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Shivers and Tears

Name: Noe

Disclaimer: I wrote this way to seriously for the simple pr0nfic it actually is. It was also an excuse to cross KH with an original world of my own making.

Category: Tentacle, non-con, dom/sub.

Rating: Oh god. Extreeeeemely explicit. Don't even read the summary if you're under age, and if you can't stand to have .. things .. described in a great deal of detail, AVOID.

Summary: Sometime towards the beginning of the second half of his adventure (read: the second game), Sora finds himself in a new, unusual world, bereft of his usual companions. In a place where the very air seems to carry a scent of death and corruption, his bold overconfidence carries him through a door that should not have been entered. He has survived the Heartless, fought Nobodies, and defeated Ansem--but is he, in his relative innocence, capable of dealing with an incubus whose desire for him has nothing to do with his heart or his keyblade?

Any notes you want to add: This was written as a surprise present for a friend, and thus the original-world setting. You don't have to know anything about the setting to enjoy, or rather be horrified by it. It's not like Sora gets any farther than the bedroom, anyway. :D But for the curious, the partner in question is one of my original characters, a demon named Virote. His ability to form solid shadow as parts of his self, and use that for, er, well, you should have figured that out by now, was inspired by Alucard's transformation on Hellsing. So when you're reading this, picture that .. but with .. uh. Am I allowed to say that in a public note?

The mage mentioned in the story, whose cameo consists of being naked and unconcious, is the property of the rising phoenix in my life, and named Beloved. Virote's comment concerning his heart is due an unfortunate incident where his chest was literally ripped open and a human heart placed within it, in the hopes that this would give him human emotions, and therefore some sense of morality. As this scene shows, that goal is a work in project.

From the beginning this world had been different from the others. He had arrived alone, a state of existence in which he could not remember being for some time now. How often had it been, on this adventure, that he was not accompanied by some sort of companion--or if not they, than with some enemy hot upon his tracks? Undoubtably, Donald and Goofy were somewhere nearby. He knew that this world would have changed them, was aware that in each place they landed all of them were different. It was equally certain that he would recognize them when he found them; having kept a humanoid form himself, he was sure they would have attained similar shapes. Even if they had not, he would know them. It was an impossibility that he would not.

But to be without them from the beginning felt strange and lonesome, such that he repeatedly found himself glancing over his shoulder to see if they had yet caught up. With youthful enthusiasm to power him, he had often run far ahead and waited for them to catch up again, to provide him with necessary back-up in battle. No one. Alone. He missed them, quietly added them to the list of others that he was searching for, silently smothering a growing sense of desperation beneath the confidant optimism that he would, eventually, find all of those friends he had lost. Now and again it seemed that he left behind him a trail of irreplaceable friends; he remained with them just long enough to become attached and left again.

Sora did not like being alone. It left him time to think, when he preferred to grin and smile and tease (or, more likely be teased by) those around him. It was incredibly easy to lose oneself in others, or even in the determined good cheer that seemed at times to be all that was keeping him and those around him afloat. Bereft of the need to be strong for others, he had only himself--and even he could hesitate at times, and falter, and wish that things had not been thus.

Maybe, he thought, it was this world. It seemed the sort of world to encourage such a mood; everything was dark, dreary, and painfully realistic. He had been to worlds full of shadows, he had seen evil in its basest forms, but this place was somehow different from even that. The darkness here was stark and sharp-edged; it was all so real as to be too real, almost painful. He felt instinctively that even devoid of Heartless, this world would have been a dangerous place, far less kind than any of the realms he had visited up to this point. It was a hard thing for him to fathom; so often he was able to think that everything was black and white. There were Heartless, there were people. There was evil, and it was easily recognizeable; then there were his friends, and he knew who they were, too. The bad things he fought, the good things he saved, and there was rarely any trouble determining which was which.

