the ties that bind ...
Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.
Warning(s) - do read this!:
Non-consensual sex, some blood-play, angst and the usual mind!screw that is Clamp canon. Vague setting - it's set some time after Tokyo Revelations, but there's no reference made to any particular world/universe/place. And for the sake of coherence, clone! Syaoran is always in italics. Just to make this clear. Self(fail!)-editing.
All comments/complaints/whatever welcome.
...
Surprisingly, the feeling of being slammed against the wall– hard concrete rubbing, scratching and grazing against his back – repeatedly isn't half as bad as the knowledge that he's going down. Nausea dominates his body and makes it waft like a ship in a stormy sea as Syaoran, balling his hand into a fist, sends him flying into the wall again. This time, the impact is so thunderbolt-forceful in its quality that, gritting his teeth, Syaoran forces himself not to yelp as he feels already bruised skin being scraped against the granite-like surface – it chaffs and tears his much bloodied back.
Fuck, he thinks, and – looking around him – realises that he can't get out: bloodied and battered, legs feeling as heavy as lead and head soaring and throbbing, Syaoran knows that all vitality has been robbed off his body, and – damn, damn, this Syaoran (with the mismatched eyes and deadly determination of a rattlesnake about to dive its sharp teeth into a mouse) has gotten the better out of him.
However, Syaoran won't do his enemy – because that's what Syaoran is, after all – the pleasure of begging for mercy.
A jingle of chains hanging above his head make Syaoran widen his eyes. He wants to curse aloud, but thinks better of it: it won't do much to help his situation.
"Don't think I'll let you off that easily," Syaoran mutters, his voice so eerily inhuman that it twists something inside of Syaoran's stomach and he feels the bile rising to his throat. He feels even sicker when staring into that blue eye, remembering very well who had suffer for it. "In fact, I'll have my fun with you before getting rid of you."
Gnashing his teeth, Syaoran watches how his replica drags both of his hands upwards and puts them into the shackles, effectively binding him to this spot and trapping him like a bird in a cage, helplessly flapping its wings about. If he had any doubts before, he now knows. Death isn't something you can escape: once the system is down, it can't be rebooted.
Syaoran hisses in pain as Syaoran kicks him in the stomach – the kick is hard enough to make him scream out in pain, and Syaoran falls down, spitting blood; the chains binding his hands rustle as he coughs and spits out even more blood.
Another kick, and something crunches: he's certain that he's cracked a rib or two.
Syaoran fixes him with a look devoid of anything but deadly determination. On second thought, Syaoran thinks it's not even that: staring into his clone's eyes is like looking down into a well and seeing nothing but darkness reflected therein.
"I'll get the feathers, and anyone who tries to stop me will die -" Syaoran says, grabbing him by the hem of shirt, as he brings Syaoran back on his feet. His legs feeling like sacks filled with heavy potatoes, Syaoran can barely stand and he'd fall flat on his face if the chains wouldn't prevent him from doing so.
Syaoran feels a chill rustle down his spine, thinking for brief second of everyone he's going to leave behind. But, moreover, he thinks of how much people sacrificed for him to be here in the first place – those thoughts circling in his head make him dizzy, and he feels the bile rising in his throat.
He just wants this to be over already.
Syaoran doesn't say anything because he doesn't know what to say. Besides, it's not like any fancy words will help him right now. He closes his eyes, ready for the final blow.
Seconds tick by, Syaoran's breath comes in heavy bursts and wind whips through his hair, caressing his sweat-moistened cheeks with intangible, icy fingers.
But it never comes.
Instead, Syaoran's shirt is slashed open - how, he doesn't know, for his senses are dazed and he has trouble focusing, but he heavily suspects that it was through the means of a sword. His suspicions are confirmed: the cool surface of a blade glides down his skin, making him shiver. Syaoran opens his eyes again.
"What are you doing?" Syaoran asks. Not because he's afraid, but because he simply doesn't understand. Or, better said, he doesn't want to understand.
A grunt escapes his lips when a hot mouth starts sucking his nipple, making it erect – and Syaoran only pauses for a second before giving his other nipple the same treatment.
"Don't-" Syaoran grunts, hot in the face and trembling. His knees are buckling and he's growing excited, even though he shouldn't. But it's futile because then Syaoran's tongue starts licking his sweaty and bloody neck – tasting and biting and kissing.
Syaoran doesn't stop, and his calloused hand deftly undoes his trousers, letting them fall to the floor when he's done getting them past his hips. Then, with no warning at all, Syaoran feels fingers around his cock, and – without further ado – they start moving up and down his penis. The movements are awkward and jerky, for the other boy's hands are slippery and yet, he can't stop gasping. Sweat rolls down his forehead, and his pulse is quickening. To his dismay, he is thrusting his hips upwards as well.
