06-26-2018, 11:11 AM
AND I'M JUST A DEAD MAN WALKING TONIGHT
Bastille didn't know what to do with himself. On the one hand, being attached to Hazel was like carrying around a little flame in his gut, full of warmth and honey and golden light that heated his skin and made everything fuzzy-warm-good. It was grounding and reassuring and sometimes it was... nice. But most of the time? He was too busy shying away from the connection between them, struggling not to infringe too much on her space, feeling guilty every time he felt a pang from her end or he remembered that she didn't want this.
Because he could feel again now. Sometimes. In flashes, feedback from her end of the bond; it was like she'd accessed a small part of him that could still feel, and sometimes he reacted to her emotions. His souls had become less stable, shifting restlessly in response to this new development, and he'd get flickers of sensation from their influence. But overall? Overall there was still nothing, and it was starting to drive him a little crazy. Being bonded to Hazel ate at him, made him feel like he was supposed to be trying to fix himself, and there was a burning obligation to get those sensations back. To be able to mourn Margy like everyone else and to feel relief when she returned.
His alcohol intake had doubled in the past few days, if only because it seemed to require the right mix of substances to get to that sweet spot of emotions. Two pills in for the day and he was in need of a drink anyways to keep it going, and so it was with a hint of a smirk that he stumbled upon Margy with a bottle. And it was rosé -- his favorite.
"I do," he drawled, conjuring a glass at Roy's paws as he conjured one for himself. He considered Margy's label before conjuring his own bottle, one that was a little sweeter than her dry choice; there was a flicker before his glass was full, taking advantage of not having to open the cork, and he settled back with a lazy, "I'm sure it's Wednesday in some dimension."
[align=center][b]BASTILLEPRISONER — ASTRAL SERAPH — TAGSBecause he could feel again now. Sometimes. In flashes, feedback from her end of the bond; it was like she'd accessed a small part of him that could still feel, and sometimes he reacted to her emotions. His souls had become less stable, shifting restlessly in response to this new development, and he'd get flickers of sensation from their influence. But overall? Overall there was still nothing, and it was starting to drive him a little crazy. Being bonded to Hazel ate at him, made him feel like he was supposed to be trying to fix himself, and there was a burning obligation to get those sensations back. To be able to mourn Margy like everyone else and to feel relief when she returned.
His alcohol intake had doubled in the past few days, if only because it seemed to require the right mix of substances to get to that sweet spot of emotions. Two pills in for the day and he was in need of a drink anyways to keep it going, and so it was with a hint of a smirk that he stumbled upon Margy with a bottle. And it was rosé -- his favorite.
"I do," he drawled, conjuring a glass at Roy's paws as he conjured one for himself. He considered Margy's label before conjuring his own bottle, one that was a little sweeter than her dry choice; there was a flicker before his glass was full, taking advantage of not having to open the cork, and he settled back with a lazy, "I'm sure it's Wednesday in some dimension."
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]