Chapter Text
William Afton is in Hell, and it smells like bacon grits.
It also smells like chocolate, but he's gone numb to that by now.
All that can be seen of the outside was in the sizable gap between the drawers. The bar of light across the top of one of his prison walls.
William is not a short man— well, ah, hm, at least proportionally speaking— yet the gap was too high up to see through.
Well. Technically he could, by using the objects around him as makeshift stairs. But the method required precariously stacking candy bags. Last attempt had ended with him falling flat on his face and smashing his jaw something fucking awful.
The following nosebleed had also, due to the smell of blood, attracted the attention of the…
A—anyway.
Even if the gap only showed light, it was still of use. The outside followed some sort of day and night cycle, which allowed him to predict when his captor would be… active. You could also somewhat tell where the being was, by the looming shadow that accompanied those thundering steps.
… Every time the being passed, he would tremble, not just because of the rumble of the giant's weight, and hide somewhere. It would always find him immediately, of course, from its bird’s eye view, but it was his one method of managing the all-consuming dread.
It could always find him.
He pondered, often, if they were Satan themselves, or simply a demon. Their size suggested the former, he supposed. He called them both things interchangeably. Was there any difference meaningful to him anyway?
When he was not trembling, hiding, or pondering, William spent his days in Hell pacing. When he was not pacing, he was reorganising the layout of objects in his room— box— in some sort of mimicry of interior decorating. Or perhaps in some sort of slow descent into insanity. When he was not reorganising, he is nursing wounds or torture-tremors. When he was not doing… that, he was sitting on a stress ball like a beanbag, staring at the gap. When he was not doing that, he was lying face down on the plastic floor.
What else was he supposed to do? Cry? Take a nap, have a nightmare like always? Force down cold food chunks? Eat some candy and make himself throw up again?
(It had taken him a while to figure out he didn't need to eat anymore. Before that, he had only eaten candy for weeks straight. During the period he had vomited thrice.)
What else is there? Toss around beads? Sit and stew about the fact he is being forced to wear daisy dukes? His legs are bony! They do not even look good on him!
Pretend he was somewhere else? Close his eyes, drag his fingers across his arms, pretend it was the sheets of his bed, those damn slippy blue sheets his wife insisted on? Lie down and warm his face in the bar of light, pretend it was his sunlit kitchen, pop some caramel coffee candy in his mouth and pretend it was his daily cuppa’? William wasn’t good enough at daydreaming to make it last, not for longer than a single heart-clenching second, followed by an hour of frustration.
His wife.
No, he can't think about her right now.
What else? Wait for his next torture session? Scream? Draw with a crayon?
… He could try another escape plan. But all so far had ended in humiliation.
Take his last plan as an example. It had been simple. Step one, stack objects and try to reach the gap. Two, wriggle through the gap. And, okay, steps three and onward were unclear, but he'd figure it out once he got there.
He had been less agile than he had hoped for. He’d managed the first step, but failed the second, due to the unforeseen fact the gap had two layers; one plastic box layer, and one actual wood drawer layer, with a few centimeters between them. To William, of course, “a few centimeters” meant “a half-meter wide chasm”.
He’d fallen and gotten stuck. Fucking wedged between the two. It had taken at least two hours for the giant to find him and pluck him out. It had probably been the third most humiliating experience of his life.
All other escape plans had roughly ended up the same way.
… William was rambling introspective again. Not that anyone could blame him. Firstly, there isn’t anyone here to do so. Second, as said… there isn't much else to do.
Except sit, spiral, and wait for punishment.
It came sooner than he had hoped.
“Hi, little guy,” murmurs the peeking beast, through a happy, condescending pout. The kind of voice that wants to slit your throat open and laugh about it.
A giant hand reaches down. Perspective makes it grow larger, larger, and its claws lengthen, and lengthen, the closer it gets.
He hadn’t even hidden this time. He’s getting less and less sharp.
Even though there is nowhere to go, his body aches to bolt. The plastic of the wall digs into his spine, he’s pressing backwards so hard.
He closes his unwilling eyes and pretends that nothing is happening. He pretends he is dead, and that demons aren't real, and that you just die when you die.
He isn't very good at pretending, and it gets incredibly hard to keep up the fantasy when giant claws shut around his body, and his feet leave the ground.
They are wider than his thighs, each, the fingers. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know this, their image has burned into his mind.