He had not seen any Heartless yet. He had found himself, from the first, inside a turrent room in the very top of a tower. Outside the windows the sky was darkening, promising the fall of night, and a world of trees and old buildings stretched out before him. Somehow it all seemed lifeless; he spotted at once the lack of technology, but that was not it. The fires he saw twinkling as the night began, the plumes of smoke, the stars that appeared in the sky, those should have contained some sort of life. That they did not made his chest ache, until he turned away from the windows and circled down the stairs, keyblade already in hand. There had been no sign of danger, but he felt uneasy here. From these stones, he thought, at any moment Heartless could rise, shadows made into physical form. From these curved walls should appear the familiar shapes he had grown used to battling.

Without interruption, he reached the end of the stairs and found himself at the beginning of a long, empty hallway. The windows here were thin and rectangular, hardly wide enough to slide an arm through. They let in very little light, and rows of torches along the walls made up for the lack. He became aware, though, that as he paced along this lonely way, the torches only increased the amount of shadows. Over and over again he stopped, examining the darkness for some sign of an opponent, never finding what he half-hoped and half-dreaded. With new worlds came new monsters. With new worlds came new challenges. With new worlds came new friends, and new and different ways to lose them.

Ahead of him was a turn in the hall, leading to he didn't know where, but he stopped just before it. It seemed to him that he was not alone; he froze, alert, tense, every sense he possessed attuned to his surroundings. Was it Heartless? Was it someone from Organization XIII? Some new enemy, or some stranger from this world?

A door ahead he had not yet noticed opened and there was a man. Sora almost dismissed him, relieved to find only a man, not a threat, but something checked him. This man was tall, lean, muscular; he had black hair, red eyes, and sharp, exotic features. But these were physical matters; they were mundane. It was something else that gave the keyblade wielder pause, that made him stare, hesitate, and forget his usual genial greeting. He thought perhaps it was some unknown quality that he did not understand; Ansem had had it, Sephiroth had had it, and Auron, in some measure, had possessed it. It was not quite a way of standing, not a look, not a specific behavior. It was the way they felt, the way they looked at you, their supreme and utter confidence, the sense that they had at some point elegantly swept through hell and decided it was unworthy of their presence or their time. This unnamed characteristic was one Sora did not possess, though he felt at once that if he could perhaps figure out what composed it he might be able to combat it.

(One day he would become aware that it was their corruption he felt, the immense power they contained, the way they had been tainted by it and yet emerged even more dangerous than before. In comparison he yet remained unacquianted with pain, viriginal in the truest sense, and could therefore neither understand or sympathize with their lust.)

He wore so little, this man, that it made Sora blush; had he not the decency to remain clothed? Only loose pants, and those undone, slipping already down one hip with the sense that at any moment they could slide completely free and expose his body to the world. He did not seem as if he would mind this, but rather glorify the moment and allow it to excite him, and this embarassed Sora as well. Frozen, he stood and stared; the man in the doorway, having paused, appeared mildly surprised to find the hallway something other than empty. Maybe he had been expecting his own sort of loneliness, and to find a boy there was unexpected. Maybe it was simply that Sora was so far removed from anyone he knew as to be startling, but whatever the cause of his surprise he recovered quickly.

While Sora, nervous, grasped the Keyblade in both hands and lifted it before him, the stranger smiled and bent at the waist, bowing deeply. The smile was unnerving; it spread slow across those attractive features, reminded him briefly of Riku, and then quickly digressed into something that Sora feared without quite understanding. It was evil, he thought at once, without quite being malicious. How he neither understood or cared to examine.

"Why, I do not believe I have ever seen you before. Little human, you are no doubt out of place." Lifting his head slightly, the man smiled again as he spoke, and in his voice Sora found further familiarities. He sounded vaguely like Ansem, that same vibration of power far from the benevolent. But unlike Ansem, this man's voice was something personal; Ansem had shouted from afar to some insignifigant being, but this stranger whispered in his ear from close by. This familiarity in him, paired with the knowledge of repetition (Sora would arrive. He would meet some cruel person who would prove to be an enemy, one he would then defeat.), inspired in Sora a sudden and fierce reaction.

