SHAMELESS | open

[BASTILLEPAW]

AND I'M JUST A DEAD MAN WALKING TONIGHT

To say that Bastille was exhausted would be an understatement. Pushing himself over the edge had taken everything out of him, and even if Rin had finally released him, that didn’t mean he was actually feeling much better. On the contrary, withdrawal was a nasty demon that sank into his veins and wriggled under his skin and made it hard to fucking breathe sometimes. He hated the dependency, the weakness, but it got to a point where he didn’t have the energy to judge himself for wanting so fucking badly. All there was the hunger in the pit of his stomach and the shaking of his paws as his body cried out for the one thing he knew he couldn’t give it.

Two patrols did little to take his mind off of the temptation, the cold sweats, any of it — and so he forced himself to fixate on other things, and of course one of the first that came to mind was Hazel. Guilt still ate at him, not only for what he’d done but for what he knew he was dragging her through just then. He’d put her through enough with the whole episode to begin with, and unless she’d figured out a way to shut him out, he had know doubt she was feeling phantom traces of need filtering through the bond.

He wanted to make it better, to take it all back, but he had no idea how to go about that. In the end he busied himself with something that might make her hate him less, which was trying to paint the outer walls of the bunker. The mud-clay-rock mixture he’d used to craft it was nothing short of hideous, but as he stared as his mess of paint he realized that he shitty attempts at set weren’t much better. He groaned, sitting back for a moment, before admitting defeat. There was no point in trying to win Hazel over with something this terrible, and he wasn’t going to be able to make it any better, so in the end he did what he must: ask her for help.

Which translated to tentatively prodding at their bond, pushing out telepathically: Haze? You around? He wasn’t sure how’d she take to him utilizing their connection, but he liked to believe she wouldn’t mind as much after their conversation.

[align=center]BASTILLEPRISONER — ASTRAL SERAPH — TAGS

[★ HAZEL]

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★  I NEVER HAD NOBODY TOUCH ME LIKE I’M G L A S S WITH A MOON BIRD KISS

It hadn’t been that long since her panic attack, but Hazel liked to think that she had gotten a better grip on the bond than when they first started out. She wasn’t great about keeping her emotions a total secret, but she had a way of limiting them to some degree so it wasn’t like she was bombing Bastille with random mood swings twenty-four-seven.

Of course, that was before he had just about overdosed. Things were slightly muted for her, but damn, that boy went through serious pain. Hazel had doubled over in the middle of the hallway, pain rolling through her stomach and misery slamming into her nervous system. She’d nearly passed out from it, honestly. After that, she’d stayed in his room for a long while, finding that the suffering eased when she was near him. Whether or not that came from her side of the bond, she didn’t know, but she was too tired to question it.

Then came the withdrawal — the need — and it sank into her bones, made her teeth itch, made her tail twitch and her fur feel out of place. It wasn’t direct; just aftershocks. She could feel how jittery he was, how on edge. Hazel wished she could help him, but for a couple hours after his meltdown, she could hardly move, fighting away the exhaustion and the symptoms and the girl in her head. It was all she could do to stay awake.

Today was better. Today she could walk without one of her legs randomly giving out in the middle of the hallway. She was attempting to occupy herself with bracelets when Bastille reached out to her, his thoughts pulling her in his direction whether she liked it or not. She had jumped at first, startled, because she wasn’t aware this was akin to telepathy, but. Whatever. Her brain decided to follow his call heedlessly, and when she found him, it was...certainly a sight.

Something bubbled up in her — something a little out of place. Amusement, laughter, a bit of happiness. Call it what you will, but it wasn’t anything she’d felt since Margy died. Bastille looked...legitimately, innocently lost at his task, and Hazel actually had to hold back a smile, the corners of her mouth canting downwards with her effort. “That’s quite the...” She paused, golden gaze flickering across the array of colors. “...that’s quite the art project you have going on there.” Still trying not to laugh, Hazel let her gaze fall to the boy, her tail swinging. “Would you like some...help?”

★ — hazel — "speech" — eight months — the ascendants — tags — ★

[sup]c) miithers[/sup]

[BASTILLEPAW]

AND I'M JUST A DEAD MAN WALKING TONIGHT

For a beat, he wasn’t sure that she would come. She had very little reason to be near him, even if she had waited for him to wake up, and in truth Bastille probably would have avoided the asshole who was dragging him through hell if he were in her position. But he was starting to get used to the fact that Hazel was a better person than he was, and when golden radiance flickered at the edges of his vision, he was relieved. He glanced up at her with a weak half-smile, and found himself staring.

She actually looked happy, her aura fluttering brightly, and a moment later he could feel the light laughter thrumming through the bond. Bastille was at a lost for words, momentarily transfixed, because sure he’d wanted to make things up to her but he was stunned that it had worked. Or that she could look at him and smile like that. It took him a beat too long to process her question, and then he was shrugging with a bit of a helpless smile, this one more full than the first. ”Uh, yeah. I thought you— Uh, I don’t know, the bunker’s kind of bland. I think I made it worse, though.”

