champagne supernova in the sky
#1
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Blackmoor Castle. >Big Grin

Perhaps it had started out innocently.


He'd stashed away the spare alcohol and wine within his homely farmhouse back in the packlands only a few days after Addison's arrival into his little household a few months prior. The last thing he needed was the curious child getting into the booze and messing up her life while still under his care. What obscure alcoholic tastes former pack members had once had, he couldn't explain; he himself was no drunk, had no means or expectations to liberate himself by the use of reckless alcoholic indulgence.


That was what he had believed, anyway. Now, months later, he'd gathered the beverages in a bag, slung it over his shoulder, and left the packlands unannounced. DaVinci was around, one way or another, and it had been quiet lately. Addison was under Geneva's care for the day, and now, as if something had told him to destroy the alcohol or something to that general extent, but it hadn't happened. Instead, general thirst and curiosity got the best of him somewhere on his travels, and soon enough, the one-eyed idiot had drunkenly stumbled into an unfamiliar castle: bottle in his single hand, eye unfocused and spinning, wicked grin set on his face. He'd only had a few sips--his tolerance wasn't exactly high--but already the one-eyed brute was set in a different world. Stumbling up the steps to the castle, he evidently didn't have the slightest clue where he was, but despite that, beer goggles had made every sight a thousand times more intriguing. Not only that, but he was mumbling some incessant melody, one he probably wouldn't have been able to explain later: "How many people chaaange? Howww many lives are livin' strange...?" Hiccup. "Where were you whens weee were gettin' hiiiigh?" Hiccup.

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#2
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     The gnawing at the back of her skull had begun again. Furious, unwavering, it had chattered and shrieked and made her all but mad. She was not, of course, and she knew this, but the sensation was the closest she could compare. It was worse then the nightmares and worse then the guilt. So what Aston woman had done was run—and she had run herself right into the castle. That was when she had begun to explore, intrigued such a place was here. Then, of course, she had found the wine cellar.
     She had wound up outside, with a bottle in one hand and her rear planted on a worn day-bed. The sun kept peeking in and out from behind the clouds, but it was warm enough with the alcohol in her belly she had nearly dozed off. Until a masculine voice caused her to stir, to lift her head and spot a peculiar looking man coming towards her. Aurèle blinked, convinced herself he was real, and called out: Toé! Come here.”





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#3
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No worries. :B Thank you!


Where the hell was he, anyway? Vague, unclear impressions implied that he was within a castle, but with the room spinning and that blissful feeling of numbness in his head, he could have been in a collapsing building and not known a thing. The walls were intriguing, somehow, and he found himself stopping off and on to run his hand along the roughness of the surface, grinning stupidly and hiccuping as he went. Damn, that song in his head was great. Why couldn't he remember where he'd heard it?


He stumbled down the corridors, apparently narrating as he went through the song lyrics. "Slowly walkin' down de hall," hiccup, "faster dennn... a cannonbaaall," hiccup. Pause; what a great wall. "Where were yous whens weees gettin' hiiiigh...?" Some sort of mumbling from a room he was passing stopped him--no, he stumbled past a few feet before it clicked in his head, at which point he stumbled back to the door. The drunken idiot hung in the archway, raising a wobbling finger and the bottle of swill to point accusingly at the white-furred girl in the room. "Who de fffffuck're you?" he gurgled.

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#4
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     The most peculiar sensation came with the inebriation. Aurèle was no stranger here, but the feeling never changed. It was as if walking through water. Despite all of her experience, she could not fathom when she was in too deep. Both eyes shut, and one opened as if to mirror the cyclops that staggered into the door. A stupid and toothy grin broke her mouth open and she was chuckling, finding the monster under the keystone all too perfect.
     “I’m a ghost,” she offered, then broke into a fit of laughter. Paqueté,” Aurèle added, and lifted the bottle in a salute to the scarred man. Curling her toes and leaning back, she swallowed a mouthful of the red-purple liquid heartily and blinked, shaking her head. “Come, sit.” The left hand patted the day bed, sending dust flying into the air.





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#5
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His perplexed gaze was cocked to the side when she imitated his eyesight, clasping half her vision shut and grinning the most disastrous of smiles in his direction. Strangely, he was amused, and a stupidly toothy grin stretched across his face unrelented. If only she could have mauled her arm and felt the shame of a thousand scars, they would have been a match made in heaven, or so said his misguiding drunken stupor.


