Author note: Each chapter will have an individual rating; however, the story as a whole shall be rated according to the most mature of the chapters.

Chapter 1 Rated M for adult situations, sexual situations, and adult language.

"Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;

And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep

Still threatening to devour me opens wide

To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven."

- Satan, Paradise Lost, Book IV:75-78

"Evil, Be Thou My Good"

By Memory in Crimson

"Where are you going?"

The tone didn't sound sad to me. But the phrase by itself seemed sad, strange as that sounds; that anyone should ever feel the need to ask it. What does it matter, I wondered, I might not even arrive at my destination. Even a simple trip out of the house can end in a fatal incident, all because the little things culminated or changed so rapidly.

"Tarzan?" She sounded concerned, not thoroughly but just enough. I kept wrapping my tie, thinking that the better questions were: Where had I been, and Where was I returning? Because you never truly know where you will go, but you know with greater certainty where you have been. Where I was returning—well, that was still going somewhere, but the word 'going' seems weak. 'To return' implies almost haunting, and my knowledge of where I had been and where I intended to return left me feeling dead, a bodiless and corrupt spirit.

"Just out," I eventually replied with a weak smile. "Just out."

A frail hand touched my left shoulder. I glanced at that white extremity, held it with my right hand, and rounded. The animal in me looked her in the eyes with indifference, but the human in me demanded that I avert my gaze in shame. I saw pain on that pale, English face, pain elicited by the unknown, by fear. I knew that that thought must have crossed her mind at night, robbing her of sleep.

"They're just friends," I said, "new friends. We actually get along quite nicely—"

"You're seeing Clayton, aren't you?"

I could have sworn my heart had stopped. I cocked my head and feigned ignorance.

"You're fraternizing with the Villains."

Ah yes, that rule, one of many Disney rules. You see, once you learn who your enemies are, amity vanishes. Relationships range from indifference at the least to full-blown war at the worst. Heroes and Villains may not mingle, whether within or without their designated universe. Heroes must fear that they may be back-stabbed, quite literally in some instances, by a Villain. As for the Villain who, unless extraordinary circumstances permit, gives the slightest assistance to a Hero, he or she risks death without the possibility of resurrection.

I wasn't so concerned about who told Jane. The extent of her knowledge worried me. As far as I know now, she doesn't know everything—at least, she hasn't displayed any sign of it. So at the time, I tried to assure her of the congenial nature of my meetings with Clayton. He had tried to kill me in our universe, but he and I have more than put that behind us. For the time being, of course.

"He's lying again, Tarzan. I'm certain of it. I just… I just don't want to lose you. I mean, if he kills you, you'll end up in… that place."

All this time, I've tried to push back the thought of it, but that night, she gave me the poignant reminder. If I or any other Disney characters are killed outside of the universe we call home, we risk being sent to the Void, a realm from which resurrection could take months. Madness sets in very quickly in the Void. Several characters have already ended up there by complete accident. King Mickey managed to rescue them all within weeks of each one's passing, but they are no longer quite the characters most fans recognise and love.

Because I meet Clayton outside of my home, I risk death and the Void. Despite this, I still feel bewitched by him—actually, ever since I first laid eyes on him. For though he is still more refined than I am, his animal nature—when he shows it—seems so much rawer than mine. His carnal excitement far surpasses Jane's, with all her Edwardian prudishness, and he satisfies a craving that she can't fulfill for me.

In no-time, I managed to sweep her words out of my head. I frowned and replied, "I'm going to be late. I'm sorry, Jane." Then I kissed her forehead and exchanged no fond farewell.

Descending from our house to the gravel road below, I met my ride: a sleek, black Lincoln MKZ, the most up-to-date and luxurious model, Bill Sykes' new toy. As I opened one of the rear doors, his trademark cigar smoke poured from the vehicle, and I slipped between his hellish canine bodyguards, shutting the door firmly.

"Well, John," he began as we rolled down the gravel road, "Cecil says he's got something real special planned out for you."

"Yes," I replied softly, "he does."

"Any idea what it is?"

One of the brothers growled. Once wary of me for being a Hero, the brothers have become accustomed to my presence. Desoto in particular enjoys how I caress his often aching head and back, and so, I worked a hand behind his ears.

"It's anyone's guess," I replied, to which Sykes chuckled.

Actually, I did know what Clayton had planned for me that night. We had never engaged in that kind of intercourse before. We'd fondled, caressed, and kissed. After three months of this teasing trysting, Clayton had finally decided to truly claim me as his own.

An hour elapsed, each brother resting peacefully on either side of me. We crossed the boundary between my world and what once was a no man's land. Villains who enjoy each others' company often settle in these lands between worlds, able to revel in leaping between what they regard as different and exciting 'playgrounds.'

Sykes pulled alongside the extravagant Edwardian mansion. Clayton shares it with men who share similar tastes, which included only Sykes, McLeach, and Rourke. If you're wondering, Clayton had never even considered inviting Gaston to live with him.