Wholly instinctually, his hands grab onto the sides of the massive digits for support, and he keeps his eyes shut for the modicum of ease it allows him. At least like this, he wasn't staring down the full, dizzying height of the Demon's desk.
Darkness was better than this place.
Before he knows it, his feet are set down on a surface. The fact his legs are rigid with fear is the only reason he manages to stay upright.
A huge thumb rubs his chest, the cheap material of his allotted shirt odd and woolly against his skin, before he is let go.
Somehow, he gathers composure enough to open his eyes.
Above, far, far above, the skyscraper-sized demon looks down at him. Taller than tall. A building-crushing, staggering, physics-warping kind of tall. Their appearance is distorted by perspective, their head small and distant, atop the sloping, vast bulk of their body.
A shudder passes through his spine. His stomach and head feel light. Somehow, they were always bigger than he remembered. Oh, God. Why couldn't he just be left alone in his box and go slowly insane instead?
That awful, light yet inscrutable voice once more speaks, intones. “So! I have an activity planned for today!”
It blinks down at him, with too many eyes, all out of sync. As if waiting for a response.
Once more, he somehow manages enough bravery to open his mouth. “You…” He hears his voice hitch embarrassingly, coughs, tries again. “Ah, are not going to make me model again, are you?”
Humiliation tightens and warms his belly as he recalls that day. The coos, the comments. Being made to dress, undress, in front of the being’s monumental, nonchalant, watching eyes. Who needed an audience when you had that many eyes?
He still hadn’t gotten all the cheap glitter out of his hair. Nor had he regained his masculinity.
He'd been made to wear a skirt and heels. A skirt! Heels! Like anyone wanted to see him in all his marred, scarred, pale lankiness!
His Demon hums as it thinks, and the noise is the rumble of an avalanche. It judges him from far above with dark eyes, like… well, like a… Chrysler-building-dwarfing, horse-eating beast of torment. No analogy can top the truth there, really.
“Not today,” it says after a pause. It gives a small smile. Well, not small, actually. The grin could easily bite a car in two with its teeth. But small for the Demon. “I think your current outfit flatters you very well.”
William's bare legs unwillingly press together. He feels a sudden acute awareness of the expanses of collarbone and leg exposed for the world (the being) to see. Even with this, he does feel a hesitant flicker of slight hope. “Then… a game?”
On good days, the being would play with him, usually bets or board games. They’ve always got some degrading twist, but they’re manageable, and “manageable” is the closest thing one can find to “safe” in this place. Hell, the being would even allow some of his more scathing witticisms, if they were in a cheery mood. He can deal with a game.
… Of course, there were also bad days, where the being would…
… Would…
The Devil keeps smiling, with a patience thousands of years old. William knows that smile.
A little “ah,” slips from his mouth, unbidden. “That… anything but that,” he finds himself murmuring, as if the being cares. “I’ll—” He’s not sure what to promise, what to say. It’s an odd feeling for him. But how do you barter with a being who's got myths about how good they are at deals?
The being smiles, that ever-present goddamn smile. Their pupils are even thinner slits than usual. Does that mean they’re excited?
He can’t help but take a step back, his legs move without him meaning to. “Why not a game instead?” He tries to offer, a little (way too) too fast and a little (quite a lot) too whiny.
The being does not change their expression. Desperation rises in his throat, sour and thick. “Any game you want!” He adds, way too quickly, and his voice just keeps spilling out, “I won’t try to find loopholes in the rules this time! I’ll— I’d actually try to win, I’d—”
Still with that forsaken smile, the being offers their hand to him. Their massive hand, large enough to pulverize houses, shatter roofs.
For a few seconds, he can only stand and stare like a fool.
William’s eyes snag on the curved claws. They’re big enough to slice an adult man’s gut open with one cut. William knows this fact intimately. His voice fails him. His legs do as well, taking a teeny step backward to catch him as he almost falls.
An eyebrow longer than the length of his spine raises, and two giant mountain-range shoulders shrug. “Suit yourself,” the being says.
There is something so deeply human, so interlaced, it still sits knitted deep in William, whittled and broken and remade as he is.
When huge claws, the size of scythes, reach for you, and your back is free from obstacles?
You run.
He barely makes it two decimeters, of course, but at least he tried.
