Chapter 52: Heart's Desire

"The moment you all have been waiting for!"​

Your eyes dart to the wall. There's absolutely nothing there. There's no light. There's no exit. There's nothing.

Dread keeps you seated as a blaring voice cuts through the silence and darkness around you all. It's the same voice that announced you in the corridor.

"AND NOW, INCUBI AND SUCCUBI, MAJOR DEMONS AND HEATHENS OF ALL RACES— WITHOUT FURTHER ADO: THE MOMENT YOU ALL HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR!"

Dread is slowly giving way to panic.

"PLEASE PUT YOUR HANDS TOGETHER FOR THE LORD OF LEWDNESS, THE KING OF KINKINESS, THE SIRE OF SALACIOUSNESS—!"

Ofelia grabs you by the shirt and pulls you in. Her fear is visible even in the near complete darkness. "Don't get us killed, Richard. I don't care what you need to do. We're gettin' out of here alive."

"YOUR HUMBLE HOST!"

You're grateful that it's too dark for Ofelia to see your terror. You can't make that promise.

"REMIGIUS!!!"

The thunderous applause around you all is the only thing that punctuates the darkness.

As the applause continues, you lean in to your friends, and gesture for them to come close enough to speak discreetly. Celegwen is so on edge that she jumps from the motion, but does at least oblige your request. Ofelia does no such thing.

Though your pulse is still racing, the blood on your back is sticky, and the sweat on you still hot and unwilling to dry, your expression softens. "I'm so sorry. I never meant to jeopardize anyone's safety. I'll— I will get us out of here. No matter— no matter what it takes— I won't make matters any worse. Not if— not if I can help it. You both don't deserve this."

Celegwen is absolutely silent, but her shoulders relax almost imperceptibly. She swipes a glass of champagne off of the table and starts to sip on it as Ofelia puts a hand to her knee. The rogue looks up to you with a grimace. "Good."

The applause has completely stopped. You whip your head around, eyes wide. There's light coming again from the stage.

"Mercy."

Music

The stage is scarcely lit by a small number of red candles. Before a simple black backdrop is a pale tree adorned with gold leaves. There is no fanfare. No spectacle. No trappings.

The applause stops.

An elegant shape moves across the stage. Pale skin— paler than the white oak tree, shawled in a sheet made entirely of shadow— moves with such deliberation that you're utterly transfixed. It's no spell. The demon resonates with power. It could easily be mistaken for a monster at the peak of the hierarchy— but you're instantly aware that this is an incubus. Not simply an incubus— but one of more skill than any you've ever heard of.

Hot sweat is back on you as you keep hold of your holy symbol, and wait for it to strike out.

His pale form drifts along the stage instead. It's as if his body is made of a liquid and metal all at once. Vague notions of different forms, different builds, and different flesh shifts and shapes along a slender frame. The shawl draped across his face drapes not only across the entire stage, but permits his own skin to flow off into the darkness at his back as well.

Shadows come to life.

A play takes place within the dark.

Within folds of fabric and creeping black, there's love. Life. Laughter. A celebration of frivolity, of revelry, of light, of being embraced, and of everything that it is to create a human. To create a demon.

Shadows sink deeply into the ground. They rise along the walls, floor, and ceiling.

You long for something to punctuate the absolute silence that follows. As if on queue, the demon slowly turns on a heel, and drives his foot down onto the floor.

Silent screams rip across the stage as shadows tear themselves to pieces. The scene is so explicit that you nearly close your eyes. It's only as you hazard a glance away that you catch every demon in the room transfixed on the show. You can only assume that they find it to be beautiful.

The incubus turns his back to the crowd. Scales of gold catch on the light. Flame and candles smoke from beneath the fabric on his face. Wax crawls upwards. The unseen fire licks and climbs, and emerges from the demon's spikes of liquid heat.

​

The entire room is illuminated. Only you and the incubus in the corner don't have your eyes on the stage.

