07-15-2018, 06:52 PM
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SING, GODDESS, OF THE RAGE OF ACHILLES
He wanted to touch her. The second she opened her door, it was all he could think about. He could feel the phantom heat of her touch from the night before, burning through his skin, anchoring him; with it was the wave of every other time she'd touched him, the weight of her head against his chest as he carried her back to the Observatory and she let him, curled in close like she had no idea what kind of fear she might harbor towards him. He wanted to touch her even if it burned, even if he knew he couldn't have her and something in him withered and died at the reminder. He wanted so badly, and he might have reached out to her, just then.
But then she turned away, wordless, and the temptation died in his throat. He reminded himself why he couldn't, that she didn't want him to, even if she'd touched him first, even if she'd offered little tokens of contact. He was likely in trouble, he had to remember. He couldn't imagine she was happy with his relapse or with the withdrawals that she had to feel on some level, too. Bast swallowed, and shifted his weight, choking back the desperate urge to beg for her to hold his hand again. He'd live with the memory of it.
There was an awkward moment where he was at a loss for words, not sure what he wanted, what to do. And then he followed after her a step, taking her silence and departure as an indication that he was allowed inside. She hadn't slammed the door in his face, which was improvement, and he watched her silently for a moment as she fumbled in the drawer. Things rolled and clattered against the sides as she shifted things around, and for a moment that was the only sound there was, over his soft breathing. Eventually, he couldn't take it.
"Can I..." A pause. He cleared his throat, at a loss, unsure of how to ask for what he wanted when he knew he didn't deserve it. "Can I stay here? For a bit?" Bastille held up the peace offering he'd brought: The Aeneid, last on his list of classics to explain yesterday. His throat was dry at the reminder, but he pushed on, "I just-- If I'm alone, I know I'm going to break again, and I don't want to."
It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to ask her to deal with him because he couldn't fucking control himself on his own, but he was miserable and shaky and wanted the radiance of her golden aura to warm him. If he were a better person, he might have left her alone, but he wasn't. He was an awful person and he wanted and now he was here, forcing his problems onto her as if the bond wasn't bad enough. "I'll read to you, if you want," he offered, quieter, because he didn't think it was a worthy trade, even if she did want to read. She could easily just take the Latin and read it herself.
But then she turned away, wordless, and the temptation died in his throat. He reminded himself why he couldn't, that she didn't want him to, even if she'd touched him first, even if she'd offered little tokens of contact. He was likely in trouble, he had to remember. He couldn't imagine she was happy with his relapse or with the withdrawals that she had to feel on some level, too. Bast swallowed, and shifted his weight, choking back the desperate urge to beg for her to hold his hand again. He'd live with the memory of it.
There was an awkward moment where he was at a loss for words, not sure what he wanted, what to do. And then he followed after her a step, taking her silence and departure as an indication that he was allowed inside. She hadn't slammed the door in his face, which was improvement, and he watched her silently for a moment as she fumbled in the drawer. Things rolled and clattered against the sides as she shifted things around, and for a moment that was the only sound there was, over his soft breathing. Eventually, he couldn't take it.
"Can I..." A pause. He cleared his throat, at a loss, unsure of how to ask for what he wanted when he knew he didn't deserve it. "Can I stay here? For a bit?" Bastille held up the peace offering he'd brought: The Aeneid, last on his list of classics to explain yesterday. His throat was dry at the reminder, but he pushed on, "I just-- If I'm alone, I know I'm going to break again, and I don't want to."
It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to ask her to deal with him because he couldn't fucking control himself on his own, but he was miserable and shaky and wanted the radiance of her golden aura to warm him. If he were a better person, he might have left her alone, but he wasn't. He was an awful person and he wanted and now he was here, forcing his problems onto her as if the bond wasn't bad enough. "I'll read to you, if you want," he offered, quieter, because he didn't think it was a worthy trade, even if she did want to read. She could easily just take the Latin and read it herself.
[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]