Fingers catch his waist, with sickening power and ease. Gentle, as if they did not point knives straight at his organs. He is brought up, up, and this time his eyes aren't closed— and everyone knows you shouldn't look down but he does.
The distance from his feet to the desk, that much is fine. But then, he is brought closer to the being, therefore outside the desk. And the distance to the ground is… less okay.
Oh god.
His chest tightens, and for some ungodly reason, he starts thinking about his university physics lessons. Momentum, gravity, acceleration, collision.
How long would it take him to fall, screaming? Was he like an ant, taking less of a blow due to a small size? But he didn’t have an exoskeleton, he would splatter anyway. Would the Demon even need a trowel to scoop him up afterward, or would a napkin suffice?
With a lot of willpower, he manages to avert his eyes and look at the being.
They're, as always, smiling. Because William is close to it (too close), the expression is warped by perspective into something monstrous. An anglerfish grin on a human face. And too many eyes. Always too many eyes.
William feels something squirming and rising in his chest. It was too cold to be vomit. Maybe it was his soul, trying to escape through his throat?
If that was the case, it didn't succeed. Like some sort of horror movie scene, he was brought closer, slow, steady, to that colossal maw, trapped inside his body by bindings of tense tendons and chains of bones.
God. What had he been thinking all his life? Immortality was awful.
Involuntary noises spill out of him. “No”s, “please”s, “wait”s, and their combinations.
The Demon croons. Their breath washes over him, smelling of blood and herbs and stone, an ancient sort of air. “Yes.”
He prays. Of course he prays, could anyone do anything else in his position? He pushes, bites, scratches, and prays. As the demon pulls each of his socks off with their teeth, and he is bathed in their breath, he kicks. As they turn him over and slide his legs into their couch-sized lips, keep him there, pull his shirt over his head and off, he grabs for their fingers. All throughout, he prays.
(If William had been less panicked, he might have noticed that his prayer was solely self serving, and not repentant. However, William was panicked.)
The grin opened around him, interlocking fangs neatly separating, like a doorway to hell. A warm wave of hot breath hit him, and he was submerged in the smell of blood, myrrh, burning herbs. William's eyes glance over his shoulder, lock helplessly on the deep dark hole of Satan's massive throat.
God did not feel like helping, it seemed.
The demon tilted their head back, pushed his chest down with a claw, and he fell screaming into the depths.
His little body hit something wet, squishy, and it took him in lovingly. He fit so perfectly in the cup the flesh made for him, like this place was what he deserved. Like this place deserved him.
The toothy doors closed after him, sealing this evening’s outcome.
William forces himself to choke down the suffocating, moist, odorous air, to breathe. His lungs fill with coppery tang, rosemary, and charred, hot smoke.
The floor— no, the tongue, William had to remind himself, the body part— wasted no time in starting to move. It adjusts him, floor roiling— saliva, hot, thick, drips from the ceiling and douses his neck.
The rhythmic squelch of the creature's mouthparts is everywhere. Like some sort of steam-powered monstrous machine, one can hear air rushing, somewhere up through the ceiling; pressurized pipes, a giant’s breathing.
A guttural growling groan from the Underworld itself resounds through the floor, and therefore through him, quaking and rumbling through his bones. William curls into himself, just trying to not scream or piss himself, and somehow keep his composure.
(Despite not having to excrete anything whilst living in the drawer, he’d somehow once managed to piss in fear after being put inside the Demon’s mouth. Perhaps, this place was so unreal, even biological functions followed more of a dream-logic than actual logic. He had been slowly dismembered afterwards as punishment. His gut instinctively squeezed shut each time he came close, now.)
Before he can even begin to collect himself, he is picked up and squished against the roof of its mouth. His tiny spine grinds against the ridges of its hard palate. Only for the tongue to then pull back, letting him drop, and proceed to smother him with its entire, elephantine weight.
He tries to breathe in, and is stifled by the pressure of a metric ton of flesh on his ribcage. Before he can formulate any thought, the weight shifts, and starts to roll him around underneath itself. He’s shoved into the salivary glands at the tongue's root, legs first. His thighs wetten as his shorts are soaked by spit.
His lungs are beginning to pulse with desperation, to ache. And if there is anything William is good at, it was surviving.
Somehow, he finds the mental ability to orient himself and the strength to wrestle his upper body out from beneath the massive weight. Sacred oxygen, stained with iron and charr, reaches him and clears his head.