Everything burns before your eyes, but there's no threat of it spreading to the audience. A great number of the demons present are literally on the edges of their seats. They tense as the incubus' shawl is reduced to ashes on the floor. The stage smokes from an extinguished flame. Another shade of gold reflects against the green of your irises, and steals your attention to the source.

The only source of light remaining in the room is the body of the incubus. He's— she's— it's slowly walking towards you. Without solid shape, gender, form, nor flesh you see a sensation. You feel a thought. You know something that is deeply intimate. It is something that you have always kept away. It is the face of something you have never permitted yourself.

This demon is the absolute embodiment of desire.

Your breath catches in your throat. You have had your hands on your holy symbol during the entire performance, but your shaking hands part from the sign of divinity, and are placed to your knees instead.

The figure takes shape. It's everything you have ever wanted.

An immaterial form of white gold and silver is so beautiful that you can scarcely stand the sight of it. Droplets of metal spill onto your lap as the body bends, twists, and leans in— unable to assume a definitive shape. Warm yellows and nearly transparent gossamer spills forth. For the briefest of moments, lithe muscle contorts into a frame that violently shifts and hardens before your eyes.

There's murmuring from the audience— that gives way to gasps in an instant.

You gaze upon something familiar. White gold parts into softer flesh. A heaving bosom. A midriff that could be chiseled from marble. Her arms and legs are immaculate. She's slender, taut, and entirely bare. Starlight and space reflects from pearls that fall from her white-gold skin, her flush, her radiance— and everything that you need to have against you.

Something bordering on divine pulls through the metal and sin.

"Father. I've been waiting for you."

Her legs give way to wider, softer hips that settle onto your lap so smoothly and gently that you can't help but take a deep breath and fight with every fiber of your being to not pull her in.

"Nnnn, you're so strong— just look at you!"

To say that you are utterly transfixed by the woman before you would disservice your paralysis. Her curves and flawless form do not need to dig in— but she does so regardless— eliciting a groan and cementing your desire to not pull away.

"Haven't you suffered enough?"

Though her form is so much lighter than any human woman's should be, her touch is searing. "Isn't this nice?" Her hands run up along your thighs, over your stomach, and along your chest. "To feel so wanted?" Searing gold lingers as flame under your skin wherever she parts from. It's so similar to the same heat that you've been blessed with so many times before that you almost could feel safe. "To be healthy, and whole?"

She settles her wrists and hands around your shoulders.

"Come closer."

You don't want to pull away, but your hands inch back. Part of you is terrified. The heat is not of your Goddess. You might not know what the touch of a woman should feel like, but you know that this is nothing divine. This may be an immortal, but there is no Mercy here.

This isn't right.

Not like this.

Not yet.

"...maybe this is more to your liking, Father?"

Your eyes finally leave her body. Her hair should not be silver. Her eyes should not take in all light around her delicate skin. Starlight and space should not take your breath away. Her shoulders and chest should be melding. Blending. Shifting between soft gold and light.

She's bare and as immaculate as you could have ever hoped for.

Her legs draw closer around you, leaning in further, and leaving nothing to the imagination. The strands of her silver curls, her white-gold skin flush with pearls, her radiance— everything— everything seems utterly flawless.

You want to take her.

There is only one incredibly important detail.

Celegwen is sitting right across from you. The mortification on her face is absolute. Ofelia is right next to her, bristling, and holding onto her friend's arm to stay her hand.

Remigius promptly cuts you off from their view. Rather than move her full chest to obscure your sight once more, the demon pins your shoulders against the high-backed chair with inhuman strength and speed.

A disturbing imitation of Celegwen's voice laces with heat and gold, but her words are lascivious and unfitting for either body that she's imitating. "Ah, ah, ahh! That won't do. Eyes only on me, Daddy."

In abject terror and with no small measure of disgust, Celegwen and Ofelia still move to intervene.

"Father—!"

"Richard!"

