In a single yank and shove, Itachi landed prone on the floor, just short of the bed. The collision was hard, but his reflexes helped minimize the damage and avoid a full force to head. However, the movement also triggered more nerves. Before long, he felt the equivalent of twenty swords piercing into him from every angle, all swift, sharp, and immobilizing.
It took all of his willpower to reach out and clutch onto the edge of the frame of the bed, trying to support himself up. He heard straps being unbuckled.
Metal arm guards fell to the ground, followed by the heavy fabrics of a scarf and cloak. Sasuke's intention was painfully clear.
"Even if Danzou has nothing you want, I'm sorry to say you have something I very much do, dear brother." Sasuke chuckled. "Try not to be too difficult."
Itachi forced his eyes shut and suppressed everything – the screams of his body, the mourning of his heart, the footsteps of his brother – burying any and all hindrances that would stop him from reasoning a solution out.
He needed to get out.
And for the briefest moment, death seemed to have finally caught up to him, gliding before its victim with a sickeningly sweet smile. It offered a gentlemanly hand, within its ghostly palm a promise of smile and laughter, of sunsets by the porch and halcyon days, of an eternal reunification with the child still looking for his older brother.
But another hand seized him first, one that left Itachi wide-eyed and numb and caught, his heart was more vibrant with life than ever, pounding in dread and anguish, as Sasuke violently pulled him upright.
And so, death was forced to vanish in an angry hiss. The debt would be collected, but only the day Itachi relinquished his love for that precious someone in the living world. That was not today, even as Itachi felt the obi was stripped from him, as he was tossed back on the bed, skin bathed in the candlelight.
There was no out.
Itachi had neither the will nor strength to separate from Sasuke, not again, not when his entire being was devoted to him, kneeling for days in front of altars until his body was on the verge of fainting. Itachi did not deserve forgiveness, did not deserve salvation, but he would offer his flesh, blood, and soul if only the gods permitted him to find his brother and take him far, far away. Return Sasuke the life he took away. Just save Sasuke. Just this one person.
Now, Itachi wanted to laugh at his earlier hopes that maybe he still could. He would bleed dry, and it wouldn't be enough. He could give everything, and it would not be enough. Madara himself had reminded him of this day after day, of just how worthless Itachi had become, unable to step forward and seize power, unable to go back and cradle the past, unable to stand in the present or even look in a mirror.
Meanwhile, a darker part of Itachi could be equally as cruel, mocking how he should have seen this coming, the day he would destroy his last sense of self and become a personal slave to his brother, because this was the true nature of his so-called love – deprived, depraved, and abysmal. And as that buried image of Sasuke, glowing with warmth, asleep in his arms, shriveled and died, the gaping hole was filled with empty practicality.
If his foolish attempts for Sasuke's salvation failed, he could still provide him pleasure.
His willingness to comply was disgusting, but still less so than the raw desperation that would make Itachi clutch onto Sasuke and give him anything he wanted just to please him, even if the whole world collapsed because of it. If he could be with Sasuke again for another day, another hour, another minute, did anything else matter.
It was so easy to just let it all fall. Lose sense, lose purpose. He only needed apathy to let it all fall to oblivion, and if the world could not pick itself up, then it was at its own fault for investing so much in one flawed, flawed man. History would move on regardless.
The yukata ripped.
Fingernails traced Itachi's face, down the cheekbone. And while Sasuke was still mostly dressed, Itachi was completely exposed beneath him, restrained still past the hitched breaths and deep, deep heartbeats. His gaze remained averted, focused on anything except the person above him.
If Sasuke was not mistaken, there was a thin glaze of water over those eyes.
This was indeed checkmate.
.
His prisoner surrendered. Quick to learn, quick to adapt.
There was almost an air of harmony between them, an invisible contract in which Itachi would accept his fate in exchange for his silence. As for Sasuke, he would never obtain the information for Danzou, but he would get what he wanted without annoying shrills, pathetic endeavors, and overall stupidity. In fact, he had gotten so accustomed to dealing with these nuisances, to find none was a pleasant surprise.
As a reward, maybe he could be gentle, he thought, his hand cupped around that blemished face, his thumb stroking the crease under his brother's eye.
In the candlelight, they resembled two lovers. Maybe he could continue that illusion, lean down and hush him, kiss him, tell him how everything would be okay. Tell him how beautiful he was.
