07-03-2018, 11:24 PM
I'LL BE GOOD, I'LL BE GOOD
Bastille could feel the faux control slipping. He'd been near breaking before he finally gave up and gave into the temptation to drink, with his souls emerging rapidly and desperately, throwing everything off balance. Rad's little trial runs had blissfully muted everything: his emotions, his souls, his powers. Everything was reduced to white noise and apathy and it was... blissful, almost. If he could feel bliss.
Now, tripped up by his own hubris, Bastille could feel everything shifting out of his grasp. The first few days after his overdose, he had been too tired and shaky to really feel anything other than the urge to vomit and shiver and possibly just die; as the withdrawal symptoms seemed to fade a little bit, his stubbornness winning out, things were getting... rough around the edges. He could feel the vague disturbances of his souls, never quite aligned properly. Things were getting under his skin and sticking. That morning, the lights in his room had flickered, betraying the thin veil of control he had on his elementals. The burning temptation eating him alive seemed to get worse the more he realized that his little cure for soul issues was finally failing.
He was headed for the Circle when the chills hit him out of no where, and Bastille coughed as he came up short, swallowing down the bile in his throat at the sudden frost in his veins. He hadn't had cold sweats for a day or so, but the feeling was a familiar one: it sank in deep and held, and he knew the only thing to thaw his insides was a handle of the shittiest vodka he could find. He grit his teeth, however, and told himself that he didn't want it, didn't need it--
Except that he did. He wanted it bad, and why shouldn't he have it? It wasn't like his family cared -- the Bellators would only encourage him, urging him on, trying to break apart the soft tom they'd gotten and craft him into what they wanted. Zaniel was no good to them the way he came, but he could be, if he wanted. If he tried. A little bit of liquor of his lips and he was already a lot closer to what they needed from him, and hey -- who was going to care to see the old Zaniel die? His little ex-family back in the Elite weren't a good fit for him, but they could be.
It was so easy to give in, both to their encouragement and to the burning in his veins that was urging him on. That was him, though, wasn't it? Facillimos. He remembered them looking at him and deciding right away that he was going to be an easy one, easy to initiate and easier to get to go along with whatever the family wanted. Zaniel was a Bellator the second they wanted him to be one, and he would live that lifestyle to the core, with or without them. Easy.
Bastille didn't even realize that his thought process had slipped and slid straight into Zaniel's until he was standing in the Circle, gaze flickering around with intrigue. Idly, he caught the track of his memories and the fact that the temptation had faded slightly, that he'd already decided to give in. He recoiled, startled, but the slip up was already too deep: the second he told himself to get it the fuck together, he was countering with the fact that everything was better when he drank.
"Hey, where's the cute nurse?" he drawled, cocking his head to the side in a manner that was similar to Bast's usually mannerisms but different: whereas he usually tipped to the right, Zaniel tipped to the left. His eyes flickered briefly to those teal-toned light blue, but his actions seemed to be caught in an in-between: mostly dominated by Zaniel, with the fainted of traces of Bast. That was until he grinned, and it was sly. "C'mere, doctor, come clear me for weaning off. You said I get a little bit, right?"
[align=center]BASTILLEPRISONER — ASTRAL SERAPH — TAGSNow, tripped up by his own hubris, Bastille could feel everything shifting out of his grasp. The first few days after his overdose, he had been too tired and shaky to really feel anything other than the urge to vomit and shiver and possibly just die; as the withdrawal symptoms seemed to fade a little bit, his stubbornness winning out, things were getting... rough around the edges. He could feel the vague disturbances of his souls, never quite aligned properly. Things were getting under his skin and sticking. That morning, the lights in his room had flickered, betraying the thin veil of control he had on his elementals. The burning temptation eating him alive seemed to get worse the more he realized that his little cure for soul issues was finally failing.
He was headed for the Circle when the chills hit him out of no where, and Bastille coughed as he came up short, swallowing down the bile in his throat at the sudden frost in his veins. He hadn't had cold sweats for a day or so, but the feeling was a familiar one: it sank in deep and held, and he knew the only thing to thaw his insides was a handle of the shittiest vodka he could find. He grit his teeth, however, and told himself that he didn't want it, didn't need it--
Except that he did. He wanted it bad, and why shouldn't he have it? It wasn't like his family cared -- the Bellators would only encourage him, urging him on, trying to break apart the soft tom they'd gotten and craft him into what they wanted. Zaniel was no good to them the way he came, but he could be, if he wanted. If he tried. A little bit of liquor of his lips and he was already a lot closer to what they needed from him, and hey -- who was going to care to see the old Zaniel die? His little ex-family back in the Elite weren't a good fit for him, but they could be.
It was so easy to give in, both to their encouragement and to the burning in his veins that was urging him on. That was him, though, wasn't it? Facillimos. He remembered them looking at him and deciding right away that he was going to be an easy one, easy to initiate and easier to get to go along with whatever the family wanted. Zaniel was a Bellator the second they wanted him to be one, and he would live that lifestyle to the core, with or without them. Easy.
Bastille didn't even realize that his thought process had slipped and slid straight into Zaniel's until he was standing in the Circle, gaze flickering around with intrigue. Idly, he caught the track of his memories and the fact that the temptation had faded slightly, that he'd already decided to give in. He recoiled, startled, but the slip up was already too deep: the second he told himself to get it the fuck together, he was countering with the fact that everything was better when he drank.
"Hey, where's the cute nurse?" he drawled, cocking his head to the side in a manner that was similar to Bast's usually mannerisms but different: whereas he usually tipped to the right, Zaniel tipped to the left. His eyes flickered briefly to those teal-toned light blue, but his actions seemed to be caught in an in-between: mostly dominated by Zaniel, with the fainted of traces of Bast. That was until he grinned, and it was sly. "C'mere, doctor, come clear me for weaning off. You said I get a little bit, right?"
Honey, you're familiar, like my mirror years ago, Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on his sword, Innocence died screaming; honey, ask me, I should know, I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door. [b][sup]▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃[/sup][/b]
