Disclaimer: HAHAHAHAHAHA YOU'RE SILLY NO.
Author's Note: I just… needed to write something. 8/ I've been lazy, as of late, eh heh.
Warnings: Vague references to SebaCiel, I guess? Also, I like words. This was really just an excuse to play with them.
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Ouroboros
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Childbirth tastes of copper.
A fleeting flavor: rusty flakes of spongy flesh that curdles against the back of his tongue. He swallows, and the flickering fragments of feeling, the silvery slivers of sensation, the hollow haze of hysteria and hyperactive happiness bleeds down his undulating esophagus, only to evaporate into evanescent plumes. The metallic memories are not strong enough to offer substance. They fade… Melt into mercury, into sickly spools of candied cotton, into lucent strands of saccharine saliva that gum his throat with liquescent webs.
And those quivering fibers weave…
Adolescence had been the sweetest of times, anamnesis and nostalgia further sugaring related recollections. Those honeyed cobwebs catch and clog and congest his melding senses, remembrances left suspended and dangling down the gorge of his gullet. Even still: he can smell the ghost of sunshine as it plaintively paws at his sinuses— the silken spice of the season snuffled down in greedy gulps, as if he might be able to catch antiqued summers in his mouth. Behind papery lids, the world is perfumed by buttery dandelions; pollen that had been streaked across button noses and apple cheeks catches in bitter bursts atop his taste buds: souring his senses, but not his mood. Heads of fuzzy yellow tip low in obsequious bows, paying final tribute to lazy days… and a cheese-wheel moon is rolled idly into Heaven, adding a pungent sharpness to the shadows on the grounds. Juvenile fears and mysteries: savory and velvet. Purple twilights, glistening golden-green with fireflies and will-o'-the-wisps, ripple beneath the steady gaze of his mind's eye; the sky is little more than a rich, fruity wine, poured into a gilded bathtub of glow flies and bats. Bubbles form beneath the satin surface—disturbing the blissful dreams of half-drowned fairies— and push onward, upward: blistering and bursting and broiling as smoldering heat rises up from Hell, and the once-eerie radiance of dreamy midnights become mundane sparks of an all-consuming blaze.
Fireflies waver, erupt into embers; their eviscerated corpses taste of ash. Crunch. A cloud of slag explodes past pursed lips, the granular remnants caking his chin with a film of macabre makeup. White as maquillage, as arid bones, as purest, cruelest sin. Legs and gears and filaments of iron snag in the gaps between his serrated incisors, grinding possibilities to powder. Dry, coarse. Acerbic.
Shifting… between fingers, between times.
The grains and seeds of revenge mix with saline and wetness; something rises within, the force of it compressing and consuming all else. Doughy. A psyche is being molded. Remolded. Scents of yeast and mildew linger, and he nearly gags on the rawness of it. Unfinished. At the time, Supper's body had been nothing but a wad of pasty mush, quaggy and gelatinous. Slippery intestines, slickened with grease and baby fat, are painstakingly rolled into a suitable form: beaten, baked, and broken, leavened and left to decorate a table. A waif into a wafer, someone might say, for he had been deceptively ordinary in the superficial sense… but inwardly had proven himself unique: a French-named pastry oozing jellified preserves of fury, laced with ribbons of clotted Abandonment. Blessed, despite being forsaken and tossed to the Pits to fester, to roast, and to suffer. To cook. A deity's coveted Grace may have once made a light meal of him, airy as angel food, but hatred is swift to harden him down to his very core. What had been a luxurious cake of the finest flour is now the coarsest of rye breads, dark as night and with little sweetness to speak of. But of the two dishes, the latter promises to be more filling, anyway.
Still, the soul and the heart are far more malleable than any comparable mortal meal; as time wears on, the loaf (and he had been a loaf, the lazy thing) softens in the wake of further kneading… Or perhaps his constitution is more akin to a picnic treat: weakened by the picking by wee indulgences, crumbs of sanity and determination carried off by birds and beasties alike. His brittle edges begin to mold—and yes, the faintest suggestion of staleness teases at the corners of delicate senses when his soul is finally, properly gnawed upon— but his innards… His innards are quick to mutate, to morph utterly, like a butterfly within its lacquered cocoon. Reverted once again to ichorous threads, metaphysical insides churn themselves from milk to cream to sensuous butter, forbidden emotions serving as the perfect spread for his crusty façade.
Predawn passions permeate and perforate, as piquant as the curry spices that blossom in smoky spirals in the kitchen air. A granular shroud; he can taste them now, feel their grit between clenched teeth. Crushed cocoa beans are unappetizingly acrimonious, but certainly a delicious comparison to draw in light of insatiable snacking: dark and disgusting at first, but easily blended into something sinful and scrumptious. Cimmerian. He chokes on thick swells of the garnish, gasps and groans against its intrusion into his feeble lungs, even as more intimate intrusions plunder fragile orifices. Caramel is secreted from his pores, its tang enhanced by beaded salt, and soon he is leaking the remnants of aforementioned feelings, as well: pallid spurts of spider-webs and butterfly bits and cream, and he is not wrong in thinking that he has become a demon's bonbon.
For in the end, he is indeed consumed as such: the myriad of ethereal flavors savored layer by layer, lapped and licked at like a gourmet lollypop. Slowly… slowly. Ever so slowly, because this succulent spirit is a prize that so many had lusted after, and thus cruelty dictates he should enjoy to the fullest— if only to mock the others. Dutifully, he coils his serpentine tongue about its incorporeal length, massages and molests and rubs his taste buds against even the teensiest of bites; he pulls the stolen meal up from deep within himself just to relish its logos a second time, to make certain he'd digested all that could be sucked from its metaphorical marrow. He licks his lips and suckles and moans with perverse pleasure as the last of it slips down his throat, grateful to have found a way to slake his stomach's rumbling hunger. Simple as burning body fat, really; stores that he hadn't needed before, but for which he is now thankful. Thankful and assuaged, shivering as the cloying essences linger.
And yes, Ciel muses with a satiated smile— lacy lashes lifting to find his starving servant looming sullenly above— his soul is every bit as good as he'd been lead to believe.
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