A/N: … I don't know what happened This started out as the drabble I owe Maru, and then it turned into this twisted, warped … thing. All I know is that while I was writing this, my hand's started trembling, so obviously this hit home somewhere inside of me.

But I did go back and reread it. It's best read fast and out loud. But don't feel inclined.

And, Maru, I'm going to write you something different. This turned into too much of a personal piece for my liking.

MATURE. Blood, violence, sex.

Disclaimer: Squeenixney.

It's dark, and it's cold, and it's distant. He's not sure he can see what's in front of him and he's twice as unsure whether or not he needs to. But everything is touch, taste, breathe, touch, sob, breathe, taste, touch, sob, and he can't remember if that's a good thing or not.

Maybe he should feel panic and adrenaline pumping into the channels beneath his flesh, but all the fright he knows he should feel is naught but a dull throb in the back of his mind telling him to run and scream and bleed.

And he is bleeding, he knows it, because he can feel the inky black on his bare flesh, soaking him from neck to thighs and he's forced to wallow in it because he can't get free. It's just making him sick, the taste of iron and the nauseating smell that hits his senses hard and fast every time he dares to breathe in.

There's terror there now, when he feels the press of digits against his slick chest, and he can see the eerie smolder of yellow, but it's all he can make out and he turns with a shrill cry to run, run, run, run.

And suddenly shame and degradation don't seem as bad as that horrible beast clawing at his throat, at his body. as his entirety and trying to rape him of everything he had built up.

That horror's not in his heart, either; he hasn't got one anymore, and all that's in his chest is dust and ash. He's surprised he's got the blood to be drenched in anymore because, for all he knew, he'd been bleeding into the ocean, or bleeding into his music.

It's a long fight, a long sprint, but he begins to feel the honesty of liberation loosening around his joints, even as his legs hum with pain and his lungs sear with the need for oxygen--or maybe it's just the memory of that need, because he hasn't figured out if their kind needs to breathe or not.

He's not screaming anymore, but he's still caked and if he has a single speck of light on him to see the drying essences, he knows he won't stand a snowball's chance in hell anymore. At least in darkness, he has some hope of respite.

To his dismay, though, the bony and somehow still stout hand is on his wrists, and he feels more than he hears the sickening constriction of blood mashed between skin.

"Stop running. It only makes the pain worse."

He's thrashing and jerking and clawing to get free, all while water saltier than the seas blisters down his cheeks. He begs to be let go, to not be taken back to that place, to be given just a head start before the royalty decides to send out the armies again, but he knows there's no hope and finally his stomach gives in and he looses himself in the thrust of things.

And when he finally snaps out of his disorientation, he's bleeding on his conqueror, that knight who would protect his king with everything and nothing he has left. It makes him sad because he thinks he doesn't have the right to dirty that marvelous piece of artwork, that tapestry sewn by the virgin daughters of Gods, no matter how many effigies ache to burn for him.

He knows there's malicious thought in those yellow eyes but he can't stand to pull himself away from their alluring glow, and he wonders where so many men find the irony to come up with this stuff, because he knows just as well as they all do the one before him his somehow less hollow than he is because he isn't longing anymore.

No, he's given up on longing and has settled to serve; they all think it's lust for power, but he knows better, knows that he's satisfied with being a loser and kicked in the face, because when the lips come to soothe over that footprint, the pain of incompletion just melts away.

Unfortunately for himself, lips and hips only make whatever's missing miss him that much more, and he can reach out for it all he wants but his fingers are daft and dumb and don't know what to do no matter how talented they are with strings.

He wishes he were only as talented with strings as his Superior Officer, because he swears, as much as that man plays with puppets, the tanned deity could be a master of any instrument if he'd just submit himself to it and be lost in the pleasant despondency of ululations. Really, he thought it'd be right up his ally.

But when he finally coughs in his elder's gasp, there's no snide comment like he's expecting. No, instead, there's lips on his own, heady and heavy and not bothering to ask for permission, but stealing all his deepest darkest secrets in the blood he's just realized has drenched more of him than he'd like.

And when he finally submits to the survey, there's a pleasant static arching inside of him and he wants to raise his limbs to wrap around the elder and soak in that glorious blue hair. There's too much pain to do that, though, and he wouldn't want to stain him any further than he already has.

He doesn't realize that he's back in his old room by the time he opens his eyes again, only realizes it after he's pushed into the soft haven of his mattress and covers. That growling mouth is on him instantly, questing and surmounting valleys and mountains for his kingdom, no one else's.

He doesn't object when his legs are parted with a knee and is more than happy to give his pained and somehow still exultant opinion when the demon above him curls a paw around the dull ache between his legs and strokes thoroughly.

There's just a surplus of things happening now, and he's slow haze of a mind can't keep up with everything. He knows it's moving too fast, though, but between dead cries (cries he can't quite vocalize because his voice is harsh from screaming earlier) and chills of pain and pleasure in his spine, he doesn't bother to reprimand.

Not that he could. Or would. Maybe he's enjoying the slowly drying blood between their chests.

And even as he's bleed and bleed, there's still more blood when he's entered, hard and lashing at something evil inside of him. He thinks maybe he can hear the beast in his mind snarl out in recognition, but he quickly realized it's gratitude instead.

Good. He needs that beast quelled for a little while, needs him purring so maybe he won't run away again.

And there's so much pleasure that he feels like his skin is on fire, but that can't be because the tincture on his flesh is so cold, god, it's so cold.

He didn't think it was possible for their type to have that kind of unadulterated bliss, but somehow it's got him writhing and keeping his eyes locked tight, and listening to the slick of movement. He's getting tired of all that, though, the dull whimpers and always being told what to do, and being the tide that follows the bay or--… or worse.

So he uses the leverage between thrusts and shoves back, and rolls until he's got the bulkier form pinned beneath his weight and moves at his pace, that he suddenly realizes is harder, faster, craving, an appetite worse than a king's. And maybe it scares him just a little bit, maybe it'll make him pale later, but right now it doesn't matter.

It's not long until either of him stop caring and just lose themselves, and emancipation comes only when consciousnesses have succumbed to the darkness, the prowling beasts, the vices hidden beneath all the pallor.

And it's only with deep breaths that he can manage his accent. "Stop chasing me already. I'll stay."