Despite how many times you died, there was always the drive to live when you were about to suffocate or starve. Unlike when you were bled or disemboweled. The drive let you push through vomit-level nausea to force down mouthfuls of candy. It let you breathe sooty, sulphuric air and think it is the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted.
He blindly fumbles forward, pulls himself fully out from beneath the tongue. Because all he knows is that backward is salivary glands, so backwards is throat, so backwards is bacterial acid that melts your skin open and blisters your internal organs and bubbles your eyes until you die.
But the bed-sized tongue doesn’t give him a moment’s respite, poking the back of his thighs impatiently. It gets bored after only a few seconds, scoops him back up like an ocean wave of meat. The tongue— he can’t see it, but he can feel its motions in how his ground shifts— takes its tip, bends it up and backward. It traces his belt, then—
Then slips down his bloody waistband.
Wet bristles stroke the scars on his hips.
Before he can breathe again, his goddamn pants get tugged off.
That. That was… new?
The action must have been unintentional.
He frantically grabs for his damn pants, but the Devil is faster. The tongue snakes its tip with eerie precision to dip between his nude, vulnerable legs and touch his dick.
He freezes.
Maybe… not unintentional. Oh God, maybe not unintentional.
He realizes, a second too late, that freezing will only alert the being to the potential weakness.
Shit. Bollocks. Fuck.
The tongue, after a pause, pokes the spot again, harder. His eyes squeeze shut and an unwilling whimper escapes him as his balls are firmly squished.
Too late. They noticed. Of course they noticed.
It does it again, except this time, it’s not a poke, it's a stroke, and it feels so utterly wrong that William quivers and kicks.
The flesh around him is stronger than him. It licks him, his whole body, almost akin to a motion of fondness, as if to remind him of this. He is left spit-soaked and shivering.
He wants his bloody pants back.
He reaches for them, but in just that moment, the Devil janks them off his ankles and tosses him to the side. He falls flat on his face, slapping wetly onto the sodden tissue beneath. He tries to push himself up, snivels, but his whole world suddenly tilts, and he loses his foothold— hits the “floor” and rolls.
He lands stomach-up in the corner of the Demon’s maw, after several turns. Using his elbows to shakily prop himself up, he takes a moment to try not to vomit, and figure out which way is up.
Then… like sunbeams through parted curtains, he is blinded by a sudden influx of light and sight. Suddenly, he is able to see all the pink wet mounds of mouthflesh he has been tossed around. The Devil’s mouth has cracked open.
A harsh breeze ruffles his hair. It's a sigh, exiting the giant lips.
The light falls across him, too, and William is startled by the messy sight of his own body. Nude chest on display, tense fingers, lying on the soft mounds of the flesh floor. And, most notably, his exposed, soft dick. He… oh, he hadn’t been given underwear here. Right, that…
He closes his legs, looks around, frantic to find his shorts again before the light is taken away. The huge, stalagmite, stalactite teeth, easily the size of his torso each, gleaming wetly, makes the breath leave his lungs. They almost distract him, but he manages to tear his eyes away, and there he spots them— nestled into the opposite side of the mouth, a tiny sodden white against a wall of red, wet, ridged flesh.
Then, the monster’s lip closes, and he is resubmerged into the wet, dark depths.
He holds down a whisper and forces himself to climb, crawl across the stormy oceanic surface. The floor folds around his hands as the muscle contracts, causing a moment of panic, but he is able to free himself.
After an eternity of fumbling blindly, his fingers actually do find the texture of fabric amongst all the slick demonic membrane.
But before he can do more than curl up and wiggle a leg into one of the leg holes, he is once more thwarted. The tongue he lies on wraps around him like a kraken’s tentacle, slimy, warm, too long, covering him from chest to nose.
He shuts his lips tight to not drink any more of this thing’s damn, hot, herbal-tasting spit, presses his forearms uselessly against the ocean-wave of muscle.
The damn thing's long and nimble enough to carry him like this, and simultaneously wriggle down to stroke his cock again. The tongue keeps holding him, but now also squeezes, hard. Across his whole frame, as if squeezing him dry. And it does really feel as if something is squeezed from him, though he does not understand what or from where.
Then, it happens again. Another wriggle, another fucking stroke to his cock, another squeeze, and his whole body shivers with it. Sparky embers lit up the backs of his eyelids, and his skin prickled.