"Gnn," Syaoran mumbles and bites his underlip, not wanting to moan out as he comes and his semen makes a mess of both their shirts. His teeth are pressed too tightly against the sensitive skin, and as the seconds flow away into minutes, the taste of something coppery-sweet fills Syaoran's mouth. He chokes, spitting some of it out and a trickle of warm blood rushes past his lips.
And Syaoran, shifting even closer to him, catches some of the blood trailing down his cheek with his tongue. Licking his lips, his tongue flickers out to catch some more, lapping it up as if it were a delicious drink. Syaoran shudders and disgust coils in his stomach like a snake slithering away from prying eyes.
"Tastes good," he whispers into Syaoran's ear and his hands reach for his boxers, pulling them down his knees. "You like it, so stop pretending you don't want this."
Mortification hits Syaoran with the force of a water bomb as he realises what Syaoran's intentions are – this can't be happening. Not here, not now and not with him. Too much, his mind screams as his heart beats against his ribcage, so quickly that it nearly feels like it'll burst out of his chest.
"No-stop this. I don't want this!" Syaoran yells out, tugging and trying to wring free from the constraints holding him in place. It's all futile though: the more he pulls and tugs and yanks, the more the cool iron singes his wrist – Syaoran groans and – if only his knees weren't so jelly-like now – he'd slam them right into the other's groin to make him pay. "You bastard. You damned bas-"
"Shut up," Syaoran coldly commands, and silences him with a harsh kiss – cracked lips slamming against lips, so violently that Syaoran opens his mouth in shock. This isn't a kiss, he thinks, but an assault.
This is a bad move: he gasps in shock as he feels a tongue pushing past his lips and plunging in. Wet is the only word that springs into Syaoran's head to describe this: wet and disgusting, and he stands there, unable to do anything but let Syaoran dominate over his mouth. As the kiss is broken, Syaoran feels a trail of saliva roll down his underlip. His fingers bury themselves into his palm, deep enough to bruise skin.
There's the rustling of something and Syaoran's eyes snap open. He doesn't want to look, but curiosity has killed the cat and, breathing heavily, Syaoran knows that it can't be avoided anyway. Yet, when he finally sees, fear grapples him because Syaoran is unzipping his trousers, revealing his erection.
No, no, no – this can't be true, Syaoran thinks with panic shooting through his veins like adrenaline, and he wrestles against the chains once again – he'd rather have his limbs ripped apart than go through this. All the time, Syaoran just looks at him with an expression set somewhere between dispassionate interest and apathy. And then, he just grins. "You can't run away."
He doesn't even have enough time to scream as Syaoran enters his anus – without any preparation at all. The pain – the sheer force of the intrusion – burns, and he feels tears dripping down his cheeks. It's tearing him apart – and Syaoran is sure that he's bleeding and that the injury inside of him is growing worse and worse each time Syaoran fucks him, going in and out.
"Stop - please," Syaoran says weakly, but his voice falls on deaf ears because the thrusts grow only quicker and more ruthless, driving his back against the wall every time. The chains clang and he breathes heavily, wishing that the throbbing in his head would overpower him and make him lose consciousness. Then, at least, he wouldn't have to feel this and the darkness would surely wrap him up under its comforting lull.
It's not happening, though. Syaoran is awake, feeling, hearing and experiencing it all.
There's no point in fighting back, Syaoran realises and, closing his eyes, he surrenders – like a card player revealing his deck before pulling the trigger. He's not even crying anymore. Numbness has grabbed hold of his body, and Syaoran just stares at the valley while he's being violated because this isn't love-making and it's not even fucking: it's nothing but a game of power.
No, it's not even that – it's nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
Red are the lifeless stones that are scattered about and a gust of dust is tossed upwards whenever a light breeze flits through the scene. Syaoran watches the dust and the sky: it's nearly like being back inside that tube again, watching everything and taking part in it all, though not being technically part of it.
He's fine with watching. Because if he merely observes, then he can pretend that this isn't him, that this isn't his body and that he isn't the one whom this is happening to. Delusion of this variety is like being inside of a mirror and seeing the world crumble to pieces while you remain intact.
The thrusts become harder, and then, Syaoran feels him shudder as he comes inside.
It's over and done with, and Syaoran, after wiping his cock with his shirt, gets back into his trousers with the self-satisfied pleasure of a soldier who's done his job right.
"You should just kill me," Syaoran whispers, his voice broken-sounding. His throat feels dry.
But he's not killed – Syaoran just leaves him there, half-naked, with blood and semen dripping down his thighs for all world to see. "Killing you would be mercy."
After that, he disappears, leaving behind a whirlwind of dust.
No, this is not mercy, Syaoran thinks as he feels himself falling deeper and deeper into the abyss of unconsciousness, if this is mercy, I don't want to know what cruelty is.
Then, blackness engulfs him, and Syaoran – still sinking and sinking - hopes that he'll drown in it.
...