Maybe he could even whisper how much he loved him.
Maybe.
Or maybe not, as Itachi's face snapped to the side, three angry scratches embedded deeply across his cheek, ragged and brimming with red. Sasuke withdrew his talons, watched his brother remain silent and still, forcing a calm under the strike. So poised. So dignified.
Sasuke wondered what it would take to break that composure, as he yanked his brother up by the hair. He slammed him against the headboard, and hungrily took his lips again. He chuckled at how little resistance he found. Itachi didn't dare bite him this time, didn't squirm away, didn't even try to break for oxygen even as Sasuke drew him higher and higher until his back arched and his only support was the hand clutching the back of his head, the one keeping him locked in place.
Itachi couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He was too intoxicated with feeling, that somewhere high above this burning pain, there was Sasuke's tongue deep within his mouth, Sasuke's hands cutting into his scalp, Sasuke's chest pressed against his, Sasuke's knee sliding higher and higher, forcing his legs apart.
It was as if Sasuke had dug a hand straight into his chest and was now gripping his arteries in a tight fist, each beat in a metronome of panic and fear, because Itachi knew this would devour him from the inside out, feed and contort on his memories until that blithe laugh was replaced by the chuckle against his lips, that warm embrace by the hand coursing down his spine. His last comfort in the past would become another tormenting shadow of what he had irrefutably lost and would never get back again.
But the choked sob to rip through his throat was not from grief, but from shame. Shame that he had allowed this to happen, shame that he was allowing it to continue, shame that, deep inside him, he wanted this. Wanted to be thoughtless and blind, to be taken and used, to be beaten and abused physically and emotionally until everything collapsed. When so defeated and tired, there was something undeniably attractive about surrender, to have all defenses crumble, to have misery swallow him whole, to relinquish all control over himself to someone else.
And if that someone was Sasuke, then it was fine.
This was purgatory, and Sasuke could hurt him until he could never feel again, destroy him until he could never stand again.
Sasuke broke apart with a laugh. It should be a sin for his brother to taste this good. His nails dragged along the underside of Itachi's jaw, ear to chin, tilting it up and granting him access to the stretch of Itachi's neck. He brushed his lips against the hinge of the jaw, grinning when he felt his brother tense.
The kisses were deceivingly gentle, teasing in its trail downwards, following the rhythm of Itachi's heightened pulse. At the crook of the neck and shoulder, he dropped the pretense. He bit down, his teeth unforgiving against Itachi's skin, all while his hands scraped down his chest, his sides then hips, leaving a path of lacerated skin. His nails sunk in, and a discharge of lightning viciously ate through both of them, spiking up to Itachi's heart and eliciting a gasp.
"Hm, could it be that you like this, nii-san," Sasuke mocked, dragging Itachi back down into the sheets and towering over him. Eyes looked up at him, pupils dilated and entranced, toes curled in anxiety. Itachi's lips were parted, swollen and coated with blood and saliva that Sasuke found himself licking away.
Itachi was lost. The contact, the intimacy, it was too foreign. He was getting sliced open, as Sasuke buried his fingers deeper into his hips, trailing down to his outer thighs, across the prisoner brand mark. Sasuke watched the softer flesh rip, the blood staining his nails, almost like ink.
He was carving a beautiful tattoo into his brother, the way the lines weaved and strangled Itachi's entire body like an attack of serpents, fangs sinking into every inch of skin. Sasuke made sure of it, that after this over, Itachi could not touch a single part of himself without being reminded of this event, of the day Sasuke wrote into his flesh. Itachi would learn what it meant to be his property.
Sasuke uncapped the bottle he had taken from the cabinets. He glanced down, almost mimicking a non-verbal request for permission, as he poured the viscous liquid onto his fingertips.
The oil dripped down from one finger to the next, then fell onto Itachi's abdomen. Even if Itachi could not see what he was holding, he could definitely feel the liquid, how it warmly oozed down until it made contact with one of the many open scratches Sasuke left on his skin.
Itachi bit down on his own lips, soaked in pain and sweat. Sasuke laughed, delighted by show.
"Careful," he cooed, "this is poison."
He smeared the oil in lazy circles with his pinky and received a tremble as reward. "And it will give you burns, stings, a sharp, nipping itch that is so unbearable you'd rather carve out your own flesh than to endure another second of it. But only when it touches... open wounds..." He traced his finger across a gash.