He realizes, with a sinking feeling, that it is beginning now.
The thing which William can only call "feeding".
He begins to pray silently again. It continues: he continues to be prodded like this, held, experimented on, molested— until, curse the uncontrollable mortal human form, his dick actually begins to fill with— with blood.
A slow, aching pull gathers in his chest, like the hollow pull of hunger. Each tugs of the tongue made the heat laced in his veins tug along with it. And somewhere, in a place deeper than his skin, deeper than organs, William knows with sudden unplaceable certainty that he is being eaten. The purest form of it. He wasn't even this sure when he was being literally digested by the Demon.
He was getting more and more lightheaded— he was simultaneously suffocating whilst also having too much blood and oxygen. Waterfalls of sensation begin to crash over him, beating him bruised, as the demon eats from him. He was shifted, his cock caught on the fibrous texture, it gave a twitch, and…
William… was not a masochist. At least he… didn’t think so? Hoped so?
But, as Satan ate from him, the pulls, the pain, it… they…
Perhaps it is the Demon’s doing. Or perhaps it is a bug, a misaligned link in the messiness of flawed, biological nerves.
No matter. The result was the same.
With each drag, his nerves would blaze alight with vile, mind-numbing, dazzling agony. As addictive as pressing into a bruise, as kneading an erogenous zone. Except the bruise was his whole body, his whole body was the erogenous zone. Each drag leaves him tender, jelly, shaking, his vision shattering into sparkling gem facets.
As satisfying as a scared lover's head between his thighs, blooming all across him, a pleasure greater than what can be achieved through crude human means. His blood was being suctioned forcefully through his veins.
It was always like this, but somehow, today, it was even more intense.
His little cock was hard against the wet bed beneath again.
No, he— average, he’d meant. Average cock. Not little. He just meant… in comparison…! It… ugh…
Graciously cutting that train of thought short, the giant muscles envelop him once more. Squeeze, suck, roil, squeeze, curl— throb, ravish, shiver, rapture.
This continued, until he wasn’t sure what was air and what was liquid, what was left, right, up, down— what was pain and what was longing, what was infernal and what was holy. This continued, until he had utterly forgotten what a mouth even was.
This continued, until he prayed to God that please, please, he would be such a good boy, the best father, the best everything, never even raise his voice, if only he was released from here, given another chance, please, he would be so good forever for You.
This continued, until…
... he was suddenly pushed, rather than pulled. Pushed forth, though the humid cavern, and before he manages to understand what is happening—
He is reminded of what cold air feels like.
His lungs remember before he does. They hungrily gasp for it, cough, gasp again. His arms grab for anything to hold onto, and reach something, something hard and cool. His fingers grab it, whatever it is, harder than he ever remembers clinging to something before. The free world spins around him. He can’t see anything except blurry swatches of color and shimmering light.
The sudden freedom on his face allows William to realize he is sobbing. Fresh air cools the tears, and presumably snot, running down his face.
For the first time in a while, he is sure of which way is down again, because that’s the way his head now limply droops.
That massive textured underneath presses upward again, squeezing him into the ridged roof, squishing his dick between it and his belly. And for that moment, he can’t see anything at all. His grip slips as his whole body involuntary shudders in pleasure. He can't contain a high whine of bliss, nor a twitch of his hips into the textured wet warmth beneath.
Something hard and heavy shuts around his shoulders, locks him in place. The wet muscle bed beneath continues its stroking, though, so William doesn't have enough brain resources to think about it too much. But his broken mind assumes it must be a pillory.
A sharp bit, perhaps a loose iron nail, digs into his shoulder, hard. Hard enough he's sure something breaks— skin, perhaps muscle. It pins him like a fluttering butterfly to corkboard, smooth, heavy.
A moment of the Devil adjusting his position in its mouth allows him enough air to fill his lungs, and refresh his brain—
Oh.
William goes limp. His leg twitches.
They’re teeth. Of course, they’re teeth.
Within the minutes of Hellish/Heavenly waves of toe-curling sensation that followed, William could feel his sanity slipping. With those teeth just a twitch away from fucking decapitating him, holding him in place like a guillotine headlock, William can't do anything other than sob as the awful amazing tremors rock his world. The incisors are too blunt to slit his throat open, a minor relief. They do, though, restrict his blood flow. And breath.
