Dream ЖЖ 005
Warning, Mature Content: Rape, BDSM, Graphic, Torture, Incest
Might be triggering for some.
Darkness. He can't see. His eyes are open, but there is a cloth wrapped around his eyes--it smells stale and coppery, like blood. There is only darkness in his vision, and he knows that it is gone.
He's blind.
He can't move his arms because they are held high above him, thick chains and what feels like seals wrapped around his arms, lifting his body until his knees barely touch the ground. There are chains around his legs as well, tight and uncomfortable, weighing him down and making the burn in his shoulders more severe. He is trapped in this awkward, tense position with the stone floor and steel chains, and the burn in his arms distracting him. It is a weak attempt to wear him down--amateurish.
He can't see.
A hand touches his back, softly then roughly shoving him forward. He jerks in his chains. There is a light scrape of cloth against his left leg. Where are his clothes?
"Look at you. Weak, pathetic, useless."
The hand turns into a fist and punches him in the back near his kidneys and he can feel the chakra that it is infused with as it jumps along his skin like electricity. He doesn't flinch, but the sensation is intense. With his lack of sight, his body is automatically adjusting to the loss--his other senses becoming more alert and aware of his surroundings. His eyes widen but still there is nothing, no light, no shadows.
"You're nothing."
He doesn't speak. The hand flattens against his back, but slides around his waist. The body next to him shifts and suddenly there is a chest pressed against his back. It's warm, rough--the material of the clothing only accentuating his lack of. The hand rakes nails across his chest, digging deep, cutting open wounds that burn as blood wells in and the skin protests the rough treatment. His eyes squint, but he doesn't react. He doesn't speak.
The body pressed against him--and the hand--is gone. Then a hand twists into a patch of hair in the back of his head--it's not the same one--tugging abruptly and forcing his head to face upwards. Is there a ceiling there? Is it the open sky? He can't hear anything. No wind, no animals, nothing.
"You're less than nothing. Everything you touch rots away, spoiled and tainted."
The tight hold the hand has on his hair aches and he almost thinks he can feel the strands as each one is slowly being pulled from his scalp.
"You took everything."
He can't see, but he knows. He knows this voice, these hands, the reason why this is happening. Why he can't--won't--speak.
"I want it back."
He knows. But he can't give it back. It's all gone and there is nothing he or anyone else can do. He doesn't speak.
The hand moves from his hair and the other returns, touching him again, running down his sides and then up them again. The rough, yet smoothed calluses on the fingers scratch against his skin, causes tingling sensations to crawl across his skin like the strokes of a stiff feather.
Fingers move along his arms, taking special care to run across the scars there, rubbing against, and then raking nails over them. He twitches, shifts, not sure what this is leading to. He wishes he could see. But he can't. All he can do is feel the sparks the touching sends through his nerves--and it's having more of an effect than it should.
"You took it all from me."
He knows. Knows more deeply than anyone would ever realize or be able to comprehend of what he has done and what he would so easily do again. Knows what it cost him.
The hands are gone. But it doesn't provide him with relief. He knows that it's far from over.
And it's fire. Fire burning through his entire body, he can't breath, he can't move his limbs on his own. His body is twitching uncontrollably and his mouth is wide, eyes bulging in shock.
There is screeching in the air. Does it drown out his screaming or has he lost the ability to scream?
"I want it back. I want them back."
He can't--wouldn't even if he could. It's done. It's over. He can't--wouldn't--change it.
But the pain. The fire. His muscles are spasming and he can feel the peeling of over-heated flesh, as if he'd stayed out in the sun too long and gotten a severe burn. His legs are trapped against the floor and the chains wrapped around them are so hot he knows they will eat through him if it doesn't--
It stops.
He slumps forward, the smell of smoke and charred flesh filling his nose and making him choke. His throat is dry and he can't feel his arms anymore, and his legs--he doesn't want to think of what's happening.
And somehow his body is reacting. He can feel how hard he is getting--how the catch in his breath is not just from the pain--or maybe it is and it's the pain that is making him want to ask for it again--
"Give him back. You took him away, now give him back."
The chest is back against his back and the hands are moving again. He shakes his head slightly. Who? Who is he searching for?
The one hand moves down and wraps around him, squeezing, pulling, making it hurt--but it's good, a good hurt, the skin is peeling beneath that powerful hand, he knows he's going to bleed, and this is just what he deserves--and a choked sound catches in his throat while he tries to clench his teeth. The mouth presses against his ear, breathing harsh and angry as if the fury can be felt in the air as he speaks.
"Give him back!"
The pumping, fondling doesn't stop, he doesn't know what he's doing or why he's doing it, he can't stop him, it's too much--
"He's dead. Dead."