"He's a Frank, for God's sake!" he had rumbled one evening, while we had shared some ginseng tea. "And I could overlook even that if he were not so damned obnoxious. 'Nobody does such-and-such like Gaston!' God! The man is a terminal wanker…"

As for those who boarded with him, Sykes' parents had been English transplants to New York, and so he has an appreciation for English culture. His cooler temperament also balances out Clayton's passionate personality. Percival C. McLeach shares a love for the Hunt, and he has the uncanny ability to successfully track down the most elusive animals, including cryptids. As for Rourke—well, one wouldn't expect it from a macho American soldier with an hench-woman, but Rourke shares Clayton's love of men. Like the Emperor whose name he bears, Lyle Tiberius Rourke enjoys a young buck or two.

Unfortunately for me, the Commander always casts the lewdest glances at me, constantly begging to give me 'special military training.'

"No," says Clayton. "Not yet."

'Not yet,' to my utter chagrin. 'Not yet.' Luckily for me that night, Rourke had departed for his own escapade, as had McLeach. Sykes escorted me to the door, staying long enough to greet Clayton—well, goad him for clarity.

We walked to the library where he awaited me, a copy of John Henry Patterson in his hands. He glanced up from the book and smiled, setting it aside and removing the pipe from his mouth.

"Good evening!" he remarked, my chest trembling at the sound of his grand, bass voice.

"Hello, Cecil," I replied. "You look very comfortable."

He bowed his head and rose. He had just arrived home from official business, decked in black slacks and suspenders, his undershirt unbuttoned below the collar bone, and his tie slung over his dark red chaise lounge.

Clayton strode to us and fingered a lock that had fallen from my bound-up hair. I've taken better care of my general appearance since our relationship began, especially my hair, which, with all my studious combing, cascades and shines just like my mother's.

"Your curls look particularly splendid tonight," he commented.

"Thank you. I used a special oil for the first time. It makes things more manageable."

Clayton smirked and replied, "Indeed," casting a suggestive glance at Sykes. The Anglo-American mobster smiled and bid his companion 'Good night' before turning and strolling back to his waiting vehicle.

It was then that with a steadily quickening pulse, I wondered, Should I go back?

A large hand touched my back. "Shall we then?"

I glanced at that predatory face, his teeth gleaming. As he ushered me out of the library, I asked, "May I have a drink first?" which came to him as quite the surprise.

"Why, whatever for, John?"

"To relax me. I'm still incredibly nervous about tonight."

Clayton smiled warmly. "Of course, my lad! What would you have?"

"White wine, preferably. Something sweet, Italian, if you have it."

"My, are we not the little connoisseur!" he chuckled, and he re-directed me to the kitchen. "We've finally managed to put you on path toward civilisation, eh John?"

I almost forgot. Clayton no longer refers to me as 'Tarzan.' He began to refer to me by my human name: John Clayton III, heir to the Greystoke line. And yes, we are cousins (William Cecil Clayton's father had become a father at a young age). Tempting as it is to make cheap jokes, it's better to refrain. McLeach had earned himself a black eye and broken nose, courtesy of Clayton, when he learned about the relationship.

I watched carefully as Clayton poured my wine from a newly opened bottle. He knew that I was mostly willing, but I wasn't stupid enough to let him drug me. He handed me the stem-less glass and asked if I were hungry.

"No," I replied, "but thank you," and I savoured the first sip. I remained quiet, avoiding his always intense eyes, when suddenly he severed the silence:

"You're more quiet than usual." Then he sighed. "If only women were more like that. I'd be more inclined to bed them instead—ha! Not that I haven't enjoyed the nights with you," he added, sauntering beside me and wrapping an arm round me.

I traced circles round the rim of my glass, losing myself in my anxiety. "Yes… of course…"

A strong set of fingers wrapped round my chin and turned my head. Clayton angers quickly, but lately, he's become a bit unpredictable. Like any successful animal, he's a quick learner, and he's learned that the key to moulding me is subtlety. Nevertheless, though his face did not betray it, I could sense his frustration peeking out.

"You're not experiencing second thoughts, are you?" he asked. "For if you are, why! I'd understand! It's just—"

"No!" I replied quickly. "No. I'm not. Only…"

"Good lad!" he exclaimed with a hard pat on my back, and I nearly dropped my glass. "Because you know what would happen if you suddenly terminated our relationship without good cause. Because, really now, John, I have nothing to lose."

I sighed. He didn't need to know the extent of her knowledge. But I wanted him to know at least:

"She already knows."

Immediately, Clayton's eyes shot wide. "Not everything. But just enough. I imagine it's only a matter of time—hell, Jane may already know it all! Not that I care. Not tonight."