Burning cool-hot “drags” continue to rip through his body. All the while, that damned tongue insisted on massaging him between the legs. Except now, he couldn’t even try to slip away.
Overall, William realizes, slowly, unwillingly, loathingly, that their movements are… objectively gentle. Not because the Demon doesn’t want to hurt him, William could not even imagine that possibility. Rather… most likely, because they aren’t paying much attention. That this was more fidgeting with him than anything.
His pulse begins to throb against the edge of the teeth. Black spots dance across his vision, his breaths pile up in his throat. The tiny flutters of air that do make it out stumble over each other. Over and over, he feels as though he's spinning. Only for the teeth to lighten slightly, allowing his lungs a desperate gasp, his veins a pump of oxygenated blood to his brain, his balance to reassert. And then, the teeth lock down again.
As if they knew when he was suffocating, when he ran out of stored breath. As if they knew things about his body before he did. As if they knew everything. Could see everything, with all those eyes.
Before long, his limbs begin tingling numb.
A nonsensical thought comes to his half-broken brain. Was this how it would feel to be a cigarette? Aglow, melting, fraying, as you are consumed in long suctioning pulls? Fondled by a being’s tongue, a being hundreds of times your size? Being burned alive?
‘Alive.’ Not that William was alive. He'd given up on that theory months ago.
Being actually burned to death didn’t hold a damn candle to this.
Finally, after either a few minutes or a few hours, without clear cause, the teeth raise from his neck. His shoulder aches dully in their absence.
The overwhelming impulse to pull himself out of the Demon’s mouth and therefore let himself fall to his (temporary) death itched through his limbs. But he was too weak. He could not keep his head up, let alone pull his body weight.
The opportunity passes him by. He is turned around, by that dexterous, awful tongue, brought back into the warm, hellish cavern. His legs are allowed freedom, whilst his chest and head are forced back into breathing soot and burnt rosemary. Giant teeth dig into his hips, and he is sunk into darkness.
At least this position allows him to rest his exhausted neck, rest his head on the wet cushioned softness behind. Faintly, he wiggles, not in actual hope of escape, more just of habit.
Then, his squirming slows, as something cold and smooth pokes the tip of his erect cock. A rod, of some kind. It presses against his cockhead, hard, with characteristic cruelty.
What is...? If the Demon wanted his dick beat or crushed, they could simply use their teeth or a claw, why was…?
The rod zeroes in onto his urethra with eerie accuracy. It presses harder. Intense pain spreads through his crotch. Enough so that even his exhausted tendons tighten and his weak limbs strain.
Then, with toe-curling pain-pleasure, his cockhole opens, stretching around the girth of the metal instrument now being slid down his cock.
His eyes roll and toes curl in the air as the instrument sinks inside, wears his cock like a sleeve. It pokes something inside him, (his bladder?), something that makes him gag and his wet hips tremble.
Meanwhile, the Demon’s feast does not cease. His soul is melting, leaking out parts he’s sure are important, agony twisting into something far worse: craving. His cock throbs, hard, yearns for the monstrous touch that is tearing his psyche apart. He was too lost to even feel humiliated.
He wants to offer up what little of him remained, to just die already, to just cum already.
(Well. One of these pleas is going to be answered, atleast.)
As the Demon works his urethra, he cums, legs twitching. His cock’s throbs echo through the rest of his body. The pressure, his ejaculate, barely escapes from around the rod. His heart pumps like it wants to burst his neck artery open.
The idea of trying to escape, his former attempts at it, suddenly seems like jokes played on him, somehow. Cruel ones.
The rod swirls deeper, punching out more moans from his exhausted, bruised body.
Most of the remains of his mind hoped his Demon would be satisfied soon.
A tiny, shameful, quiet part wished they never would.
Eventually, the demon had stopped fucking his dick with a rod, and put him back into its mouth. Closed their teeth around his shoulders again.
The proceeding feeding went on for a few hours. Probably. For all William knows, it could also have been days.
His shoulder hurt like Hell. Also, he couldn't raise his head anymore. Nor think, nor speak. His struggling had long ceased, but his panting had not, and his inner thighs were gooey with… with, erm…
William didn't want to think about it, and luckily, his brain had lost enough function it wasn’t able to.