He doesn't even know who he's speaking of, who he is searching for. But he has to say something, has to distract him from what he's doing. And it works. The hand stops and slowly pulls away and he has to clench his teeth even harder and he wants to sigh, but doesn't.
It doesn't take long for the hands to return.
One runs along his back once more, while a sharp object slides up his leg, a thin line drawn from his thigh up his side and around to his chest. He holds his breath as the kunai--he knows that edge, knows the sharpness and the killing intent that is behind it--stops just over his heart.
It is such a strange bundle of sensations as the hand on his back continues to stroke over his skin like it is soothing an unsettled pet. The kunai twists, but doesn't press down.
"He's here. Right here with you. And I can find him. I can bring him back."
The kunai pushes into his skin and down, gouging into him--his eyes are so wide, but he can't see anything. There is just the darkness and it's eating away at him. Devouring him. He wants to embrace it--but doesn't because he deserves this, this pain and this hurt, and why is he still so hard?--only to have him jerk him back against him. The rough cloth is gone and all he can feel is skin against his that burns like it's on fire--scalding.
Oh he can feel it. He can feel his arousal and desire--for revenge--and it presses against him and he can't believe this is happening. He clenches his teeth and bites his lip until it bleeds, but the hand grabs his jaw and squeezes, forcing him to let go of his lip. Fingers invade in his mouth, swirling around until they have touched every crease and crevice, rubbing against his split lip as they pull out.
"No. I want to hear you."
They're touching him, pushing into him and it hurts--it blazes along his nerves and it hurts so good, but it's wrong, so wrong that he doesn't know how it could ever feel this good--but he doesn't understand.
He doesn't want to see. Because seeing would mean that it is happening and it's not just his disease-addled brain playing tricks on him. If he can't see he can deny. If he can't see then this didn't happen. It's not Reality. This isn't happening, He's not doing this, and he's not feeling like he's about to burst, because it's not happening.
And because it's not real he can speak. Because only in Reality must Ninja remain silent even in the face of torture.
But then all that comes out is a gasp as he feels himself being speared from both sides. The blood is dripping down his chest and the kunai pushes down and he can feel it going deep--just as deep as the heat behind him that shoves until it burns him inside--he chokes and there is wetness on his cheeks. He can smell salt. Is he crying?
It hurts--it's so good because it hurts--and if the kunai goes any deeper he knows it will reach his heart and he'll be dead, but he wants it--and doesn't because then the pain will end and it's too good to end--and he cries out as he pushes deeper and withdraws and pushes again and the pain is so good, he doesn't know if he can last--
"That's it. I'll find you. I'll bring you back."
That mouth is near his ear again, biting, licking, teasing. Teeth gnaw at his neck and a harsh laugh escapes them against his shoulder. The kunai is removed and he chokes again, but the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh drowns out the beginning and it trails away in an unsteady groan. It's too much and he knows that he is about to let go, his eyes falling lidded and his mouth open as he tries to take in as many short breaths as he can, trying to clear his mind enough to think, but it's all too much--
"Let me hear you scream, Nii-san."
The kunai finally plunges home just as he comes harder than he believes he ever has, but he can't speak.
He's too busy screaming.
---------------------------------------------------------------
*Itachi's eyes fly open and his chest is heaving and he sits up immediately, hand going to his chest over his heart. His eyes are wide and his looking around him, as if refamiliarizing him which his surroudings. He looks quickly to the side, and the Hitomi sitting pressed against the tree beside him does not allow for what he is looking at. Then he turns his eyes to the screen, staring at it for a moment, but his eyes are glazed, as if he does not really see what it in front of him. Then his eyes focus and his hands are moving, eyes still trained on the screen. He stands and the Hitomi shakily follows his movements. It looks like he's moving from the area of wherever he is at. The screen goes black.*
Might be triggering for some.
Darkness. He can't see. His eyes are open, but there is a cloth wrapped around his eyes--it smells stale and coppery, like blood. There is only darkness in his vision, and he knows that it is gone.
He's blind.
He can't move his arms because they are held high above him, thick chains and what feels like seals wrapped around his arms, lifting his body until his knees barely touch the ground. There are chains around his legs as well, tight and uncomfortable, weighing him down and making the burn in his shoulders more severe. He is trapped in this awkward, tense position with the stone floor and steel chains, and the burn in his arms distracting him. It is a weak attempt to wear him down--amateurish.
He can't see.
A hand touches his back, softly then roughly shoving him forward. He jerks in his chains. There is a light scrape of cloth against his left leg. Where are his clothes?
"Look at you. Weak, pathetic, useless."
The hand turns into a fist and punches him in the back near his kidneys and he can feel the chakra that it is infused with as it jumps along his skin like electricity. He doesn't flinch, but the sensation is intense. With his lack of sight, his body is automatically adjusting to the loss--his other senses becoming more alert and aware of his surroundings. His eyes widen but still there is nothing, no light, no shadows.
