>Look at how they crawl around upon the ground like little ants.
>Yes, but how they fascinate, confusing fate with what is merely chance.
Prologue
What is life without control?
âŠ.
The echoing chimes of silver bells quieted the bubbling chatter within the Cathedral, signaling the beginning of a service. The ringing began to gradually quiesce into silence like a baby's cries being lulled by its mother, that not being long lived as the clanking of hard shoes were heard approaching, must be a new pair.
Each step he took brimmed with self proclaimed significance, harboring equal amounts of worth and sententiousness just because he had the skills to show.
His locks were short like the nails of summer, as black as the inky night, glistening just like the twinkling stars that try to illuminate it, face as pale as the moon and under eyes as smoked as its craters as well as his sixteen packs . The dullness of his eyes were as profound as aged paint on a car. They fought to enrapture whatever minuscule ambition he gave, like a flickering fluorescent bulb trying its best to stay lit under the midnight gloom.
Whether you took it literally or metaphorically,
He really was a dead man walking in the best and worst possible way.
The expression he constantly wore was nothing short of an enigma, so much so that you could forget. Those with even half a brain knew that he wasnât one to be tested at least not directly.
He was the voice you could never speak,
he was the screaming silence after an argument .
He was well aware of his worth and jurisdiction as he paraded it like a badge from a memory that doesn't want to be remembered , not from unpleasantry, just from the lack of the unknown. Not hesitating to chew you up and swallow you whole like the worms he ate as a lad if you ever so slightly step out his line.
That was the type of individual he was, or rather what he came to be, not from growth, but from listening .
The male stopped behind the altar, raising a long hand to adjust his cross and turned on his heels to face his followers before clearing his throat.
âThe grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and love of God, along with the holy spirit be with you all.â With raised arms he greets, his voice as smooth and as rich as the hum of red wine after a long day and it sat there for even longer, its taste brings a slight tang at the end .
Rewarding and addictive. Homely yet suffocating. Temporary but all the more permanent. Something to cope. It is a sin, do they indulge? Of course.
Opening the doors of the dayâs worship.
~~~~°
Followed up by the dusk of the dayâs service, depicted by the bells of dismissal.
He watched as his followers vacillated out of the building like a herd of cattle.
Sighing out his chest once the last of the members were out of sight. Leaving him with himself, which wouldn't be much of a problem if it had not been so⊠quiet. He likes quiet. Hell, he actively searches for it, but not this, not quiet.
There was nothing, no dogs barking,
no padding of small feet against stone floors,
no rustling in the kitchen, no movement, no noise.
The air hung full, a guttural hum. Making even the most comfortable disturbed.
It felt weird, uncanny. Like a dead infant, though the nursery remains. The body wants the baby, wants its reward for that near trade of life for another that hasn't lived, but the baby's gone. It felt like something wrong but never bothered to be acknowledged, like some archetype of liminal space, something a human wasn't meant to be exposed to, but did otherwise due to a glitch in the matrix. Like an empty school on a school day, which would usually mean an easy break, but you don't go there.
His head was a boulder and his neck Sisyphus, wondering if the blood was following him, his eyes felt heavy as if a palm were pushing them down into their sockets. His nose felt like it had breathed in water.
God, he was tired.
He had made sure to keep his steps as light as he allowed so as to not further pain his aching joints. Stopping just at the doors, open doors. It smelt wet outside, must have been drizzling. There was a light wind from North, cool enough for sleep, everything felt so fresh and free after rain, though that was rich coming from him.
It began to pick up, the wind as if the world didn't want him to be happy even if for just a moment.
The chill chewed and licked at his nose,
he closed his eyes instinctively, perhaps not fast enough for it dried them. What was this love-hate relationship between him and nature?
He blinked for a couple more, squinting this time as he walked behind the door with a new reason.
Giving himself time to catch his breath and stretch. It was nothing flashy, only a few hip rotations on each side to hopefully coax a much appreciated crack. But to his demise he only felt a small pathetic âpopâ in what he'd assumed was his mid waist, which was more like a still crackle than anything. Twisted again to the same side, he felt a tinge of resistance like trying to eat tough meat off the bone. It felt a little sore after, maybe that was enough for today.
