thinking it. She was supposed to be upset, supposed to be angry because he wasn’t allowed to drink enough to get him drunk and he was breaking a promise they hadn’t even made. But for the life of her, Hazel couldn’t bring herself to be upset with him in the moment. He hadn’t looked that happy in a long, long time, and right now...he wasn’t doing anything harmful. It wasn’t like last time, where his souls flipped and Zaniel caught a glimpse of the bright side. This was just...giddy pleasure, and Hazel couldn’t fucking believe he had to be drunk to be this happy.
Suddenly he was offering Player to his book collection, and there was that fire in her veins again. “Guess that means I should give back the ones I’ve borrowed,” She shrugged, lending the words like it was casual and a bit of a tease. Really, it was a far cry from a tease; the books she had in her room were half finished, because after he’d stopped reading to her, she hardly managed to get through them. “I haven’t finished them all, but it’ll probably take me a lot longer to get through them than it will for you, so welcome to them. I’ll bring them up later tonight.” She assured, glancing sideways at Bastille. She felt a piece of her heart fall, knowing that she was giving up a piece of comfort. Knowing that the books she stared at most nights, going over their pages slowly and sounding out the English words she knew, the books that reminded her of a better time, would be gone. In the hands of...well.
She startled as he protested the idea of Player leaving. She looked over her shoulder, her expression a troubled mix of so many different things. She wanted Player to let go of his hand, sure, but leave? Right now, Player was creating a distraction. If she left, Hazel would stay here and probably get on his case and fuck it over even more. So when he looked at her, waiting, Hazel shifted her gaze to her lap, fiddling with her hands, before she let out a short sigh. “There are a lot of different classics you have, so...she’s gotta learn from someone.” Hazel smiled at him, a weak thing, knowing that she’d literally just given him the green light to talk his heart out about classics and literature; a ramble she’d heard pieces of throughout her days in the Ascendants.
Titanium shouted, protests a shot at her idiocy and how moronic she was being, how weak she was. How she couldn’t stand up for herself. How she was passive and a push over and she was dooming herself to fail. Dooming herself to live in misery. And as Hazel pushed Titanium away, she found that it was all one in the same. She’d lived with misery as a companion for all her life...what was a little more?
[sup]c) miithers[/sup]
[align=center]hazel elise caelum . nine months . the ascendants . golden girl . tags
She’d be lying if she said she could feel Margy approach; normally, she was better at sensing people behind her, but right now? Her focus was split in so many splintering, sweltering pieces that Margaery’s Latin tongue startled her.
The sentence sounded redundant and a bit bothersome as Margy repeated herself in English, momentarily grinding the words into Hazel’s ears. She could hear the careful judgement in Margy’s voice as she assessed the situation, the contemplation as she picked the scene apart. And for once? Hazel’s attention didn’t break.
There was the delicate flush of pink that rose high on her cheeks and neck, betraying her admittance of the awkward-looking situation, but the fire in her bones was insistent. She still wanted to pry Bastille away from Player, still wanted to call him hers and tell the other girl to quit flirting. She still wanted to drag Bastille all the way back to her room and not let him out of her sight until he was sober; she still wanted to help stitch him back together.
Hazel wanted far more than she was willing to admit, if she was being honest. The warmth that glowed between their points of contact was something she wanted to hold on to for the rest of her life; the feeling of her fingers locked against his a physical tether she was near afraid to let go of. The weight of realizing that she’d never felt this strong over someone was damn near crippling, especially with Titanium listing the reasons Bastille would choose someone over her. She realized that letting go would probably be better, be healthier. Instead she tightened her grip, afraid of losing the connection between them that she treasured so much.
Margy’s offer was welcome and encouraged — both of them. Hazel’s fear of being left alone again had her barreling into this, skimming the fact that she could still taste wine on the back of her tongue and that Bastille slurring his words. Something about the complete lack of physical threat had soothed her terror just enough — distracted her just enough — to let it slide and fly under the radar.
