06-16-2018, 11:36 PM
AND I'M JUST A DEAD MAN WALKING TONIGHT
Time to play a fun game: fever dream or reality? It was always thrilling, trying to determine if he was fucking imagining shit when the come down was awful and he could barely concentrate on his surroundings. It was so easy to slip into the day dreams, or to jerk awake and discover that he’d been dreaming the entire time, albeit lucidly. Some of these damn pills felt like a fucking fever had taken root, his skin flushed hot with heat despite the cold sweats that erupted, and the delusions were just as bad. God, they should come with a warning label, but half the time he suspected that Rad didn’t warn him because she wanted a genuine response. Or something.
The flutter of Hazel’s voice, warm and soft, lilting over the Latin — there was a split second where he couldn’t be certain she was really there. And then her aura shone brightly at the edges of his vision, and he shut his eyes, the light aching — it was too much, too bright, and he turned his head slightly as his temple throbbed in response to the glaring radiance. Fuck. The heat she radiated was both overwhelming, too warm for his over-heated skin, and yet so damn alluring he felt like something in him was dying the long without reaching out for her.
”Don’t—“ he mumbled, shying away slightly as she came closer, feeling dizzy as he forced himself of straighter, to stop leaning so heavily on the post. When he looked up at her, stare half-lidded, he felt vaguely claustrophobic: his curls were matted and sticking to his skin, the flames in his blood rising too high, his skin tight and shaky, her presence... her presence was so much, making his throat tighting, making the room feel smaller as he swaying slightly.
But she shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be near him. He knew damned well how badly substances spooked her, remembered the sharpness of her tone as she yanked her hands away, cowered behind Suite — as if he actually posed a damn threat to her. It made him nauseous just thinking about it, and he looked away from her again, away from that blinding light, and kept going, ”Don’t... come near me. I’m fine. I’m fine. You don’t want to—“
His voice still carried that slight rasp, his throat still healing internally even if the lines on his neck had faded slightly, and when he swallowed it burned. Shaking his head slightly in an effort to clear it, he tried to push himself up once more, away from the post. ”See?” he mumbled, fever bright gaze in her once more as tremors set down his body. He ignored them and said, ”’m fine—“
It was taking another step away from the stall, as if trying to convince himself and her, that was his fucking error. Bastille ate his goddamn words, because he stumbled immediately, losing his balance and finding himself suddenly crashing into her — she was closer than she seemed and she was so warm and his fingers slipped and caught on her arms reflexively, an effort to catch himself before he took her down with his weight, his processing so slow and her skin so soft to touch and her hair smelled good this close... And oh.
Oh, fuck.
[align=center]BASTILLEPRISONER — ASTRAL SERAPH — TAGSThe flutter of Hazel’s voice, warm and soft, lilting over the Latin — there was a split second where he couldn’t be certain she was really there. And then her aura shone brightly at the edges of his vision, and he shut his eyes, the light aching — it was too much, too bright, and he turned his head slightly as his temple throbbed in response to the glaring radiance. Fuck. The heat she radiated was both overwhelming, too warm for his over-heated skin, and yet so damn alluring he felt like something in him was dying the long without reaching out for her.
”Don’t—“ he mumbled, shying away slightly as she came closer, feeling dizzy as he forced himself of straighter, to stop leaning so heavily on the post. When he looked up at her, stare half-lidded, he felt vaguely claustrophobic: his curls were matted and sticking to his skin, the flames in his blood rising too high, his skin tight and shaky, her presence... her presence was so much, making his throat tighting, making the room feel smaller as he swaying slightly.
But she shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be near him. He knew damned well how badly substances spooked her, remembered the sharpness of her tone as she yanked her hands away, cowered behind Suite — as if he actually posed a damn threat to her. It made him nauseous just thinking about it, and he looked away from her again, away from that blinding light, and kept going, ”Don’t... come near me. I’m fine. I’m fine. You don’t want to—“
His voice still carried that slight rasp, his throat still healing internally even if the lines on his neck had faded slightly, and when he swallowed it burned. Shaking his head slightly in an effort to clear it, he tried to push himself up once more, away from the post. ”See?” he mumbled, fever bright gaze in her once more as tremors set down his body. He ignored them and said, ”’m fine—“
It was taking another step away from the stall, as if trying to convince himself and her, that was his fucking error. Bastille ate his goddamn words, because he stumbled immediately, losing his balance and finding himself suddenly crashing into her — she was closer than she seemed and she was so warm and his fingers slipped and caught on her arms reflexively, an effort to catch himself before he took her down with his weight, his processing so slow and her skin so soft to touch and her hair smelled good this close... And oh.
Oh, fuck.
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]