Jefferson was beckoned closer, at which he responded with a slow, cautious stare and a swill of whatever nameless acid he grasped in his twiddling fingers. A ghost was intriguing, and for a moment he believed her. A slow chuckle rose to his throat: "You're not a ghost, paggedy," he cackled, lumbering closer however and soon plopping down on the bed beside her, only to fall backward and watch the clouds of dust rise up around him. He smiled stupidly at the concept, then the devil's green eye shifted back to the ghost. "Ah'mm Jeff'son... I havf twenty-five pack bitches," gurgle gurgle gurgle.

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#6
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     She broke into a fit of giggles as he slaughtered her native tongue, and was so smitten by this idea she did not even wish to correct him. Had she not been so inebriated then without a doubt she would do so, and then proceed to give him a verbal tongue lashing in regards to his terrible mispronunciation and then mock his efforts. If there was one thing Aurèle Aston was talented at, it was bringing down everyone around her. At least then she could explain why her companion was so ignorant.
     At his next statement her ears twitched, swiveled, and she laughed through her nose, finding the concept ridiculous. “You,” she began, then had to pause to sort out her thoughts. She found it remarkably hard to decide which language was appropriate. “, are drunk.”




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#7
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She accused him of something that hardly reached his ears at first. After a great, wobbly glug of the tart poison in his grasp, he swallowed gratefully, wiped at the dribble at his chin with the wrist still grasping the bottle, and looked at her stupidly. She didn't introduce herself; how strange. Instead, she pointed fingers and accusations. In his normal, level-headed existence, he might have brushed it off as a stranger's ignorance, or he might have defended his honor with a snarl and a snap. Instead, he smirked and pointed a finger at her.


"And you are beautiful," he hiccuped, frame swaying this way in that in its drunken and unstable discomfort. That said, the bottle of swill was again put to his lips and gargled, but thereafter, was placed on the bed's surface while he breathed and tried to sort the spinning thoughts in his head--to no avail, no doubt. "What de fuck is goin' on...?" Jefferson gurgled, looking around as if he'd suddenly realized he had no idea where he was. Of course, his mind was only falling deeper and deeper into its hole with the added alcohol content in his blood and the slow progress of time. Apparently, the question was posed more because his experience with drunkenness was lacking, and the concept of such head spinning and freedom was unnerving to a male whose walls were impenetrable and whose head only spun in the worst of battles, none of which he had conflicted in many months.

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#8
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     The smell of poison was in the air. It was sickly-sweet and sour, and reminded her of the thousand times before. She felt sick, but not because of the wine in her belly. Vaguely, she recalled the other men, but their faces swam in the bottle and she swallowed them down, emptying the green-glass as she opened her throat and shut her mind. As long as there was safety in the bottle, and as long as she remembered how to get out again, none of this mattered. Everything was meaningless; a nihilist had told her that once, right before he walked off into the tundra.
     Aurèle turned her head towards the man, and though she knew he was scarred, and ruined, his face was still well defined and his claim of power was intriguing. The pale woman dropped the bottle beside her and positioned her torso over his. All of her hair, loose and thick, fell around her frame like a gold-flecked drapery. She smiled, and was unable to keep her body still; it rocked slightly, as if unable to find her center of gravity. “IIIIIIII,” she began, drawing out the letter. “, aaaam going to—“ Here she intended perhaps to say something witty, to offer to find him something to hide his ruined eye or cover the horrid scars. Instead; “—make you fly,” she giggled like a girl, and dropped her face to his, looking for his mouth.





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#9
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She hung down over him suddenly; when had she gotten there? His memory was beginning to lapse, as if his consciousness itself was flickering, but it was nothing of the sort. What the hell was her name? Had she even introduced herself? Damn, he couldn't even remember. Somewhere lurking within that blissful numbness the alcohol gifted him was a feeling of dread and doubt, uneasiness and discomfort as if the stress and burdens of his everyday life were still trying to reach through to him with all their might. The flood and plague of numbness muted their nagging calls, and all he could focus on was the here and now. She was on top of him, though, and that was still completely foreign to him, drunk or not.