Stepping forward, mouth set in a thin line of anger, he held up the Keyblade in challenge. More importantly, he had just been gravely insulted. He would take "Junior Hero" from Hercules, who was, after all, something like a deity, someone whom he was capable of admiring. But "little" from this man, who was undoubtably Bad? "I'm not little, and I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be! You're in league with the Heartless, aren't you?" The violence would come. He was tensed for it, prepared. The Bad Guy would deny the truth or confirm it, but the Heartless would appear, a battle would be fought, and Sora would win. He always won.

But this time, like this world, was different. The man with black hair looked at him in puzzled confusion, as if he had been called some insult with which he was unfamiliar. He would like to know the definition, as it seemed an intriguing thing to say, but he had no idea what it could mean. Continuing to peer steadily at the boy, unworried, he lifted a hand and raked it through his hair--an utterly nonchalant response that made Sora jump. He was not attacking. He was not shouting. As a matter of fact, after a moment, shrugging, the stranger turned and stepped back into the room. "It just so happens I am no longer heartless, but as you will. I will recommend you take more caution pointing your toy about here, as there are those who would take exception to it." Having disappeared into the shadowed room, the stranger left the door open with this parting shot cast into the air. And why should Sora not follow him? He did not consider the conversation complete, his anger unsated, questions he hadn't yet voiced left unanswered. So he stormed forward, not about to follow that lame advice about not holding onto his Keyblade and keeping it in front of him.

"What do y'mean, exception?! I can take them! And it's not a toy, it's a Keyblade, and you better remember it, 'cause - HURK!"

It had been, Sora reflected a heartbeat later, something of a mistake to run straight through that darkened doorway. In retrospect it had been rash and foolish, but in the recent past he had made a habit of absolute and utter confidence when blundering easily through a door whose exit he could not see. Doors of light, doors of darkness, and now this one, of shadow, somewhere in between. Where, on the other side, something had grabbed his ankle, jerked him off the floor, and was currently holding him upside down. Even before the sensation of dizziness had begun to fade, he lashed out with the Keyblade, furious at himself for his mistake, determined to be free. Only when something similarly unseen took hold of his wrist and, pulling his hand away from his body, left him frozen in midair, did he begin to think he should be afraid.

Twisting and struggling got him nowhere; he remained upside down, suspended, trapped. Eventually his eyes adjusted and he found that he was first capable of noting the sharp glint of scarlet eyes, reflecting the faint light creeping in from the open door behind him. The stranger. That man. Was he a Heartless of some kind himself? Had a Heartless that had taken hold of him just now? "Nngh - oof - .. you let me go! What's the big idea?! My friends are going to come soon and kick your butt! Lemme go! Put me down!"

"No." Sora felt, with rising uncertainty, that the man smiled as he answered. He struggled even more frantically, determined to do something, realizing by inches that his eyes were adjusting to the lack of light. He could make out the shape of the man more clearly; he could make out a desk, a closet, a shuttered window. He could not make out what held him; turning his head up or to either side only left him with a view of deeper shadows, concentrated on his wrists and ankles.

Most of all, he could see the bed. At first it was just a bed; rumpled blankets, unmade, recently slept in. He ignored it until he made out the shape of a person among the tangled sheets, one naked leg stretched out in his direction, leading up to the rest of an equally naked body. Oh man. Very naked. Lots of naked, with legs parted, something wet glistening on the skin between them, on the stomach, on the face. After a second, staring, he realized that it was a man; slender, yes, with soft hands and pale skin, but male. He was sprawled, exhausted, among the blankets; bewildered, Sora could only think that something terrible had been done to him for him to sleep so soundly, entirely unaware of what went on around him. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the rasping breaths of the man on the bed, as Sora stared and stared and stared and seemed, eventually, unable to comprehend.

He felt dizzy; his blood rushed uncomfortably to his head, and he shook his head a little, uneasy with the strange sensation of physical helplessness. When it became clear to him that he had been staring, by the wealth of silence that had stretched across the room, he recaptured his voice and his anger. "What did you do to him? You jerk! I'll get you for this! Even if you aren't a Heartless, I know evil when I see it! Let me down!"

