Beyond the Hourglass

A/N: I've been working on the idea for this story for a while, like a few months, but I didn't start to actually write it until yesterday. And it just kept coming, and I've written like three chapter in 24 hours and I'm still going. I have no idea how long this is going to last.

Strangers

A sword flashed through the air, ripping through the intended target and leaving behind a rapidly vanishing corpse. A boy with shockingly orange hair looked longingly at the moon after his victory: another meaningless victory. There was no challenge, no effort; he was bored. He had even told his friend not to come with him, to see if any sort of change would elicit that feeling that he desperately longed to feel again.

The sound of clapping brought him out of his reverie. It was a slow, deliberate clap, and it unnerved him. He could see a shadow under a nearby tree emerge into the moonlight. The man moved with grace, but at the same time a quieted passion; it mesmerized the boy such that he hardly noticed when the man was right next to him.

“Good evening,” the man said, “you’re out awfully late. You know, it’s rather dangerous to be out by yourself.”

“I can take care of myself,” the boy responded, “But aside from that, who are you, and why can you see me?”

“Hmm. . . both excellent questions, which I have no intention of answering.”

“And why is that?”

“I do not, as a rule, provide my prey with that knowledge,” he said, taking another step towards the boy.

“What do you mean ‘prey’?” the boy asked while gripping his sword.

“You shall see. . .”

The next thing the boy knew, he was pinned against the wall lining the street. The man’s mouth found its way to his throat, and before he knew it the boy was making sounds he did not know he could make. He was pinned against a wall, by a complete stranger, a guy stranger, and he was enjoying it. It dawned on him that this was wrong, that he was not supposed to enjoy this. He struggled. He writhed against the man, tried to push him away, but nothing worked. The boy tried the only other thing he knew: he kneed him in the balls. With the man now distracted, the boy took the opportunity to draw his sword and point it at the man.

“I think maybe now you should answer my questions.”

“Oh really? And what makes you say that?”

“Well, considering how my sword is right at your throat, I don’t think you’re one to be questioning me.”

In a flash, the man had disappeared. And then he was right behind the boy, one hand on the boy’s sword arm and the other at his throat.

“Come, now, Ichigo. Is that the best that you can do?”

“H-how do you know my name?”

“I already told you, I won’t be answering your questions.”

In defeat, Ichigo let his sword fall to the ground, a light clatter accompanying its impact. Were the man not holding him up, he would have fallen to his knees. The man took the opportunity to attack the boy’s throat again, eliciting another moan.

“You like this, don’t you. You like being raped, you dirty little slut.”

Ichigo whimpered in response. There was no point in struggling. He was trapped; it would be easier if he did nothing, just let him have his way. Maybe he would be gentle. He could feel something poking his lower back, and the man ground it against him. And then it hit him, exactly what the man was planning to do, and he panicked; he could not breathe and he suddenly felt very alone, but not alone at the same time and wished his friends were there, but at the same time he never wanted to see them again, because then they would know. They would know that he was a dirty little gay slut who liked being raped and then they would disown him and he would be even more alone. He could smell flowers. The scent of cherry blossoms surrounded him, enveloped him, suffocated him. He could feel the man’s hands roaming about, and then he could feel air where he had not before and then he realized he was naked and then he remembered what came next and he shut his eyes and kept praying that it would just end. That he would wake up and it was all just some terrible dream. But then he felt him at his entrance and he realized that it was not a dream and that no one was coming to save him and he was all alone. He felt the man enter him, and he thought for a moment that his body had shattered. He let out a scream.

“That’s right. . . scream for me, bitch.”

He started thrusting.

He could feel the man, inside of him: moving, thrusting, invading. Where no man had the right to be. Ichigo yelled for him to please stop, to leave him alone. But the man continued as he was, deaf to the boy’s pleas. And then Ichigo realized that he was aroused; he was being raped and it aroused him. He hated himself. He wished he was dead. He would rather die than put up with this any longer. And then, as if reading his thoughts, the man stopped. His grip on Ichigo’s wrists relaxed.

“Look at me, you little slut,” the man demanded.

Ichigo opened his eyes. Looking at the man’s face cemented the reality of the situation. This was no dream. As soon as he had opened them he wished that he had not, and after a minute he shut them tight again and he could hear the man chuckle, only he sounded rather distant. And then he did not feel the man anymore and he used his newfound liberty to curl up into a ball.

“Thanks for the fuck. I really needed that.”

And with that he left, and Ichigo was alone this time, even more so than before and he was scared and tired and angry and confused all at the same time and he wondered if anyone would ever find him, or if anyone would even look for him; who would miss a slut like him, anyway? He felt dirty, like he wanted to get out of his skin. Only, he could not. He tried his best to get rid of it, but the best he could do was scratch at it and that only caused him more pain, and he could feel something warm on his leg and he thought that must be his blood and he hoped that maybe it would be enough to kill him because death sounded really good compared to what he was enduring, or what he would have to face when his friends found him. He hoped that they would never find him, just leave him alone until he bled to death.

He could feel hands on him, and he thought the man was back for more and the thought made him want to vomit and he cringed away from the touch. The hand backed away, but after a moment of indecision decided to try again. This time Ichigo thought these hands did not feel the same and that maybe they would not try and hurt him and he let them touch him. He could feel himself being lifted from the ground, but he could not bear to open his eyes because then he would see that man’s face again and then he went back to that memory and suddenly he felt like throwing up again, only this time he actually did and he felt slightly better afterwards. He noticed that this person did not smell like the other man, and that made him feel better and then he wondered what this person smelled like and he decided he smelled like cinnamon. Fiery, passionate, but most of all he felt safe.

He could hear feet pounding against the pavement, a fast beat indicative of running. He could feel the air blowing against his still naked body and he realized that he was cold and he shivered. The person holding him was warm, though, and he clung to that warmth like his life depended on it. He heard a grunt come from whoever was holding him, a deep, guttural sound that was oddly comforting. The wind stopped, and they were no longer moving and he heard knocking and a door open and a gasp and then they were moving again and they were laying him down and he felt warmer and he fell asleep to the sound of people worrying over him and the last thing he remembered thinking was that he was glad to not be alone anymore.

But sleep was a fickle mistress and not even an hour later he was awake again, only he could not remember where and then he noticed that he was alone and he felt scared but he did not know why, only that he really did not want to be alone. He made a sound to that effect. He could hear the rushed scurry of anxious footsteps in the next room and then he was not alone anymore but suddenly he did not want to see them and he felt sick again but then he heard that noise from before, that strangely comforting grunt and he no longer felt sick but he still did not feel up to facing their inevitable questions but he did not see any other options so he sighed in defeat and prepared himself as best he could.

“Are you feeling any better?” a comfortingly deep voice asked him.

“Yeah, a bit. . .” he trailed off, unwilling to give a complete answer at the moment.

“You had us scared there for a bit,” a decidedly less comforting and much more grating voice said.

And then he smelled that scent again, the one that reminded him of cinnamon and he felt even better and he wondered who that was and then he realized he had not even looked at them since they had entered and he thought that was probably very rude on his part but then he thought he really did not want to risk making eye contact because then they would know and they would leave and he would be alone again and he really did not want that so he just kept staring at that floor.

“You probably shouldn’t be sitting up like that,” the comforting voice said, and he agreed with it and lay back down and suddenly he felt sleepy again but then he thought that if he fell asleep they would leave and he did not want that.

“Don’t leave me, please,” he pleaded as sleep once again reclaimed him.