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[Owlie]

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[imperia]

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Just a day. Twenty-four hours. In such a short span of time, Imperia already has made a place for herself here. She found an empty room in the bunker; a nice little room with a window and table space for her to arrange bundles of herbs and prepare different flower arrangements. There is even a couple bookshelves to store her ever-growing collection. Well, she only has her journal right now, but she is sure to begin growing her collection sometime soon. The point is that she feels more at home in her residence of little more than twenty-four hours than she ever felt in that Maker-forsaken place in the mountains.

Her old home was rampant with chaos and drama. Betrayal, abuse, punishment--all bad things, never good. Hearing news of another beaten into submission soon became similar to hearing the daily weather. It was not a matter of if, but when. For a young girl of her angelic disposition, Imperia quickly earned herself the status of an easy target. Other family units would gossip about her own, slandering her parents for raising a weak child, calling for Peri to be abandoned in the wilderness for she was just a waste of resources. her parents resisted for as long as they could, but her father, Pierre, eventually fell prey to gossip that because Peri looked nothing like her mother or her father, she must be the product of infidelity. Pierre ignored the knowledge that his own mother was a black wolf and instead channeled his anger into passionate beatings that could be predicted by the time. The later it was, the more violent it would be. Imperia believes the maker played a direct role in freeing her from that place, for only a god could so perfectly arranged that the worst of the pack members, including her father, would be gone four days for the first hunt of the summer. Mother was too sick to leave, but she managed to convince Imperia to flee without her in exchange for filling her old medics journal with updated sketches of herbs.

The girl cried for days, ashamed that she could not find someway to rescue Marguerite. But being alone in the wilds open her eyes, eventually allowing her to understand that if her mother had wanted to escape, she would have done it years ago. Both her mother and her god were telling her to take that final step, to free herself from all that burdened her, and become the person she is meant to be. Of course, that takes a lot more work than a simple "revelation." At present, the she-wolf is doing her utmost to get settled in. Decorate her room, make some friends, learn how things work--that sort of thing. However, Imperia is new here. And because of her freshly cut green status, the lovely young wolf is totally and wonderfully oblivious to all the current drama. On second thought, perhaps it is not that she is oblivious, for she is not so dense as to totally miss the subtle social cues; but young Miss Arceneau is definitely behind on recent events. Events that would explain why maybe it is not the smartest idea to approach both Bastille and Hazel and risk interrupting their "moment." But she is a sweet girl with the simple desire to make friends and they are little more than strangers chatting outside the building in which she resides.

"Ah, are you painting?" queries the sweet creature as she rounds the corner, sleek silver fur ruffled from a day spent out in the vast amber sea of grasses. She smells sweetly of flowers with the faintest aroma of herbs. Imperia approaches with the grace of a dancer; both tentative and elegant as if she were not walking but floating. A lovely smiles dances upon black lips, crinkling the corners of her brilliant silver eyes. "Pardon if I am overstepping my bounds, but I do not think you will be able to paint very well with that," she says with a soft laugh as soon as she observes the horrid clay mixture Bast is using. As charming as her mildly awkward and overtly polite manner of speaking may be, it evolved not out of the purity of her nature but her need to deescalate tension. Peri grew up on the receiving end of unwarranted beatings, and she quickly learned that groveling earned her mercy at least twenty-five percent of the time. Now, it is a habit when she wants to be friendly but also fears even the slightest probability of a rebuke. "Er, well, what I mean to say is that I can help you mix some more effective paint, if you both would like." She smiles. A "please-don't-hate-me-please" kind of smile. Peri finds herself growing nervous the longer she talks. She has got to stop herself somehow. "M-my name is Imperia Arceneau, by the way. I, uh, I just joined yesterday."

It is only after her nervous babbling does the pretty silver wolf recognize the intimate closeness between the two felines and the pregnant silence hanging in the air. Oh... Oh no. Did she just interrupt something? Did she overstep her place? Will they yell? Scream? Or just glare? Imperia hates the glaring the worst. She hates the inaction, because the longer the hatred is bottled up, the more powerful the outburst will be when it is finally released. The girl shuffles her paws nervously, fighting the urge to run.

[Margaery]

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Genevieve was about as mindful as she was artistic in the sense that she was not. Period. Art bored her, as did respecting people’s carefully placed boundaries, and more often than not, the chocolate point found herself possessing a general disregard towards others and their creations. All that really mattered to the assassin was herself, her next victim, and Aerona. There was no room in her cold heart for anything else (especially not something as tedious as art). Still, she possessed a great deal of knowledge on the subject from Margaery’s fascination with the finer, lovelier things in life. She knew when something was considered good and she also knew (with painful awareness) when something was absolutely awful.