"Evil? Well, I am, I must confess, demonic." The stranger stepped forward again; somehow he had drifted backwards in the shadows, became a part of them. But as Sora looked for him, he distinguished the muscular chest, the shape of the stranger's half-naked body. His eyes remained the most visible part of him, but just looking at him, just being in the same room, made Sora's skin crawl. "However, you have misjudged; this is my lover, my mage, my prince. Having enjoyed his evening more immensely then you can possibly understand, at least yet, he merely sleeps. It is a pity that he does so, for I am sure he would be glad to join me in furthering your .. education."

"Education? What, are you crazy? Leggo! I'll tear you to pieces you, you - .. agh!" Sora twisted and writhed, somewhere between fury and panic; the struggles gained him nothing, but didn't he have to try? It was an unwritten rule that he couldn't give up. Ever. Never. Not even when he noticed that the shadows, which seemed condensed around the ankle and wrist that were bound, seemed to originate from the back of this frightening man--a demon? Definately evil. No way that poor man on the bed was here of his own free will! Desperate now, Sora dropped the keyblade; it fell from his trapped hand and did not hit the floor. Rather, prior to impact it disappeared and shone again in his free hand; he swung it around, felt a burst of triumph when it sliced easily through whatever had been holding him, and he fell.

He hit the ground with easy grace, used to jumping, falling, rolling out of the way of attacks. What he was not particularly used to was being attacked from all sides not by visible enemies but instead more of those shadows--those strange areas of purified darkness, so real and dark they were solid enough to hold him. They snapped out at him, reaching; he thought he saw hands, claws, whipcord tentacles like snakes. He twisted and turned, ready and willing to fight them off, but they did not intend to hurt him. Not in the least! Instead they wrapped around his arms, his legs, his waist; they held him fastened still, destroyed all hopes of mobility. The keyblade was knocked from his hand, and his hands were covered and closed into tight fists, preventing him from summoning his weapon once more. For several moments further he kicked and squirmed, wild; across the room, the red-eyed stranger waited patiently for him to exhaust himself.

And he did; he stopped, he breathed, he tilted his head back and looked as if he would cry, confused that he should be trapped in such a position and not know what to do. He had seen evil. He had known darkness. He had, at one point, become a Heartless. So why was it that, when he looked into those red eyes, he felt that this was different? Why was he so afraid? His voice was hoarse this time, and he knew he sounded young and breathless.

"What. What do you want, anyway? You--you don't even know what Heartless are! What do you care?"

"Why, of course I care. You are young, you are exceedingly handsome, and I am sure you taste delightful. Far be it for a demon to pass up on the chance to corrupt a virgin, no less." His captive subdued, the demon approached; he stood before Sora, waiting for the sense of his words to sink slowly in. Handsome. Taste. Demon. Corrupting a virigin.

Things had happened quickly for Sora on this adventure; it could be said of one examining the journey, in retrospect, that while he had grown in strength and determination, he had lacked the time for certain other lessons which full maturity required. Some effort had, in fact, been made to shelter him; he had seen darkness, he had fought darkness, but, in the main, remained almost untouched by that darkness. What, for instance, did he know of lust? Lust for battle, for blood, for pain, for flesh--of greed, of hatred, of revenge, he has had only glimpses. Could he yet be as strong, were he not so innocent? Now and again he has thought fondly of Kairi, for if he had grown taller, what must she look like? But Kairi is far away, and there is always something to distract him, to exhaust him, until, in the end, it takes him some time to begin to comprehend, with a growing sense of horror, what the demon must mean.

By the demon's expression Sora could see that his own slow progress to awareness must be apparent in his face; the red eyes before him begin to shine, the smile on the cruel mouth curved further upward. And it was the sight of that smile that undid him; the soft, slow curve of the lips, the lines of expression that led up to his bright eyes and suggested he had planned from the first moment to be Sora's undoing.