"Ah don't wann'fly... Ah'll get a nosebleed," the idiot gurgled, eye staring up at her as if she was the only thing in his focus that wasn't spinning with the world around him. Was his head hurting? It felt like it should have been. Damn, that stuff worked well. He couldn't feel a thing anymore. "There's this girl at home," he started, a stupid smile spreading across his face as he dreamt on. Of course this white-furred female would want to know about his endeavors at home; they were friends now, weren't they? He didn't know her name--she must've said it, he just couldn't remember it--but she suddenly seemed like a best friend. Why else would she be... on him? "She's so weeeeird... thinks she knows what's in my head..." An idiotic chuckle bubbled from the base of his throat. "...but she has the nicest eyes, an'... I want to look at them. Is that weird?" She was trying to kiss him. It was at that point that he realized it. "De hell are you doin'?" Jefferson laughed, more amused by the strange and foreign action and too drunk to know any better.

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#10
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     Regret belonged to the weak. Admitting to have done anything wrong was a folly, and she believed this as a truth. If there were to be an excuse for anything it would not have been necessary Why had she done what she did? Because she could. This was Aurèle’s truth, though she was unable to apply this logic to the fire that had destroyed her home. She knew that the girl had done it. She knew that and she knew four years was not long enough to take away the pain she felt from realizing she could have stopped it.
     But there was no regret. Not for her, and not for this. The pale woman focused her eyes on his face, realized their shades were remarkably similar, and smiled stupidly. “No, no that’s not weird,” she was speaking, but she was moving. Her hands began to trace patterns over his body, all the while moving further down his torso. “I told you,” she grinned. “I’m gonna make you fly.” Her voice fell silent as her tongue traced the soft fur along his belly, and soon thereafter followed her hands.





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#11
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Somehow, her words assured him one way or another; he wasn't weird for feeling emotions, he wasn't weird for his adulation or adoration for that gray girl's eyes, even if words had never surfaced to express to her face. He wasn't like that, that Jefferson, he wasn't one to fall in love. The cyclops wasn't capable of kissing someone, let alone trusting them to get near enough to him. He'd made mistakes around that girl, letting her remain in his presence time and time again and looking forward to seeing her on sparse occasions. Why had that never occurred to him before? He was so swept with emotions all of a sudden, swept by the fact that he could have swept up that green-eyed goddess and run off with her if only she'd been near enough.


"Ah... you sound like her," he said, green eye peering up at her from his position across the bed. For a moment, the gray wolfess from home and the white one above him suddenly seemed like twins, identical and indistinguishable apart. His smile stretched some, back curving as it was pushed off the bed. He sat up and reached his hand to her slowly, capturing her face in his grasp and connecting their eyes. "I'vf flown a thousand times," he smirked some sort of oblivious invitation, unknowing to the concrete reality of the statement. He didn't even know what he was saying.

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#12
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Aaand feel free to metaphor the crap out of their intimacy. I figure after your post I'll reply and have Aurèle leave him.

     Four years ago, she believed she could fly. That she was invincible, and that her world was restricted to the forest and family around her. All of that had changed in a flash of jealousy and flame. Then there had been nothing but the hollow reasoning and the guilt. She could have stopped it. She could have changed everything. Instead she had been so caught up in her own world that she had not realized she was stepping into hell.
     Aurèle felt his hands on her face and she hated the touch. She moved, her lips pulled back, but she did not leave him. Not with that fire in her belly, in her head, in her loins. Both hands left his waist and found his chest, where they were planted heavily. Vaguely, Aurèle wondered if she might break him, found the idea amusing, and began to giggle again. Her legs twisted and her hips moved, and she sought the warmest part of his body for her own. “Not like this,” she promised, voice husky with the wine and the staggering need.




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#13
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Something happened then, something he could not protest to in his drunkenness; sobriety and a clear mind were his closest friends, and the situation he ended up in somehow explained why. The process of sobering up was long from beginning, but as the two suddenly intertwined bodies and fluids, it was as if the one-eyed idiot hadn't the slightest idea where or who he was, what he was doing, or... what he would feel about later. Alcohol demanded no immediate regrets: but when the time passed, surely they would surface.


He didn't love her. He didn't even know her, and yet he had somehow been seduced into a fantasy he'd never fancied. The girl hadn't even muttered a name, he would realize later, but one way or another he'd become some sort of vessel for her. Regardless, he wouldn't remember it later. No, he would only regret it, not hope for the feeling and thrill again. He would be a wreck... but that would come later.

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