Hope you donât mind me delivering some well-deserved awards~ âšïž
BEAUTIFUL PERSON AWARD! Once you are given this award you're supposed to paste it in the asks of 8 (or more) people who deserve it. If you break the chain nothing happens, but it's sweet to know someone thinks you're beautiful inside and out <3
(Also, what Iâm saying I actually mean it, and good luck on your healing journeyâas well as I wish you the most blessed days and healings possible for u!! đđ«°)
This is beautiful, I love you!
I don't really know what to say after this, but I guess I'll keep chugging that compliment trainâ€ïž:3
âIt's the fear of being rejected that creates a knee jerk reaction to shame others. People often refuse with their whole bodies and live like this :
We all are deeply traumatized. Brutally, disgustingly raped emotionally as children, grow up the other end with deep anxieties. Going through it daily, reacting to triggers so often, like everyone around us, that everyone thinks that's how humans work. How it is.
And everyone else is simply sensitive.
And those sensitive people get sick, not because they are sensitive, but because what dull and broken people think is growing up. Which is actually being fucked stupid until you're dull, and then of course, all the people feeling all the things being done to them seem sensitive.â - Commenter on a Mochii video.
Neal's short link
He was so tired, his head hurt, the space between his eyebrows especially.
His eyes blinked into tears, the shower water rushing their flow. Drop after drop the heavier his hair got, there was a strange mixture of wet and dry, some strands dripping down his cheeks, it gave an odd texture to his senses. Moving was not an option.
Each breath he took felt unnatural, as if he'd forgotten what it felt like, they felt strained and jagged, narrowing at the edge of his lungs.
His heart hurt, as though the lungs reefed shrunk at its swell. As if there was water surrounding it, drowning, he has not felt that in centuries, a sniffle punctuated that thought.
He wanted to cry, to get that relief and reset all of this, but the eyes only let up twin tears, his heart was burning as if it were being smoked, despite him not knowing how to. As before, movement was less than appreciated, at least his mind and body could find a middle ground. âFor how long?â He wanted to tease, though his body would beg to differ.
Afraid that moving his eyes too much would only cause more pain, thus he stared, concaved by vision, looking without seeing, it felt unreal, this. It's things like this that make him wonder which part of him is worth trusting. He could feel the weight of running water dipping his lashes, he felt cold. He didn't feel like getting up. By now snot had already made its path over his lips, it took true resilience to not lick.
his... right, left? Left foot felt numb, or cold, it was almost cute, this moment with himself,
"Man, could you finish, I want to use the toilet.â Zeus, undeniably Zeus said stupidly close to the door, he wouldn't be surprised if he was trying to get a peak through the key hole.
Admittedly, that startled him quite a bit, yes, he can acknowledge that, but thank Hades he had good recovery time.
"Poseidon, I brought some towels, I didn't know whether you'd like just one." Hades whispered, though with someone his size it sounded more like a round rumble of a murmur, like yawning mid syllable, or maybe if an echo was caught and sealed in a jar?... Alright, this was getting redundant, it sounded like his brother.
Hades knew best not to ask his little brother about his feels in moments particularly like this, especially when Zeus was near the vicinity. Even if he'd feel a tug down his throat from the abstinence, his brother comes first, after all discomfort is not dangerous, he says.
"I'm using it, thanks." he tried to sound fine, unsure of who he was really talking to, he tried to feel fine, why was he even mad? He knew he knew the answer, though he didn't want to accept it. He didn't want to acknowledge how numb he felt, his son was blinded damnit! And still no reaction. What is going on with him?
There was this pit in his stomach, one of starvation, hunger, craving. There was something missing and it wouldn't be him to fill it, he wanted to do something, he knew he needed something, but it wasn't his to give. âWhat is he even doing?â
Earlier
â âąâŠàźâąâŠ â
"Do you hear anything? " the oldest asked, his lips were dry before his tongue prodded out to wet them. That's a bad habit, but once he saw that one lady do it as a godling, he couldn't stop.
There was a spike in the residence of the Underworld, around the 500s Persephone told him. And it didn't help that the first time he's seen his brother, he finds him like this.
"Yes! Wait... No. Yes!" Zeus as eccentric as always shuffles around the door like the bird of paradise he is. Cupping his right ear in a lack of a better phrase, "Is that a lil bitch I hear?" sort of way. Getting shameless enough to try and peep through the key hole.