Silence pervaded. I didn't dare look him in the face, but I could feel his eyes, still wide and on me. Clayton isn't an easy man to impress, let alone stun. It's even rarer to hear such words out of his mouth as—

"I'm… I'm so… sorry, John." I glanced up at him, my mouth cracked with surprise. Clayton cleared his throat and set aside his wine, walking through the kitchen door, heading for the stairs to his bedroom. I set aside my glass and followed him up the stairs, through the dimly lit halls, lined with the heads and hides of trophies, whom million of years of evolution could not save from the brutal bullet of Man.

There is little difference between them and me, I realised. We are his inferiors, except I'm not so lesser that he'd kill me. Not yet.

Clayton chuckled softly as he drew his keys from his trouser pocket. "You know, perhaps tonight is not the night for you."

"Thank you, Cecil, but I'm rather… curious. I mean, my heart is beating so badly, I feel as if Hades Himself might suddenly appear to whisk me away."

"You're absolutely certain? Because there's no going back once you've said, 'Yes.'"

I smiled weakly and pressed him against the door. I kissed him as a small assurance that I was ready.

Clayton smirked and unlocked the door. "After you, John," he said softly, and I slipped inside the room

For a man as boisterous as my cousin, Clayton's tastes tend to be less than ornate. His walls are painted one shade of African bush green, his ceiling dark violet. The lamps on his walls and by his bed are bronze, shaped as curvaceous leopards. His bed sits low to the ground with a simple canopy bed frame, and the bit of furniture he does have in the room is made of bamboo and wicker.

The only trophies he has allowed in this room are a lion skin on the floor at the end his bed, seven pairs of water buffalo horns, and of course me. As I glanced about, Clayton's strong arms wrapped round me. I groaned and leaned against him, letting those hands roam beneath my clothes.

"My naughty, little ape-man," he groaned, "still have a problem wearing trunks, eh?"

I smirked. "Not that you mind."

"Not at all," he said, kissing an ear as he began to unbutton my shirt.

"That wasn't so terrible," he panted, sitting on the edge, "was it, John?"

My head rolled over until our eyes met. He grinned tiredly at me as I eked a barely visible smirk, my head rolling to the other side.

"Time to clean up, then," he said, patting me on the shoulder, but I lay lazily lost in my lust.

"You're fraternizing with the Villains."

Not all of them, but yes. And more.

"You're seeing Clayton, aren't you?"

Yes, I am, I thought, and I haven't a care.

"You're seeing Clayton, aren't you?"

"You're seeing Clayton…"

She probably knows. She has an inkling, at least, I realised. Yet I was not swept up by alarm. I would have been a fool to rush out of there, anyway, if I allowed pure animal fear to consume me. Would she forgive me if I begged after a full confession? And what of Clayton, his reaction if I suddenly departed and broke my silence to my wife? His retaliation would be swift but subtle and as agonising as he could devise, especially in a house with a mobster and former soldier to give him tips.

"Anything wrong, John?"

I lifted myself up and turned round. A still-nude Clayton sat beside me, cleaning me with a warm, wet washcloth. I knew I couldn't discuss my guilt with him and receive any meaningful, sensitive answer. I could only dwell on a line of poetry Professor Porter had once read to me:

"But where did it come from?" I wondered aloud.

"Ay?"

" 'Of us, outcast, exiled,' " I recited, remembering the sliver. " 'Farewell remorse! All good to me is lost;/Evil, be thou my Good…"

"Milton?" he remarked while he finished cleaning my neck and chin. "That is quite advanced for you. But wherever did this arise?"

I laid my head against his chest and caressed his brawny arms and shoulders. "Hell is such a hopeless place," I noted. "Separated from Paradise? From people and love?"

"I… love you, John," he said with all too obvious hesitation, and I could only laugh.

"You don't! You don't, and that's because you're your own man. You might dote on others, but you don't oblige yourself to them. To me, that's Hell, but it's freedom, isn't it?"

Clayton cocked his head. Once again, I had surprised him, not in a way that angered him, but I had definitely provoked his thinking. "I suppose so. Yes, that's what being a Disney Villain is all about—well, mostly about. Why? Are you thinking about switching sides?" he asked with a grin.

I smirked and wrapped my arms round his neck, leaning until he flopped on his back. "I've already done that." He chuckled. "But seriously. I can't go back to her. I... I don't want to, but I will."

"You never will. Not as Tarzan, at least. I think we've firmly established that," he growled, squeezing my buttocks.

No. Not as Tarzan. I'm no longer that kind of animal. I am a baser creature, for I seek to feed my selfish, wanton desire. I'm no longer the Hero that I ought to be, no longer what Disney intended me to be. Darkness and Light have begun to blur in my eyes, and once again, I can no longer say who am I for good or for evil.

Disclaimer: I do not own Disney's Tarzan; Oliver & Company; Atlantis: The Last Empire; or The Rescuers Down Under, and I do not profit from this piece of fanfiction. This fanfiction was partly inspired by the comic "Pure Epic" by SilasYnYTanc, whose vision of the Disney multiverse is less than kid-friendly and does not include happy endings.