Hip Palpitations

"𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖗𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖊 𝖛 𝖊 𝖗 𝖞 𝖙 𝖍 𝖎 𝖓 𝖌 𝖔𝖓𝖑𝖞 𝖙𝖎𝖑 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖚𝖓 𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖊𝖉𝖊𝖘 𝖔 𝖓 𝖈 𝖊 𝖆 𝖌 𝖆 𝖎 𝖓."

Independant/Indie AU roleplay blog for Grimdark!Dirk Strider.

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The atramentous ring around your neck burns with a reminder of your ensnared loyalty. Had there been a physicality to this torture, your skin could have blistered. That's not how The Other Gods seem to play. This was very much a mind trick only slightly accompanied by the body horror your skin already held. An ichor necklace, choking, and forcing its way into your windpipe. Punishment for speaking out of turn; such an indignant creature. Ungrateful for what she had already provided. The very thought that there was no cooperative back and forths made you spit your own ink into the sink.

Your fingertips a mess of obsidian drippings and the oozing blood of fingerpainting on concrete, reach for a bottle well broken into. You've read that the naval officer who witnessed Dagon subdued his own madness with morphine. Unfortunately for you, the supply ran dry on the market. And by market you meant social media. Maybe one person offered but.. If his life was starting to turn around, if he was beginning to settle into himself, you wondered just how right it was to fuck that up.

You also weren't just being pissy because of a few choice words between the two of you recently either. Nah. Never your style.

Tequila would do for now. "Ia, ia, fhatagn." A tap of the bottom of the bottle to the counter before said bottom faced the ceiling. It had been a few days since your busied mind had settled into sobriety. At least completely. The less you could remember, the less she could scan your memories and find.

A piping hot exhale carried the smell of agave and fish. With it came the subtle dilution of the ink smeared over your teeth. A cocky laugh, as if you had done anything to deserve the ego, rang against the metal of the sink as you gripped on its edge. Your body was going down, legs couldn't hold the weight of a wino. The last hope was set on the edge of the bathroom sink.

You really hated this room.

Finding yourself once more acquainted with your old friend The Floor, eyelids close and you contemplate the day's affairs. Star had been punished along with you for your loose mouth. Starlight, the once keyblade, made physical and living by the light and darkness of her wielder. You thought about how you enjoyed stargazing, about how one of your old friends had taught you about black holes, neutron stars, and supernovas. You thought about elements melting into each other and how strangely there felt like a kinship between ion dust and your neck. Heavy material, compressed into a space smaller than which it was meant to be.

You thought about how conversation alone was not going to work this time. To capture a predator, one had to think like one. Entrap your prison guard.

You remember what happened the last time I struck you?

But how does one take down that of which creates stars? How could you create a supernova without then in turn creating a permanent blackhole?

...

You wouldn't remember anything you come up with, and the ink in the skatepark was only as good as it was until the rain would wash it away.