-"What is it?"
"I think I hear..."
- "What!"
- "I hear...."
- "You hear?"
"Never mind, it's just water."
He audibly grimaced, that was anticlimactic.
.
.
.
"I think we should take this more seriously. "
Hades suggested, though they both knew it was more than just a suggestion. He was trying to be polite.
â âąâŠàźâąâŠ â
Now
~~~
He could hear bickering outside, that calmed him, suspiciously, he felt lighter now, which should give a pinch of relief though it only seemed to make it worse.
As if his suffering, Polyphemus's suffering was for nothing, that it could be swept away in an instant. Childish.
What is he doing exactly? What is this for? What was he supposed to do?
There was something, he didn't know how to describe it, it felt like his throat was being blocked, not enough for asphyxiation, just enough for him to notice. The lowest pang of irritation bubbled up, he could feel it moving, hell, he's done more than enough feeling today. It was as though he was being inflated, as if his tongue was pressing, pumping at the roof of his mouth at every breath.
His head still hurt, and him being curled up didn't help with releasing any pressure.
Where his arm used to be melted away along with the rest of the water pouring down the drain. His left grappled on to its shoulder.
Cold, or numb, his feet were wet their nails felt sharp and rubbery against the skin. He could feel the ichor showering through them as he shifted. It felt wrong, this "peace".
"Why must the body always contradict the mind?" he asked no one.
"Why is this happening again?" said to the little voice inside. It is quiet this time.
It made him feel silly, how fast his emotions can pass. He could feel his brows furrow at the thought, or just barely, his breath hitched at the second part. "Is this what Hera meant by a trigger?" He didn't think so, though that could just be because he didn't want to believe her.
That made him relax, just a bit. He sighed out at imaginary laugh, it reminded him of the times he'd talk to himself when he was a lad. Gosh, was he a quirky child. He could feel a smile, or a hint tug at the corners of his mouth, it feels good. From an outside perspective it one could say it looked like he was gently rocking himself.
His eyes grew at the realization, most of his thoughts shrunk in on themselves whenever he would move, "He should exercise more", he should've taken up on Ares offer, "Or maybe yoga?" he cringed at the thought.
Leaning back the shower glass wall? Door?(He did not remember what that was called) felt cool against his ironically warm sculp. Sighing out until breath reached the pith of lungs. He really didn't want to move, and surprisingly didn't want to think either. Though, the shower water did make him want to pee.
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#I am not mentally stable because I gave most of my stability to Neuvillette which isn't alot
Le procĂšs de la justice
Are you really in control of your body?
âHydro dragon! Hydro dragon!
Donât cry!â
Those words aged like milk, as bare, dry gullies replaced the once playful, glimmering rivers. Now empty, though brimming with drowning disdain and sufferance.
Weeps brought blessed rain to the natural spring known as Fontaine, falling like miniature crystals from the skies above, and they were treated just as that.
But alas, people always find a way to complain.
âŠ
Night had fallen, though the people saw the sun, which begged whether or not they knew what a curfew was. The town square was a black and white film, out of place beige lamps play as tethers to reality, that and the lack of filter.
Bursting with townsfolk, each one of them preoccupied with filling their baskets with whatever they could get their grimy lil hands on at the market, others spent their time milling ar-
What, what?
WaitâŠ
Wait, wait, wait, wait! Wait! Wait!
Hell broke loose as they scrambled and scattered for shelter as would tiny, little spiderlings fan out of their mother after she's struck by a broom regrettably so.
âUgh! Itâs raining again? Iâve had enough of this weather.â
a gruff voice whined.
âThere go my travel plans.â
What one could assume was his friend thought aloud, though not expecting to be heard. It was for himself.
âDid you read the news this morning?â one girl asked expectedly, referring to her companion as she picked up her pace.
âQuick! Put away everything on the clothesline!â
another woman wailed, running through the downpour . One hand holding her skirt down and the other shading her face.
âWhen is this rain going to stop?â
a bystander gazed up with a look that just said âwalking in on my dogs having sexâ.
However all of those remarks soon evaporated like the little moisture in the now dry land that became of Fontaine. The rain from whom was disfavoured, shunned head to warning those who begged from it.
Ironic, isn't it?
. . .