A number of demons snicker in the background. It's hard to see them past the ideal form that's dominating every inch of your vision. You try to lean back— to wrench yourself away, to inch your hands to your holy symbol— but the hands on your shoulders tighten.

You feel the bone start to crack. It draws out another groan and an uproar from the demons around you all.

The succubus leans in and flashes pointed rows of white-gold teeth at you in delight. "Mommy Idonea warned me that you were into some weird shit— but this?! You're going to be more fun than I could have possibly hoped for!"

​

Someone whistles. Demons are jeering. You try to take your eyes off from the bared chest before you, but it's fairly difficult to see anything at all. The demon's grip somehow keeps intensifying. You almost cry out to Ofelia and Celegwen (for help, for them to attack, for them to run), but your words are caught in choked gasps.

Through the blinding pain and gold, you make out the murmurs pressed softly against your ear. "If you want to leave here alive, come with me. I won't lay a finger on your sluts and I'll instruct the party to do the same. They can even leave now, if you so wish. I'd prefer it."

Through mounting agony, groans, and excruciating pleasure you choke out, "and if— aahh—! M-Mercy—! If I refuse—?!"

Ofelia and Celegwen instantly catch onto the context of your exchange, and move to attack.

Remigius keeps a single hand to your shoulder. The other— with freakish speed and dexterity— wraps into your hair. She pulls back with such intensity that you see stars. "You're really living up to your name, Dick!"

The demons around you sound like they're enjoying themselves almost as much as you are, but it's hard to tell. Your breath is hitching so hard, and the last moan that was elicited from you was so intense that you aren't quite sure what you heard. You try to lower your gaze— to shoot a death threat at the demon— but she pulls back even harder. The headache that starts to build is instant and so severe that you can scarcely see, let alone fire back another retort.

"We're going to play, and I'm showing you the fucking courtesy to decide how. You got me, sweetheart?"

The jeers from the crowd are intensifying as rapidly as the demon's abuse. Fear hits you in a way that's almost worse than your fracturing frame.

Will Idonea refuse to grant me the Relic if I spurn Remigius?

Will we even make it out of here alive if I put everything I have into protecting my friends?

Will Mercy see fit to work through me if I break a sworn oath I've made to a former Mother of Her church? Even if Idonea is a demon, I made a vow. This is not one to be taken lightly.

What if this demon is anything like Yech?

Has everything that I've done since entering this domain been another horrific misunderstanding? Or is this demon just another psychopath, bent on torturing or killing me and my friends?

Ray is still in the abyss with the demon lord. What if they do something to my boy while I'm gone?!

Would Celegwen and Ofelia even leave now if I asked?

Celegwen and Ofelia are still hesitating to help you. You can't look away from the demon's vice on your hair without seriously injuring yourself, and you don't know how the audience is reacting to the spectacle being made out of you, but you have at least one small blessing.

Your right arm is still free.

This wouldn't be my first time facing a demon on their terms.

I went alone into Yech's cavern, and reached out to him when no one else could. He'd not spoken to anyone in several ages, and there was so much more to him than gluttony or disgust.

Out of all of her children, Idonea deliberately chose for me to meet with Yech. With Remigius. She chose for me to show this demon Mercy. There must be a reason why. There must be something that I can do here, too. Something that no one else can.

"Wait—! Wait! Stop!" You try to gesture to your friends to halt what no doubt is an imminent attempt to aid you. The demons around you make a spectacle of hollering and hooting at your friends to kill you.

What?

"What's that, Daddy? Speak up!"

Another moan is pulled out of you, out from your tortured scalp, in the tangles wrapped around a succubus' fingers.

Your cry is so obscene that even the demon relaxes her grip. She leans in closer, whispering, "oh, that won't do. I know you must be tense, but I want you to last a lot longer than all that."

Mercy.

There's a strong urge to straighten your clothes, to smooth back your hair, to have a drink, to take a cold bath, and to try and make yourself look decent.

