07-24-2018, 12:08 AM
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BASTILLEPRISONER AURELIUS
[b]BY THE GRACE OF THE FIRE AND THE FLAMES
Everything was slipping and shifting. He could feel Hazel's instability through their bond, the subtle thread of something jagged and misaligned, and worse yet could could feel his own souls falling out of alignment. The grips of withdrawal had gotten looser, less pressing, only coming in waves that he felt like he could now predict -- but a return to normalcy for Bastille was a return to chaos, to a loss of control. He needed his apathy to survive, and every day it slid away from him, he felt a resentment grow. Something bitter, something whispering he should never have stayed here, never have let them get to him. Should leave, tomorrow. Let Suiteheart take care of them, let her sink her nails into everyone.
It was jarring, feeling the blimps and bits of his memories surfacing. In the past few days, he felt his souls' lives blur into his own too easily. He looked at Cooper, sick and coughing, and was met with a rush of memories of illness and death; he glanced up at the sky in the middle of the day and recalled the soft blue of the plains, remembered making small talk with Libby about the weather, the sky; met someone's gaze for a moment too long and could feel the press of skin against his, the aftertaste of vodka at the back of his throat. More than just sensations, however, he was finding it easier to remember his childhoods, was reminded quicker of family from the past, found himself stopping before he mentioned something no one would understand. Yesterday he'd started to ask someone to run to the gorge for him and stopped himself short, a moment too late to avoid the confused look.
It didn't matter, though. He didn't have time to worry about it, and therefore he carried on, pretending everything was fine. He gave Hazel her space and reminded himself that he needed to keep his distance, anyway. That she would find him if she wanted. That she didn't need him, and he didn't -- couldn't need her. He was looking for Octavia, really, when he felt the subtle pull of golden thread going taunt between them, drawing him in harder. Of course she was in the bunker. He should have anticipated that, should have sensed her, but everything was too cluttered to keep track.
Her voice was beautiful, and Bastille slowed his pace as he stepped into the bunker, gaze seeking her out immediately. There was a moment where he looked at her, taking in the subtle peace radiating from her, and felt the murmur of her music calm something in him. And then his gaze dropped to the ukulele she held, and everything went quiet. He could feel the whitenoise, the stillness, the split second as it clicked in his thoughts and everything registered. And then it was there, vicious and nasty, the sudden press of something dark that screamed for blood. Bastille barely even moved, his nails digging into his palms sharply, fighting back the uncontrollable urge to smash the fucking thing over her head.
And then he turned and left, didn't stop moving until he could lock himself in his room and dig his nails into his arms until the rolling flare of Pollie's anger subsided, melted back into the mess of emotions warring for control.
It was jarring, feeling the blimps and bits of his memories surfacing. In the past few days, he felt his souls' lives blur into his own too easily. He looked at Cooper, sick and coughing, and was met with a rush of memories of illness and death; he glanced up at the sky in the middle of the day and recalled the soft blue of the plains, remembered making small talk with Libby about the weather, the sky; met someone's gaze for a moment too long and could feel the press of skin against his, the aftertaste of vodka at the back of his throat. More than just sensations, however, he was finding it easier to remember his childhoods, was reminded quicker of family from the past, found himself stopping before he mentioned something no one would understand. Yesterday he'd started to ask someone to run to the gorge for him and stopped himself short, a moment too late to avoid the confused look.
It didn't matter, though. He didn't have time to worry about it, and therefore he carried on, pretending everything was fine. He gave Hazel her space and reminded himself that he needed to keep his distance, anyway. That she would find him if she wanted. That she didn't need him, and he didn't -- couldn't need her. He was looking for Octavia, really, when he felt the subtle pull of golden thread going taunt between them, drawing him in harder. Of course she was in the bunker. He should have anticipated that, should have sensed her, but everything was too cluttered to keep track.
Her voice was beautiful, and Bastille slowed his pace as he stepped into the bunker, gaze seeking her out immediately. There was a moment where he looked at her, taking in the subtle peace radiating from her, and felt the murmur of her music calm something in him. And then his gaze dropped to the ukulele she held, and everything went quiet. He could feel the whitenoise, the stillness, the split second as it clicked in his thoughts and everything registered. And then it was there, vicious and nasty, the sudden press of something dark that screamed for blood. Bastille barely even moved, his nails digging into his palms sharply, fighting back the uncontrollable urge to smash the fucking thing over her head.
And then he turned and left, didn't stop moving until he could lock himself in his room and dig his nails into his arms until the rolling flare of Pollie's anger subsided, melted back into the mess of emotions warring for control.
[B]ASTRAL SERAPH — THE ASCENDANTS — [color=#e2e2e2]TAGS — [color=#e2e2e2]MOODBOARD — [color=#e2e2e2]PLAYLIST
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]