Anyone else might have screamed, or shouted, or begun to cry; Sora, who insistently prohibited himself the practice of such bad habits, did none of these things. Instead, with all the simplicity of a light being turned off, his sanity briefly fled; he panicked, flailing and fighting the bonds that held him, the pulsing warmth of the darkness which he did not understand and could not fight. He kicked, he twisted, he writhed, he turned; the grip upon him did not loosen, its strength did not slacken, and at no moment did he come any closer to being free then he had been some moments before. He had to get free! He had to escape! He had to fight, it was his duty, oh Kairi, how could she ever understand, how could his friends not be here to save him now--now, when the demon approached with the careful deliberate steps that foretold a fate worse then any Sora had yet been capable of imagining. Step. Step. Step.

And then, when he had thought before that he had been trapped and immobile, he was corrected. His hands and feet were pulled so far from his body that he could not bring them back, and, denied this movement, he could not effectively struggle. He felt a hand at his back, pushing his chest forward; the touch terrified him, so much so that he twisted his head away from the demon to see who had come up behind him. No one stood behind him, the doorway remained empty, and the man on the bed continued to sleep, breathing the labored, shallowed breaths of one who slumbers wearily, exhausted by some frantic action. No: all that pushed at Sora's back was a hand, a hand by itself, attached by tenuous dark strand to the rest of the shadows, to the accompanying darkness that held him mid-air, easy victim to the demon's delight.

This pleasure began with the demon's hands (his own hands, connected to him arm to shoulder to chest, not like the hand at his victim's back, whose fingernails curved and bit through his clothing) being laid on Sora's chest. He just put them there, casually, as if the two of them had been talking to each other and this action afforded a closeness, a sense of intimacy. It might have seemed normal if Sora's feet were on the floor, if this was someone else in front of him. But it wasn't; the demon's hands curled, seeking and finding the edges of his clothing. Buttons were undone, clasps unhitched; the zippers stayed him for long moments, until eventually he laughed and figured them out, while Sora, almost delirious, wondered that it seemed the strange man did not know what a zipper was.

In the darkness, amid the knowledge that promised only despair, those hands began to dominate Sora's existence. There was nothing left: the shadows melded in and among each other, the man on the bed was forgotten, and even his friends became only distant memories, unable to intervene or provide any sort of comfort. What did he know of Heartless? Nobodies? Good, evil, in between? There were the hands that first undressed him, and then caressed him. Hands at his throat and across his chest, hands that ran up and down his arms, touched places normally chaste that became, at the touch, dirty, intimate, personal. It should mean nothing to have someone touch the inner curve of one's elbow, for instance, or just below the knee. But these hands made the action into something blasphemous.

Some time later, he did a mental tally, by this time feeling confused and uncertain of reality itself. Hand at his back. Hand at his hip. Hand caressing the curve of one ear, and reaching into his hair. That was .. three? But then there was the hand that was slipping around the back of his ass, farther down his thighs, stopping at the back of his knee and returning. Four. And another hand, which had, upon revealing his most intimate areas to the open air, immediately gripped him in an impossibly warm hold and begun to do things that hands shouldn't be able to do, things that felt disgustingly good. Five? How in the world could there be five hands upon his person, when there was only one man in front of him? He looked, bent his head downward, could not quite remember how long it'd been since he'd lost his clothing. The darkness had grown greater; he stared into it, stared down at his own body, and could not always see the hands that caressed him. When he could see them he could not always follow them back to their source; he could not tell whether they were formed of darkness or belonged directly to the demon. But all of them felt physically solid. All of them.

Having completed this anaylsis, he became aware that he could no longer see the twin beacons of fear that had marked the position of the demon before him. His memories could not provide the moment when they had disappeared, although it had to be said that he could not currently and coherently examine them. No, there was the hands: there was the fear. He couldn't see the demon's eyes.

