mental link; goodnight sweet fuckboy

[sistershoggoth]

[ Nyx Ulric slipping from her grasp is like a sun blinking out, her skyline gone suddenly dark, her world gone suddenly cold. It knifes through her, and after a moment of shocked, numb, silence: she starts the vibrate. An earthquake of anger and pain, electricity crackling off of her as her thoughts explode outward.

To call the noise echoing out of her any kind of language would be a gross exaggeration, it is merely a series of ocean's deep lamentations, reverberating throughout the immensity of her. Up from the magma at her core, through the cavernous, lightless space that is her consciousness beyond the shell of She. ]

( Fucking--W͙͇͕̠͈̅ͭi̺̟̩̼͙̮̞̎ͮ̉ͪ̆ͨ͟ț̰̙͌͡h̢̯̹̃ͮ̈́o̩̼̟͚͍̾̔̃͆u͆̊ͤ̾̏t͕͎̞̳̙̙͔̓ͫ̒ ͔͋̐̿̓̊ͩ͛l̮̝̘̼ͩ́i͕̰̠ͦ̐͢g̘̬̺̜̓h̲͖͇̜͇͓͓̊̒͛t͈͉͈̹̫͖ͤ̔͒̍͊ ̠̤̫̄̈́ͯͣͦw͙̺̯̰̔͆̊͗̐̊̍i̻̽̋t͐̓̀̉̿ͮ͐ḧ̰̲̲̼́̒ͥͪ̋ͯ̈͜o̩ͮut̐ͦ̂ͭ̈͘ ̰̝̪̹̩͔̱̃͛͌͋̈́̀h̴̝ͯ̎ͥͯḛ̪̤̫͚ͅͅa̱̦̩͔̺̪ͪ͊̓͗̊ͅtͬ͛̓͌̇̓͜ Son of a cunt-fucking maggot-- S̲̜͈̜̲u̱f̨̥̥̳͍͖̝͈f̵͇̪̼̝͎e̡͕̫̯r҉͕̪͎̹͎ Don't you dare leave me with this, L͖͍̝̠̝͎̾͛ͤo͉̘̖͚͉̳͋̎̍̂ͅś̝ṥ̤̗̊ͤ͗̑͘ you worthless-- Fuck. C̢̩̝̳̫͖̗̆o̖̰͍̱ͨ̃͡m̴͍̫̤̰͓͓̠̋͂͊ͮ̑̆̚ë͖̟̩͙̻̦̬́̆̽ ̬̯̓̅ͮ̽͑b͖̣̒͌͂ͣ͘ả̶͖̮̂̔̂̓̍̒ͅc̝͍̼̩̻̒k̮̤̪̺̋̓̓̈́-- Don't come back, don't come-- A̴̪̯̭̯͓ͦ̾͋̍̔̾̚b̜͘s͗͋ͤͫ͊̀ơ̙̙͔͚̼̹ͦͨ̓̉r̸ͥ̐͛̿̌ͨb̻̥͇̝̊̀̈ͪͭ ̨̲̥́ͭͣͫt̙ͦͩ̏h͎ͬ̚ẽ̱͉͕̥̮̂ͅ ̇̉͗͗bͥ̅͋ͧ̎̂͟o͙ͤͥ̈ͤͣn̰̮͙͓̥͈̞ͩ̍̓͂͋̓e̶̻̋̀͛s̻͔̭̜̽ͨͅ. Fuck.
Fuck fuck-- )

[ Dripping colors and fury, a base shaken. ]

( Nyx. Ņ̘̩͖̙̪͓̔ͮ͋ͤͣͮy̶͎͑̾́ͪ̾x̦̹̳̱ͮ́̋̿̆̃̀͘. Nyx. )

[ ...It takes its time, but eventually her wounded presence slithers off, a poisonous trail of brack and blood in its wake. ]



[ Somewhere in the physical world, she shows little of her internal distress. Still as stone in her robes staring out into the distance, jaw grit, fists clenched. ]

Comments

[sistershoggoth]

[ There's a frustrated huff of emotion at the way he stands up to her intensity with so much goddamn mother fucking dignity. The pressure of her rears back for a moment, insensible with offense, but it also gives her a moment to take perspective of what it is she's flood her way in to.

He's not her kind of man, his color palette does nothing for her, and actively clashes with her own. She starts to burble with laughter, high notes of it in neon colors that sluice through his deep, velvet landscape. That's something more interesting to her brain, the texture, and she lets herself press back in close, enjoying the luxurious sensation, winding herself up in it.

They don't mesh, but neither is it impossible to find some comfort in it: she's a figure of pale light, draped in velvet sheets, grinning slyly with indecent red lips.

She likes that, and doesn't for one second try to pretend that what she's doing in the privacy of his sphere isn't entirely sexual. Fingers kneading into the meat of his ache and his sorrow, covering herself in warmth and loyalty, letting it bear down on her.

Her expressions of enjoyment are colorful little emojis that glitter and pop like bubbles as they slip salaciously from her open thoughts. Her imagination takes over where her emotions had been in discord, and her imagination is all skin and bone, heat and movement and laughter.

The wild spread of her is contained here within him, but it requires amusement if it's going to remain. She challenges him flirtatiously, ]

( Too much for you, killer. )

[sizeofyourbaggage]

[ She takes offense, and there's a flicker of something that could almost be the curve of a smile as she pulls back to examine where she's come. No, the landscapes of their mind don't mesh at all - but fuck if that matters, at the moment.

Fuck if much of anything matters except the way that she dives back in, rolling around in the layers of his mind, and he closes his wings around her as she wraps herself up. Feather soft and steal strong, pulsing heat as though they have a heartbeat of their own, and he pulls her in deeper as she dips her fingers inside, rifling through everything he is.

His grief doesn't have a name - it has too many names - his anger doesn't have a purpose - there's too many years and too many recipients that blur together - but specifics don't matter. She can take it all, as far as he's concerned. He's got no damned shame, either in who he is or in general. There's an echo of laughter at the way she expresses herself, and he doesn't fail to react to the challenge.

He twists his way into her in return, the rush of wind that rips its way into anything left unbarricaded, the grip of fingertips firm enough to bruise, the slip of skin over skin, the glint and press of teeth. ]

( Can't fucking prove it if you don't give me all you got. )

[sistershoggoth]

[ All giggles, bursting like a firecracker, her shape is ephemeral: one moment only almost human; the next a plume of smoke able to slip away from his grip; the next faceless, binding, winding; sometimes grinning, all teeth.

Sometimes there's no distinction of her at all, sleek onyx in the night sky, plummeting meteoric through each mantle of atmosphere, tasting of condensation. The sorrow has a bitter taste like saltwater, the anger syrupy thick and cloying, devotion metallic as blood, strength cold as steel-- Rippling through each ring, catching dewdrops.

And in the inverse, his opalescence flutters through her waves and their echoes.

Sorrow like saltwater: maddening to drink, only creating more and more thirst. Intoxicating and so very plentiful. Oceans of it -- disturbed from their placid wallowing by the way he rocks inside of her -- swollen with sea spray. Liquid rushing to fill in to empty places, across tongues, down throats, in swirls through bodies; sometimes magma, sometimes lightning.

Cooling to rock along her spine, forming a support against which she can press: to rut, to rail, to repose. One of them interests her more than the others at the moment, but maybe it's a structure that might just stay put when she's done. The kind of thing that might survive an earthquake. Best to put it to the test.

A layer of rock to keep the magma from escaping; things overheating like the surface of a sun, all exploding light and color, searing, enticing.]