Stationed at his desk. He sat, watching the fruit that tastes of humanity, it being given the peculiar name Ambivalence. Wait, is it peculiar? Not too sure, but it is in a sense, no?
Never really thought too hard, though.
Radiance failed to flood the land, the sky had not the sunâŠ
Air sharpened with drought and thinned with dehydration, it sliced through throats and made sure to rub in salt, each breath was like a paper cut in the mouth, but instead of paper it was a nail being dragged across, tripping over scar tissue and nicking at the membrane connecting tongues to lower jaw as saliva begins to pool, making it burn just a little more.
And maybe, just maybe it felt a little good.
The tongue is pulled down, down into the throat, ripping it gradually, a cone of meat anchors the thing, but it only causes more resistance. The area whitens as it continues to lift and stretch backwards. Being tugged harsher every now and then. Making it tear just a little more.
A reminder.
It ran wounds that never had the satisfaction of bleeding.
They were small, but always there, never consciously remembered.
Like the interactions you replay every night, every time you shared too much, every time you shared too little, every time you cracked a joke no one laughed at, every time you spoke, but no one was listening,
every time you fumbled with your words, every time you gave the wrong answer, every time you acted like a human being.
Surprisingly, what Fontaine had lobotomized into was nothing like your period typical arid desert. Grilling sun rays shone not once, it was not hotâŠ
Just empty like âlonely menâ.
A knock on the door cuts the silence into two like feminism to femcels, in the end they mix.
âMonsieur Neuvillette, ma-may I come in?â
a voice asked on the other side, putting a halt to his undertow of thoughts.
âAh, Sedene. There is no need to ask, please come. â he said softly,with the patience of a father.
Compared to him usually.
One of the large poplar doors gingerly opened, but showed an embarrassing amount of resistance as if it were rebelling. The face of a little melusine was revealed. She wore her hair in a choppy neck length bob, topped off with a french guard hat, peeping her head in before fully entering the room. Chubby arms hugging files to her chest, she must have had them in a choke hold as not one of those papers had fallen despite the temporary setback.
âHope I'm not taking too much of your time.â
the girl smiled and giggled while gently kicking the door closed, coming closer to his desk.
âOh, no. Please take it. â
he answered reassuringly, as he gathered his papers, which were centered on his desk, acting as a prop defending his staged productivity.
Both hands reached out to pat at its length and applied the same to its width, in a motion that one could only liken to shaping dough before laying it in a bread pan.
They were left aside neatly stacked, seemingly indifferent despite his previous efforts.
âThatâs great.â
she blinked, leaning forward a little. Almost like she was not sure what to say? Or what could she say, for that matter?
Neuvillette narrowed before humming contently in response, signaling her to continue.
âI was sent to inform you that your presence will be needed at court.â
âFor what?â
With a face that tastes like a rotten apple, bitter, like a force-fed fist at hard knuckle withdrew. Swallowing with a slapping suck that carried something more than saliva. It had this yellow discharge texture, jelly, like if you were to eat a blood clo-
âThey did not say.â
she said, in her truth she didn't ask, maybe even forgot to, but who was really going to confess that?
His face grew shorter as though it had been tightened. He was wrong for that. She looked so happy when she came. He wanted to apologize, after making her flinch, she should be able to talk freely with him, he wanted her to be comfortable, he wanted her to be open with him, she wasn't his anger outlet, but in a moment the stitching was loosened. He swallowed, even with it wet a part of his throat still felt scratchy. They popped damp, his lips. Instead he-
âAlright.â
He could not see to his expression, though only hoped that its honesty brought no truth. Just do it.
âThank you, Sedene for the intel.â he thanked slowly with gentle eyes, as gentle as they could be when not looking directly at her. It felt forced, like a plead.
âAnd at what time would that be?â he asked.
âAt three, Monsieur.â sheâŠ
âReport back, I will be on my way.â he said.
Before the door was closed once more, there was something in the little girl's eyes that he couldnât quite shake... something akin to confusion or perhaps discomfort...
She was talking less too, lesser than heâd remembered. Was he that easy to read?
Finally the chamberâs door closed and it was like a nudge to a triple point.
Calm was the water, such like the soft, plump skin swaddling a belly, whose fat smushed when sat, forming thick rings that sunk into an innie. Beautiful, real, humane.
Warm like fresh pee.