And then, unpleasantly, there was the soft wetness of a mouth that began at the base of his spine and travelled downward. Kisses, except that it took him some time to define them as such. Kisses were something you shared with a girl. Kisses were things that made you blush and turn away, sometimes, and they belonged to awkward, romantic moments when you looked at that person and realized how much you'd missed them, how much they meant, how you'd always loved them. It didn't seem like it was right to call these things kisses: a soft, wet mouth suckling at the skin, a tongue that dragged down the lumps of his spine and then proceeded to press between the cheeks of his ass. The worst of it was the heat; not just the wet but the heat, the warmth of another's body, another's mouth, the hands that pulled on the tight, taunt muscles and exposed something he'd never thought of as being a sexual location. But like his knees, his elbows, his feet, this innocuous location on his body was not so much transformed as tainted by the attention that it was recieving.

The mouth closed around that tiny circle; it was covered in wetness, caressed by the odd, silken roughness of the demon's tongue. It occurred to him to sob, and by the time he had thought of it, it was too late and he could not prevent this reaction from taking place. The sound tore through his chest, rasped at the back of his throat, and escaped full into the open air, unmuffled and unsupressed. The tongue, meanwhile, was working laborously to press inside of him, forcing its way past the tight ring of muscle that strained helplessly against the intrusion. Wet with saliva, it moved within him, and even that slight inch was too much, too soon, too horrible. He sobbed again as the tongue retreated; once more as it pressed back within, and this time seemed to extend past what should have been anatomically possible for any sort of human with which Sora was familiar. Some part of him, confused, admitted that he was not certain that such a thing was, in fact, actually possible--but no, no, he didn't think so. It was just this demon, another nasty trick like the hands that didn't belong to anybody but the shadows themselves.

A groan ripped past his lips; unimaginably, the extended tongue curved and curled inside of him, as if exploring him from the inside out. Examining his worthiness for this torture, or maybe testing his limits. How much could be put inside of him? How much of this torture could he take? No matter how he strained, he could not keep out the intruder, and so it was with whimpered relief that he was able to relax his muscles when mouth was removed, his body left briefly alone. Oh, it couldn't get worse then this. He didn't have the capacity to imagine it but some instinct whispered that it would get worse, a slowly descending spiral of madness that would last an eternity before it broke. And this silent, pulsing thought was correct; it knew the truth of the matter, as it had known at other moments that he should duck, or dodge, or fight, or run. Like it had known that something was wrong with Riku. Like it had known, and whispered, that Kairi was out there somewhere, still waiting for him.

He was given time enough to catch his breath, during which he began to wonder what was coming next. The suspense quite nearly prevented him from taking advantage of the respite, and he was fortunate that his body knew better then he did, and forced him to drag in deep, heady gulps of air.

"I could take my time," came the voice from behind him, the demon's, each word a touch that slid snake-like up his spine. "But do you know, I have become impatient. I would like to break you rather then train you, because I doubt I will be allowed to keep you about. They do not like me to have pets anymore; even my prince has grown some sort of ridiculous tenderness, like a wretched, contagious fungus of the soul." The small speech meant nothing to Sora, save that it left him, drunken with fear, trying to discern the difference it mentioned. Breaking, training? They both sounded awful. He did not like either one, could hope for neither one, could hardly understand why one would be worse then another. His mind finally came to the conclusion that perhaps the demon meant to torture him and then kill him, and in his current state he was not sure what he thought about that. No, he did not want to be this demon's "pet." He knew enough to reject that fate with terrified revulsion. But neither could he, like others, accept at once that death could be a better fate; to die was to give up.

And heroes didn't give up.

But what was it to be a hero? If asked, he would have said, to be brave. To be courageous. To save the day--or, in other words, to succeed. To die would be to fail, and thus he would not be a hero, although some who have fallen are heroes yet. What, then, is heroic? Is it selflessness, or the bravery itself? Boldness in the face of opposition? Is there some written set of laws that say what things are heroic and what are not?

Sora was certain that these laws existed. No one had ever needed to spell them out for him, or say, "This is so." His own heart had guided him, as had the occasional gentle advice of his friends. Somewhere within these unwritten laws, although maybe not at the absolute top, it must be said that Heroes Do Not Cry. Heroes Do Not Scream.