Once he’d long since lost count of the number of the orgasms that had quaked through his body, once he had begun begging whatever higher power would listen to let him faint— the teeth finally, finally lifted from his neck.
There’s a flood of light when he tilts his head up. His sticky eyes burn in it, blink, thickly against the build-up of tears.
Before he can process any more, huge fingers pluck his boneless sweaty self out like he weighs nothing. (He did weigh nothing.) Held up by a thumb and middle finger under his arms, his wet little body shivered at the coolness of the fresh air.
He has no strength to do anything but place trust in their massive clawed hands. Let them take him, let their knifepoints slide and grace against his tender flesh, let them pull him out into the great, cold, bright white.
He feels his limbs dangle limply, and his eyes can’t fully open. He's blinking and helpless and covered in bodily fluids like a newborn. He’s not sure which way is up, nor what position he lies in, all his senses are knotted like messy yarn. Eventually, the light fades, and he can, vaguely, dizzily, blurrily, see a great statuesque face, bigger than his whole body. It has much too many eye-shaped blobs.
There is thin liquid running down and gathering at the dips of the tendons and surfaces of his feet. Of what is dripping from his skin, he doesn’t know which parts are sweat, which saliva, and which cum. But he is pretty sure the big drop running down his inner leg was the lattermost option. He's small enough that a layer of wetness means he was rapidly losing body heat.
It had been so much warmer in that terrifying, incredible mouth.
Suddenly, with deft fingers, his dangling shorts are removed. The clothing item was doing literally nothing for his modesty except covering an ankle, yet he still feels a sudden sense of vulnerability without them.
He tries, with the last of his might, to scowl up at the massive face above, but only manages a weak dizzy frown which was probably more pathetic than defiant. It is very hard to not look pathetic when your legs are pressed together, trembling, you are coated in drool, and your pants are down.
He is moved down from hanging by those fingers, to instead being cupped in a palm. Though, to William, it feels more like a mattress.
For a moment, he is given stillness and space to breathe. And that he does, pants and lies like an exhausted slug.
Then, his ground— their hand— moves. He is brought to— to their mouth.
He can’t help the sob that escapes him. All defiance instantly leaves.
No. No, not another round, please. He would die. Again. He had already gone soft, please. If— if he was put through that again, there would be nothing left! He'd just become a mindless, blissed-out, bloody lump…!
But in his state, he can't do more than close his eyes, and turn his head away as one last pitiful attempt at escape.
His body met tongue, and was licked, long and slow. Across his whole front. Starting at his toes, and ending by restyling his hair. A great claw moves and nudges up his arm, and then the tongue is there too, at his side, his armpit, as if he were being groomed by a giant cat.
Over the next minute, it slowly, obsessively, laps up every inch of his skin. Any droplet gets smoothed out. He is cleaned right up.
William doesn’t feel cleaner afterward, though.
He feels himself, in a way like he’s disconnected from his body, be lowered, and then placed shivering into some sort of big pile of soft folds. A weird carpet or huge blanket, maybe. His eyes are still blurry.
Not… not a second round? Good… that's… good.
He almost collapses, wrapped in the soft foldy thing, but is caught by a warm, huge palm. He feels the cloth be nestled up around him, the huge bristles cool and rough against his feverish, tender, sweaty skin.
Bed. Not quite right. Not quite a bed. But… almost a bed.
Through his wet eyelashes, through the gaps of those giant fingers, he thinks he sees the being smiling. His vision is too misty to confirm it, but he somehow knows it.
For the first time in days, William feels… nice? His synapses are too fried to process anything more. All that’s left is… delirious, post-orgasm sleepiness. He feels like an animal. Anything too complex— dread, ego-death, shame— they are so distant, William can't really remember what they feel like. Or are. All he has is a vague sense of longing, for what, he doesn’t know. And unease. For what, he doesn’t know.
Like always, though, any sweet relief he finds in this place doesn't last long.
With a precision that can’t be accidental, a finger digs into the bruised heat of his shoulder. A snivelling whimper escapes him. Luckily, he is too exhausted to feel shame about it.
Gently, a different giant, soft finger pad pets his hair, messing it up even more.
He is too drained to stop himself from leaning into it.
He had forgotten shame, forgotten who he was, forgotten anything that wasn't here, anything beyond the Demon, this place, the blanket he was in.
William had forgotten how to fight. He only remembered how to surrender.