A hand spilled down, its cold fingers ran along the fatty pulp, climbing further as it descended. Got a ripple in response, another snaked its way to a waistband, lifting it for better excess. The cold was non existent, fingers had adjusted with the heat.
They slid down, combed through pubic hair, grazed the hood and met wetness. A finger dipped into the pool while another spread it wide. Making a squelching noise when clicked in sequence. Lungs beat as the body sinks. It went up and down, up and down.
Smoothly they ascended on each side forming a V, repeating that motion until they were between the lips , rubbing it with an intensity of a cyclist pedaling, though that sensation had the life of one.
They migrated to the hood, tracing sweet circles around. Then came a third, cupping it and vibrating. They searched for more, touches became more impatient, more urgent, racing for that release. The popping sounds of bodily fluid and the site beheld seem to act as catalysts. Saliva flooded the mouth, it had long before.
Shudders overthrow the body as tired shallow thrusts finish the job. They stopped, traveling from below to top, gaining an overwhelming shiver. Hand lazily retreats and was held up, the other still holding on.
Its fingers separate, weak yet mucus-like webs are formed, connecting one or two of the five, looking like juice from a raw chicken breast.
It looked nothing like the videos.
It lay still on the toilet seat, legs open like a cupboard stocked with lard, the air feeling sickeningly full.
Endorphins fizzle out like a punched soda. Close it tight, next time.
You look like a bitch in heat, a dog.
You need to go back to bed, before someone questions it.
If you knew a family member of yours was masturbating, how would you feel?
Disgusted, uncomfortable, shocked, forsaken?
Would you even see them the same?
You'd be unfazed if it were you. So why is it any different when someone does the same, someone you know?
But itâs only natural.
You know. You know that it is. . . but, do you really?
How would you feel?
He rested his elbows atop the desk, bringing a gloved hand to lean on. His thumb slid across his lower cheek and where his neck started slowly, back and forth like it was itching, against his glove skin sounded like whispers.
It was quiet, so very quiet.
He shifts in his seat, not for comfort, but just⊠just to do something.
Though they were slow,
He didn't like how he could hear himself breathe.
He felt dirty.
He could feel the oxygen entering and leaving his body, it felt better empty. Each intake of breath made his lungs shudder. He was tired, so very tired. His eyes felt like they were rolling back, his shoulders buckled, his lungs ached and his legs were trembling, but he couldn't prove it, his ankles were cold compared to his awfully throbbing chest. It hurt to look up, it hurt to open his eyes. Ever so small tasks such as blinking and breathing felt like amenities, draining all mental and physical energy like running laps without stretching.
Maybe he's just bored.
His face fell.
Smooth eyebrows scrunched together in frustration, he shifts again, his fingers intertwine, forming a somewhat bridge-like structure, which crumbles under zero pressure. Arms now in what one could call a contemplating pose.
His eyes open and close and repeat, he released a sigh, though it had no intent in escaping.
When last had he drank water?
âŠ
"Wasn't he shot?"
His brother snorted, though it sounded more like a swallowed sneeze, hiding behind his hand. It looked like he was trying to play it off as just scratching the side of his face.
"Why are you laughing?" The younger asked, his voice cracking a lil, which punched another stifled laugh out of his brother, making him shy away per usual. His siblings weren't too sure whether that was a sign of offense or embarrassment, hopefully he didn't take it to heart.
"I'm not , I'm not. " he said, shaking his head like his barely held laughs were rattling in there, practically quivering like a horse after actually reading the terms and conditions.
His voice sounded like he was about to cry. Looking off to the side, refusing to make any eye contact for he knew there was no winning that battle.
"Really? I thought he was stabbed." Their sister quipped in, sparing a glance at her twin before settling on their little brother. She looked interested and uninterested simultaneously which was her usual condition.
"Oh, yeah. That one." The youngest mumbled, more to himself than anyone really. His gaze low as he fiddled and played with his penguin's flippers, flapping them up and down as if to give him a taste of what he could have had, only rising to hers occasionally to show interest, then flashing to his side and back down.
âThey're practically the same. â
He huffed, and puffed, and blew it all out, like the air in his pink lungs was shivering, his eyes up to seeing something that can only be looked for.
Looking like he was incapacitating a yawn with all that nose twitching, smiling with a smile with one lip or whatever Emma Myers does in Wednesday.
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