07-11-2018, 10:29 AM
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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
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]