He breaks both of these cardinal rules when, unexpectedly, something presses up against his already tortured entrance and brings to the experience the extra dimension of pain. The tongue, that first intruder, had been nothing; this hardness felt like it was a double-edged blade, or a baseball bat, or a thousand things that Sora knew for a fact it could not be. It was painful, too large, and in light of the pain and the shock it took Sora several seconds to identify the object that had just begun to sodomize him as the other man's ... his ...

In retrospect, it was probably of a comparably normal size for an adult male, but to an unprepared, untried virgin it was a dangerous instrument of torture. It forced its way inside his body, slowly at first, slick with the slight dampness left behind by the demon's questing mouth. It pushed its way forward, straining tender muscles, and beneath his own cries Sora could just barely hear the demon making small, pleased sounds. There was too much of it, but somehow it fit; although an impossibility to Sora, every inch was pressed inside of him, until the demon's chest was flat against his back, his own skin sticky and damp with sweat. And here the demon stopped, perhaps to listen to his victim gasp and cry, remaining until once more Sora began to catch his breath despite himself. Hooking his chin over the smaller boy's shoulder, the demon spoke in a normal tone, tormenting his captive further at the thought that such behavior could be and in fact was mundane for him or anyone.

"Ah, you aren't so tough now, are you? All that talk, and in mere minutes I have reduced you to shivers, tears, and the greatest erection of your life."

Heroes, Sora reminded himself, did not give up. They did not weep, or moan, or cry, and yet he had already broken these solemn and serious rules. He was not yet sure if he had given up or not, and decided that he hadn't; as soon as the opportunity presented itself, he still possessed the intention to escape, or fight, or even strike back at the one who had so far caused him such pain. The question he could not answer is what it meant not to simply give up, to fail, but to enjoy one's torture and captivity. Was that antiheroic? It should be, if it wasn't, because it made him feel wretchedly, astonishingly guilty. He couldn't understand why, though, or when it began, or how it could happen. How it could be that, although he strained his mind desperately, he couldn't remember anything else that had felt so very, very good.

There were hands at his shoulders. Hands at his hips. A hand on the right of his chest, and a disconnected mouth to the left, determined to lick, lick, lick, at the tiny bud of a nipple, one of two dots of discolored flesh he'd ignored as meaningless for the complete span of his life. He thought more seriously about them now, as each stroke of the tongue made him gasp, or choke, or start to cry again. Something curled around his length, that all-important organ, and he knew it was not a hand; there were no fingers, only a thick tendril of inhuman warmth and softness encircling his painfully hard erection. Whatever it was that held him pulsed, throbbed, and squeezed him at alternate intervals, and each of these sensations felt so wonderfully, amazingly good that the mere awareness of them threatened to overwhelm his conciousness. The arrival of such--the black depth of nothingness--would have been welcomed as pure relief.

So good. So good. What he'd been waiting for. What his frustration, so indescribable, which had attempted to release itself in the eagerness with which he battled, had been building up to. His body had become the vessel of an enormous upwelling of energy, energy he only now realized had been building for quite some time. Having become aware of it, he was required to expend it merely by existing: by remaining within this monster's grasp, feeling what was done to him, and expressing himself through incoherent vocalizations of all tones and volumes. Even the length that had pierced him from behind, which he had first compared to a length of honed steel, his body had become accustomed to and begun to welcome. The pain was yet there; it had not fled, it was not absent. Somehow, however, it had been transformed. Each little shock of pain, brought on by the movement of either another entry or a retreat, was joined with an equal amount of pleasure so intense that he had begun to doubt one could be without the other.

For some time all of these sensations continued; later he would be astonished that even his well-trained body was capable of supporting such an immensity of feeling for so long. Then again, it could simply have been that the amount of feeling made time extend itself unreasonably; what he estimated as an hour could have been half that, or a third, or a fifth. Regardless, at some point the thrusts increased; the demon, with all the natural ease of someone biting delicately into a strawberry, leaned forward and bit him upon the ear. Then, his breath hot and full of moisture, he whispered something, voice hoarse for the first time that Sora had heard it. It no longer needed the sensuality, had cast that aside, replaced the previous tone with a raspiness brought on by an excess of passion.