The reaction was just delicious. So beautiful that Sasuke considered depriving him of the antidote forever, letting the venom run in his veins until he passed out.
His fingers danced across Itachi's legs, down all the way to the toe, before curving back up the calf and back of the knee. His fingers slowed when they touched the tender skin of Itachi's inner thigh. He watched his brother tense in anticipation, dwell in fear, plea for him to stop as he added more pressure, first lightly scraping, then dragging higher and higher up the leg, digging deeper and deeper, enough to hurt, but not enough to break skin.
"Will you scream, nii-san?" Sasuke purred, just before he stuck a finger in, all the way down to the last knuckle. It was too quick, too rough, and Sasuke knew he caused a tear.
There was no scream, but Itachi's back arched lovingly, his hands desperately seized the bedsheets, his legs trembled. Each increased in intensity when Sasuke shoved in a second finger and curled both, threatening to rip him more if Itachi made the smallest movement.
Sasuke leaned in and grabbed his brother's hair again, now sleek with sweat. His fingers still inside Itachi, he whispered into his ear. "Scream for me, nii-san."
Upon hearing those words, Itachi hopelessly sought air, tangled and suspended. He was at Sasuke's mercy, trying to relax but tightening instead, trying to still but shaking uncontrollably. And the heat coursing through his body, the pain and poison chewing away at him, on top of all his heightened shinobi senses, it became too much. The last of his strength escaped him, and he was too sick, too weak to handle any more.
When Sasuke jerked his fingers free, Itachi dipped head back, releasing a silent cry. A series of muffled sobs escaped, as he suppressed down need to call out Sasuke's name over and over again in a chant, begging for him to stop this, to spare him.
Please, just stop toying with him like this, making him feel every touch, every bite.
Please, just stop bleeding his heart like this, filling him to the core with need, want, love, hate, and pure, pure hurt.
Please, just take him, just fuck him. Violate him, dirty him, corrupt him. Make him numb.
Please, anything, just end this.
Itachi was far too breathtaking when this blinded, flushed, and desperate, aroused even through the abuse and humiliation.
Sasuke reached at his limit as well.
When Sasuke penetrated his brother, he made sure each thrust was deep and agonizing. It was beautiful, how he was surrounded by pleasure, feeling Itachi contract and pulse to his every need, warm and tight and prepared to nurture his erection.
Meanwhile, Itachi was engulfed by nothing except excruciating pain and scalding, scalding shame. Itachi would not receive one drop of pleasure from this experience, not when he was torn apart, piece by piece, ignited on fire. Not when he desperately clung to the sheets, his knuckles turning paler than the cloth itself. Not when his ever so precious brother was defiling him like this, clawing away at the last shreds of his sanity.
And even when every part of him shattered, he still tried to bury his tears.
This was ecstasy, this was torture.
Sasuke clawed into Itachi's shoulders when he hit climax, laughed at how his brother served as such a sweet vessel, he was still craving more. And so, he fucked Itachi again and again, indulging himself long after Itachi broke apart and gone limp, semen and blood pooled at his thighs.
The color merged in with the sheets.
When Sasuke finished, he watched his brother, fully fallen from grace. With a smile, he wiped the liquid from Itachi's thighs, and smeared red over his brother's face, glazing over the three deep cuts he made earlier. His thumb stroke over Itachi's lips to paint them with the vile color, letting Itachi taste his beloved brother's seed.
The candlelight danced around them, casting the silhouette of two lovers, nothing more.
And Itachi felt Sasuke caress his face, gentle and soothing.
And Itachi felt Sasuke lean in, and hush him, and whisper words of comfort, that what was done to him was all an act of love. And not hate. Not revenge. Not lust. His little brother was the one person who would never use him like this.
And Itachi felt Sasuke toss him aside and laugh, laugh because Sasuke recognized that look of confusion and anguish and knew he had been right – Itachi had loved him, still loved him, even after being brutally raped.
And Itachi felt his own unsteady hand touch his face, touch the ridges and the blood and the semen, touch a decade of tears down his cheek, his eyes swirling with mixed emotions that he no longer held control over.
There was nothing dignified about Itachi anymore, nothing but a whore to be bought and played with, soiled and disgraced, tainted by his own spilled blood.
And he now belonged one hundred percent to Sasuke, claimed from finger to toe.