prophecies don't include us — bastion. x ulysses. [blitz]
Sept 26, 2021 5:16:16 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Sept 26, 2021 5:16:16 GMT -5
No one really comes to touch up his bruises – guess they love their tributes roughed up and bleeding, huh?
He sits on the floor, cross-legged, having a staring contest with a stupid fuckin’ painting on the wall that shows a ballroom full of dancing socialites. The bronze plaque below it reads, ‘Property of Julian Le Roux, dedicated to Paris Vanburen.’ He scoffs, half-amused, half-cringing. Simp.
Bastion’s never believed in ghosts but as a grandfather clock ticks away somewhere in this room every single male tribute once drifted across, he can’t help the shiver that fingers its way down his spine then. Place gives even him the creeps, and he tells himself that it’s because of how overtly gold-brocaded everything is, not because Julian Le Roux may be staring at him with dead, empty eyes. And if he is staring, hope it’s towards the ass.
He’s almost stomach-sick with boredom, having a moral battle about whether to bash a window in or not, when the door creaks open so sharply he jumps – “heck me Julian!” – and Ulysses pokes his head of inky black hair in.
Bastion catches a breath he skipped.
“At least knock or something, man, you gonna’ kill me before the real thing,” he says, his lips carving themselves to a grin quickly because it’s Ulysses, and even if none of the other Frays would come for him, Ulysses would, like he’s always had, and suddenly, a part of Bastion feels somewhat not alone.
It’s both a giddy and horrid sensation, one he’s not supposed to care much about, but he’s crossing the distance nonetheless, squeezing the other into a proper bro embrace. Arms crush his bones in a vice-like hug.
“You smell like shit and happy hours.”
He sits on the floor, cross-legged, having a staring contest with a stupid fuckin’ painting on the wall that shows a ballroom full of dancing socialites. The bronze plaque below it reads, ‘Property of Julian Le Roux, dedicated to Paris Vanburen.’ He scoffs, half-amused, half-cringing. Simp.
Bastion’s never believed in ghosts but as a grandfather clock ticks away somewhere in this room every single male tribute once drifted across, he can’t help the shiver that fingers its way down his spine then. Place gives even him the creeps, and he tells himself that it’s because of how overtly gold-brocaded everything is, not because Julian Le Roux may be staring at him with dead, empty eyes. And if he is staring, hope it’s towards the ass.
He’s almost stomach-sick with boredom, having a moral battle about whether to bash a window in or not, when the door creaks open so sharply he jumps – “heck me Julian!” – and Ulysses pokes his head of inky black hair in.
Bastion catches a breath he skipped.
“At least knock or something, man, you gonna’ kill me before the real thing,” he says, his lips carving themselves to a grin quickly because it’s Ulysses, and even if none of the other Frays would come for him, Ulysses would, like he’s always had, and suddenly, a part of Bastion feels somewhat not alone.
It’s both a giddy and horrid sensation, one he’s not supposed to care much about, but he’s crossing the distance nonetheless, squeezing the other into a proper bro embrace. Arms crush his bones in a vice-like hug.
“You smell like shit and happy hours.”