"I thus claim you."

The words echoed, because at first Sora neither heard or understood them; his mind was taken by the stinging pain of the bite upon his ear and the further pain that represented the intruding length being pressed solidly and completely into his person. He felt something exit from this intruding organ, released into his body, an unfamiliar liquid that he learned of his own, moments later, came as the representation of a quenched thirst. As if in echo, as if forced, somehow, by the demon's own release, his body spasmed and seemed to explode. Wild, he thrashed in the grasp of those strange hands which held him, moved and flailed as he had not even when trying in earnest to escape.

When he became aware of himself again, actually concious once more instead of existing as an entity which did nothing but feel, trying and failing to breathe properly, he went back and examined the memory of the words that had recently been uttered. Claimed? By what? The idea of belonging to someone--anyone--seemed foreign and unacceptable. He thought at once of pao-pu fruits, of Riku, of Kairi, of a world that seemed to have existed perhaps a century ago, if not longer. Then, more recently and with less of a sense of surreal absurdity, he thought of something the demon had said earlier about keeping pets. The recollection made him feel cold, chilled to the bone; the sensation made him at once aware of his actual physical discomfort.

His position had changed since he had last been aware of such things. He had been placed upon the bed, the cruel invader removed from his abused body. It was a measure of the quantity and quality of the delicious torture he had undergone that he had not immediately been aware of this fact. Instead he knew only he had been left here, to rest upon his hands and knees, his head pressed down against the crumpled blankets of the bed. Unheld by hand, shapeless shadow, or any other bindings, he nonetheless could not bring himself to move. Exhausted, he could only remain where he had been left, covered in sweat and a stickiness that ran up the length of his belly and onto his chest. The expulsion of this liquid he rememered vividly, and would for some time afterwards. Now and again, he had to admit with no little shame, he had explored his own body. Had examined certain actions and behaviors that made him twitch, or shiver to himself, things he enjoyed as guilty, secret pleasures. Those moments had not been like this one, when his body shuddered, his mind was consumed by brilliant light, and what seemed like a great quantity of the stuff (for which he knew no specific name) was expelled out and onto his person.

Then there was an equal quantity of it from the demon, which he winced to realize was escaping and sliding with an unpleasant sense of thickness down the back of his thighs. The chill of the air upon his dampened skin, coupled with this movement of that unholy liquid, combined to make him horrified by the thought of what he must look like right now. Covered in sweat and evidence of his own unheroic behavior, his hair tousled, his muscles having been so strained, so pressed, that they were to this moment nearly limp with exhaustion. And the view from behind--he could not even imagine--if anyone were to see him this way it would sorely try his beliefs about suicide!

Even this thought could not provide him with the energy required to move, and, in the end, only contributed to the sense of discomfort. His cheeks turned red; his ears followed, and the warmth spread across his face and some inches down his throat. In contrast with the rest of his body, which suffered from the unpleasant cold of wet skin in cool air, the heat of his face was too strong and yet possessed the uncomfortable attribute of not radiating to the rest of him. But he could not move; he could only breathe, his throat scraped raw, his body battered and weary, his mind numb with the horror of what had been done to him and how much he had enjoyed it. His mouth was so dry that his tongue, thick and swollen, seemed a foreign entity inside of it. He licked his lips and finally mustered the great amount of energy required to turn his head and look behind him at his tormentor. Surely it was over now. He would be left alone, or released, or even killed, which, while an unpleasant fate, would yet be an end to these horrific proceedings.

But the demon, unpeturbed, untired, and in fact energized by the entire experience, was standing naked and satisfied at the end of the bed. The darkness gathered closer around him, with a sense of readiness; by the second it grew greater and darker, until Sora knew that at some point in the near future he would no longer be able to make out anything but the glow of the demon's bright eyes.

"Tired already? Why, we have only begun! Take a breath, little hero; I'm not ready to close the door on our festivities just yet ..."