The succubus leans back just enough to permit you a glance somewhere other than her flawless curves. You scan for the exit. There is none. The stage is dark. The only light in the room comes from the perfect form perched on your lap. She jerks her hips against you— grinning broadly as you try to keep your voice down— and your heart sinks.

Your friends are only a few feet away. Ofelia's face is beet-red, and you've never seen her look so furious. She's wielding two daggers that drip with poison. More knives are being shot with every glance she makes between you and the succubus. She's standing between you, Remigius, and Celegwen— as the elf is visibly shaking with humiliation and anger. Stars are in the elf's eyes from building up and repressing a spell. You can't help but wonder if the force of it would kill you, were she to release it.

Desperation swims through your anguished stammering."S-stop. Don't. Please— please go. Go back—"

A deep groan rises from many of the demons seated around you all. The incubus in the corner actually has the nerve to shout, "DICK!"

Celegwen is too irate to speak, but words rarely escape Ofelia. The rogue practically screams, "what makes you think we can leave?!"

The tension, grip, and pressure on your shoulder is alleviated in a single motion.

Remigius drags a hand down the front of your shirt as you practically lose yourself.

There's no time to recover (she's pulling a button loose), let alone to do more than bite on your hand to muffle the perfect—

Celegwen parts her lips to release a spell.

Ofelia practically has to stab the sorceress to keep her in line.

The two women wrestle with arms and hands for an agonizing moment— and it's likely that only the rogue's ferocity keeps her taller friend in check.

The second you move to get up— to intervene— Remigius pins you back with a hand to your chest. It knocks the wind out from your lungs. She pulls at your hair, your headache, and your patience as you gasp for air— and she seems to find an even better solution.

Your head is slammed against the backing of the chair. Even the soft cushion is excruciating. She ignores your gasps, and forces you to only look at the spectacle.

Ofelia is still obviously drunk. Her voice cracks as she firmly grabs onto Celegwen's staff. "Don't! Don't you fuckin' dare!"

"I'LL KILL HIM—"

Celegwen's crying. No— no. No.

"Mercy, no—! Both of you, stop—"

There's terror all through Ofelia's voice. "He's tryin' to help. Can't you see—"

"LET ME GO, OFELIA!" A few tears catch on the air from how firmly Celegwen tries to wrest away her staff.

"You're goin' to get us all killed!"

You manage to speak through the tension— even if you fail to steady your breath. The anger in your voice is unparalleled. "Remigius, stop. Keep your word. Let them go. Grant them both s-safe passage. Release them from your domain unharmed. Prove it— aah— prove it to me that they're saa-ah-afe— and I'll— I'll do what you ask."

Ofelia refuses to part her hand from Celegwen's staff, and looks between you two with more frustration than you thought possible.

Starlight has rapidly faded from the elf's reddened eyes. She's looking to you with so much pain that you can't stand it.

You want to avert your gaze— and have your head slammed again ("Aaah—!") with a harder pull on your hair. ("Aahhhn!") "Oh, no. After all this fuss, you're not being coy now! You're looking! You're watching everything."

The pain lancing your temples is so extreme that you feel sick. It's blending with a sick kind of gratification. Something that's begging for just a little bit more.

More.

Mercy.

"Move. P-please. Stay safe. Look after Ray for me. I'll come—" Several demons jeer. "I'll be back for you—" Remigius is slowly teasing out more tension from your scalp. "M-Mercy—"

As badly as you want to apologize for Celegwen's anger, Ofelia's all-consuming fear, your choice of words, and the mutual disgust between your friends, you're cut short. The same inhuman strength that's nearly fractured your left shoulder pulls unbelievably hard on your scalp.

"Aahhh—! Nnnn— aah—"

Starlight and specks of gold dance in your vision for several moments. There are no hands on your body— but the pain that blossoms has you scarcely able to think of what to do with yourself. You can't even feel the weight lifting off from your lap as Remigius stands.

"Seriously, they're not enough fun for the hassle. But for you, Daddy, I'll see what I can do! Sit tight! Try not to puke!"