As she looked upon the terribly-colored paint Bastilleprisoner was smearing upon the bunker walls, she didn’t even have to rely upon Margaery’s immense knowledge to know that it was absolutely horrendous. What exactly was he doing and for what reason? She tried to understand the motive but was far too easily distracted by the strange dynamic that had flared between the pair and Imperia’s arrival. [color=#b14767]”When’s the wedding?” She inquired, voice laced with faux innocence. Potentially a touchy subject, but she didn’t care. These individuals meant nothing to her and, had it not been for Margaery, she would have killed them the first chance she got. [color=#b14767]”Oh! Am I invited? I’d make an excellent maid of honor,” She continued, laughing wildly. Who cared if she made others uncomfortable? That was, after all, her one desire in life.

Her attention flickered to the she wolf, a predatory gleam entering copper eyes as she studied her carefully. Gentle. Thoughtful. Kind. Gods above this creature reminded her of Maarit. Too bad the ancient part of Margaery was too busy laying temporarily dormant in the back of her mind- the pair would be probably be instantly endeared by one another. [color=#b14767]”Is everyone an artist in this dumb clan?” She instead opted to inquire, scoffing, [color=#b14767]”My favorite thing to paint with is blood but you all probably frown upon that here.” A little edgy? Probably. Did she care?

A question to answer the question: when did she ever?

[★ HAZEL]

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★  I NEVER HAD NOBODY TOUCH ME LIKE I’M G L A S S WITH A MOON BIRD KISS

Hazel could feel Bastille’s surprise filter through their connection, and she flushed, embarrassed and turning her head to regain control of her expression. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt embarrassed for smiling — not here in the Ascendants, at least. The spotlight he had created for her by focusing that small bit of attention on her was...too much, for some reason, even though it didn’t make the giddy high in her chest fade. No; that stayed, running on exhaustion and a slight edge of hysteria because amidst everything else, Bastille couldn’t paint. And it was objectively, stupidly hilarious.

She glanced back to him, finally, letting her gaze snag on the smile he gave her, and...wow. When was the last time he’d smiled at her like that? When was the last time he had smiled genuinely, not because of uppers or a buzz from his latest drink of choice? Hazel blinked, a different sort of happy melting in her chest. She wanted to make him smile like that all the time, because Deus, he deserved it. He needed it.

“I wouldn’t say worse,” She indulged him, finally. “Because it’s color. I just think you need some more...variety. More depth.” Hazel had torn her eyes away from him, dragging her attention back to the wall, which she studied.

Hazel was about to say something further when Imperia showed up. Yes, she remembered her from the border: the dancer, the star-gazer, the feather-footed gentle girl who reminded Hazel of herself to some degree. Golden eyes flicked over to the canine, and suddenly, she felt like she had been caught doing something she shouldn’t be; like talking casually with Bastille was...wrong, in a sense, because the entire clan knew that they were dancing around each other like teenagers. For reasons unknown, heat ignited in the tips of her ears, the flush returning.

Hazel distracted herself with Imperia’s observation, though her curiosity was trained more on the way she spoke nervously and apologetically rather than straight-forward. Another striking similarity between her and Hazel. She wondered what Imperia had been through — if anything at all — or if it was just her nature.

“This isn’t terribly effective, you’re right.” Hazel agreed, finally forcing herself back into the conversation. “However, I think it’s going to be really hard to take off, and I’m always a fan of taking whatever I’m given and running with it. Right now, I’ve been given...” She glanced at Bastille for a fleeting moment, then the smeared concoction on the wall. “...a challenge.” She settled on. “And I’m interested in seeing how far I can go with it. I also think this stuff might hold up to weathering better than regular paint.”

As she talked, a glint sparked in her eye. She’d worked herself into making this an art challenge — a project. A distraction, if you will. Something she could focus on and put time into. And she was desperate for a distraction. “I just need a way to darken and lighten the color we’ve already got...” Hazel stated, almost to herself as she began mulling over material to use.

Her thoughts didn’t get very far, as they were rudely interrupted by Genevieve’s appearance. Instinctively, Hazel’s walls went up, her dropped guard rising and the excited gleam in her expression fading. At the feline’s words, Hazel might’ve gone bright red, had it not been for the layer of fur covering her skin. She was undoubtedly throwing off heatwaves though, because she wasn’t stupid. It didn’t take a genius to catch on to what Genevieve was insinuating.

Wow, a sense of humor and a great ass. Interrupted the girl trapped in her brain. I need to marry her right now, Haze. Gritting her teeth, Hazel did her best to ignore the voice, instead focusing on calming her wildly beating heart and the small spark of irritation she always felt when Gen was near.

“The only thing you’re invited to is your own funeral.” Hazel muttered, tail lashing. Take that exhaustion and interrupted good mood and suddenly Hazel had a tongue sharper than her claws. She turned, facing the wall again and putting her back to Genevieve. “C’mon, Gen. I thought you couldn’t feel anything.” And hey, who knew? Maybe it was Hazel’s playful side mixing with the mindscape girl’s bitter, reckless teenage attitude. “I didn’t know you were jealous of people more talented than you.”

★ — hazel — "speech" — eight months — the ascendants — tags — ★

[sup]c) miithers[/sup]