The start of it had surely been when he called her lumen — light. Hazel’s heart had slammed against her chest, recalling the last time he had let something similar to that slip out. Don’t say it unless you’re going to say it to me sober, had been her first thought. It felt oddly...personal, oddly nostalgic. Something that didn’t sound right falling off lips stained with alcohol. This time, she had stared at him, brows knit with the ghosts of the past. He was smiling at her, bright and big and Deus it hurt Hazel’s heart. Made it ache like she’d never felt, like she wanted to see that every day and be the cause of it. He was laughing like she hadn’t heard in weeks, like he’d finally seen the sun.
However, that slip-up had paled in comparison to the fleeting touch that graced a certain scar marring her finger. Hazel had gone near rigid: spine snapping straight and grip tightening even further on his hand. She hated her scars — and yet? There he was, brushing his thumb along the pale line like he was admiring something in a museum. Reverent, soft, imploring. Curious. Her eyes went saucer-wide, something like panic flaring up just a bit because what if he was thinking, what if he was wondering why she had so many —
Not that it mattered, because a second later his head was bouncing up and he was babbling, laughing again and making her chest ache and her veins burn. “Wow,” Titanium commented suddenly. “He’s never laughed like that at something you’ve said.” Hazel wanted to tell her to shut up, that this was different and that he was literally making himself laugh over something that wasn’t funny. But it wasn’t different, because Hazel was positive she wouldn’t be able to get him to laugh like that if she tried.
Then her name was between his lips, his tongue slurring the z and l in his stupor. He was stumbling over his words and Hazel could only offer a small smile, her facade crumpling rapidly because he was stupid cute when he was drunk and she hated herself for thinking it. She was supposed to be upset, supposed to be angry because he wasn’t allowed to drink enough to get him drunk and he was breaking a promise they hadn’t even made. But for the life of her, Hazel couldn’t bring herself to be upset with him in the moment. He hadn’t looked that happy in a long, long time, and right now...he wasn’t doing anything harmful. It wasn’t like last time, where his souls flipped and Zaniel caught a glimpse of the bright side. This was just...giddy pleasure, and Hazel couldn’t fucking believe he had to be drunk to be this happy.
Suddenly he was offering Player to his book collection, and there was that fire in her veins again. “Guess that means I should give back the ones I’ve borrowed,” She shrugged, lending the words like it was casual and a bit of a tease. Really, it was a far cry from a tease; the books she had in her room were half finished, because after he’d stopped reading to her, she hardly managed to get through them. “I haven’t finished them all, but it’ll probably take me a lot longer to get through them than it will for you, so welcome to them. I’ll bring them up later tonight.” She assured, glancing sideways at Bastille. She felt a piece of her heart fall, knowing that she was giving up a piece of comfort. Knowing that the books she stared at most nights, going over their pages slowly and sounding out the English words she knew, the books that reminded her of a better time, would be gone. In the hands of...well.
She startled as he protested the idea of Player leaving. She looked over her shoulder, her expression a troubled mix of so many different things. She wanted Player to let go of his hand, sure, but leave? Right now, Player was creating a distraction. If she left, Hazel would stay here and probably get on his case and fuck it over even more. So when he looked at her, waiting, Hazel shifted her gaze to her lap, fiddling with her hands, before she let out a short sigh. “There are a lot of different classics you have, so...she’s gotta learn from someone.” Hazel smiled at him, a weak thing, knowing that she’d literally just given him the green light to talk his heart out about classics and literature; a ramble she’d heard pieces of throughout her days in the Ascendants.
Titanium shouted, protests a shot at her idiocy and how moronic she was being, how weak she was. How she couldn’t stand up for herself. How she was passive and a push over and she was dooming herself to fail. Dooming herself to live in misery. And as Hazel pushed Titanium away, she found that it was all one in the same. She’d lived with misery as a companion for all her life...what was a little more?