Disclaimer: I wish I owned the characters. But, I don't see any shooting stars right now. So, they're not mine.
His eyes capture images, but he can no longer see. His ears process noise, but his brain refuses to register them.
He speaks, but no one hears him. He runs, but no one can see him. He sobs, and everyone sees and hears him, but no one pays attention. He's broken. Broken and blank and burdened.
But no one seems to care. He looks up and—
The sun shines bright, but all he can see is blackblackblack. His room is void of light, but all he can feel is whitewhitewhite.
He's going away now, far away, to a place where the hands can't reach out and claw at him. Where his own can't rip at his chest, neck, wrists, thighs.
He's drifting now, floating or flying – he can't tell which, but he's weightless and that's all that matters. He's cruising amongst the stars, tasting the clouds, bouncing on rainbows. But he misses a beat and he goes
Downdowndowntoofardown. Down below the clouds. Below the planes. Below the ground. Below the demons. Below the fire. Just downdowndown, spiraling all the while, until all he can see is red. That deep incarnadine red bled and bred and tattooed into his skin, nerves, bones, heart, soul.
Red flashes first but then changes to brown to silver to red to yellow then to black, and he thinks for a moment that maybe, just maybe, he's satisfied. But not really. But he's rising again, and oh, it feels so good! Red and green and yellow and blue and brown and blue and silver and aqua and red and violet and yellow and blue dance here, intermingling, meshing into one, grinding, rubbing, thrusting, panting, moaning, melting. Fingers tangle, legs scissor, nails scrape, and he only pumps harder, deeper, faster. Oh, the feeling, passion, pure desire is taking over him.
But time isn't on his side, and he's ripped away, thrown into the dark again, falling, falling, falling… He's not sure if he'll rise again, not this time. Because, this time, those hands, claws have wrapped themselves around his arms, neck, heart. And again, all he can see is black, but all he can feel is shooting, stabbing, red.
He fights, he always does. But the hands only constrict, hold harder, drag him down.
"We'll make this last forever," the voices whisper, breath ice cold in his ear, sensations zipping through is nerves, veins, bursting at the ends of his capillaries. It's all he can do to hold in his screams. Whether they're borne of fear or pleasure as the ghosts push him down further, latching onto him, slithering across his hips, biting, sucking his neck, ear, he can't tell. But a strangled moan slips past his lips when a hand grabs him and squeezes, pumping, and that's all the phantoms need before they enter him.
Pain rips through his body, rushing along his spine, as they pound deep inside him. He's screaming now, face contorted in agony, tears flowing freely. His prostate is hit repeatedly, and pleasure automatically overtakes the spikes stabbing his body.
The ghosts are relentless, continuing even after he'd come, voice breaking, cracking, splintering hoarsely as he emptied himself. Not even allowing him time to bask in his afterglow, they only thrust harder, energy still abundant, as he lay there, limp. He feels tired – dead tired. He can't even feel the pain anymore, but they still pound and move in him, intent on tearing him apart.
And it's all he can do – to not cry, to wish and hope that maybe, one day, he could escape this.
A/N: So. Did I freak you out? Confuse you? Something? Uh, in case you didn't really understand it, Roxas and the rest are on drugs and stuff. The colors are their hair and eye colors. But Roxas died of an overdose, and has to spend eternity... raped by Heartless? O.o I dunno how I came up with this. I just... did. And I sort of like it.
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