"You're nothing."
He doesn't speak. The hand flattens against his back, but slides around his waist. The body next to him shifts and suddenly there is a chest pressed against his back. It's warm, rough--the material of the clothing only accentuating his lack of. The hand rakes nails across his chest, digging deep, cutting open wounds that burn as blood wells in and the skin protests the rough treatment. His eyes squint, but he doesn't react. He doesn't speak.
The body pressed against him--and the hand--is gone. Then a hand twists into a patch of hair in the back of his head--it's not the same one--tugging abruptly and forcing his head to face upwards. Is there a ceiling there? Is it the open sky? He can't hear anything. No wind, no animals, nothing.
"You're less than nothing. Everything you touch rots away, spoiled and tainted."
The tight hold the hand has on his hair aches and he almost thinks he can feel the strands as each one is slowly being pulled from his scalp.
"You took everything."
He can't see, but he knows. He knows this voice, these hands, the reason why this is happening. Why he can't--won't--speak.
"I want it back."
He knows. But he can't give it back. It's all gone and there is nothing he or anyone else can do. He doesn't speak.
The hand moves from his hair and the other returns, touching him again, running down his sides and then up them again. The rough, yet smoothed calluses on the fingers scratch against his skin, causes tingling sensations to crawl across his skin like the strokes of a stiff feather.
Fingers move along his arms, taking special care to run across the scars there, rubbing against, and then raking nails over them. He twitches, shifts, not sure what this is leading to. He wishes he could see. But he can't. All he can do is feel the sparks the touching sends through his nerves--and it's having more of an effect than it should.
"You took it all from me."
He knows. Knows more deeply than anyone would ever realize or be able to comprehend of what he has done and what he would so easily do again. Knows what it cost him.
The hands are gone. But it doesn't provide him with relief. He knows that it's far from over.
And it's fire. Fire burning through his entire body, he can't breath, he can't move his limbs on his own. His body is twitching uncontrollably and his mouth is wide, eyes bulging in shock.
There is screeching in the air. Does it drown out his screaming or has he lost the ability to scream?
"I want it back. I want them back."
He can't--wouldn't even if he could. It's done. It's over. He can't--wouldn't--change it.
But the pain. The fire. His muscles are spasming and he can feel the peeling of over-heated flesh, as if he'd stayed out in the sun too long and gotten a severe burn. His legs are trapped against the floor and the chains wrapped around them are so hot he knows they will eat through him if it doesn't--
It stops.
He slumps forward, the smell of smoke and charred flesh filling his nose and making him choke. His throat is dry and he can't feel his arms anymore, and his legs--he doesn't want to think of what's happening.
And somehow his body is reacting. He can feel how hard he is getting--how the catch in his breath is not just from the pain--or maybe it is and it's the pain that is making him want to ask for it again--
"Give him back. You took him away, now give him back."
The chest is back against his back and the hands are moving again. He shakes his head slightly. Who? Who is he searching for?
The one hand moves down and wraps around him, squeezing, pulling, making it hurt--but it's good, a good hurt, the skin is peeling beneath that powerful hand, he knows he's going to bleed, and this is just what he deserves--and a choked sound catches in his throat while he tries to clench his teeth. The mouth presses against his ear, breathing harsh and angry as if the fury can be felt in the air as he speaks.
"Give him back!"
The pumping, fondling doesn't stop, he doesn't know what he's doing or why he's doing it, he can't stop him, it's too much--
"He's dead. Dead."
He doesn't even know who he's speaking of, who he is searching for. But he has to say something, has to distract him from what he's doing. And it works. The hand stops and slowly pulls away and he has to clench his teeth even harder and he wants to sigh, but doesn't.
It doesn't take long for the hands to return.
One runs along his back once more, while a sharp object slides up his leg, a thin line drawn from his thigh up his side and around to his chest. He holds his breath as the kunai--he knows that edge, knows the sharpness and the killing intent that is behind it--stops just over his heart.
It is such a strange bundle of sensations as the hand on his back continues to stroke over his skin like it is soothing an unsettled pet. The kunai twists, but doesn't press down.
"He's here. Right here with you. And I can find him. I can bring him back."
The kunai pushes into his skin and down, gouging into him--his eyes are so wide, but he can't see anything. There is just the darkness and it's eating away at him. Devouring him. He wants to embrace it--but doesn't because he deserves this, this pain and this hurt, and why is he still so hard?--only to have him jerk him back against him. The rough cloth is gone and all he can feel is skin against his that burns like it's on fire--scalding.
Oh he can feel it. He can feel his arousal and desire--for revenge--and it presses against him and he can't believe this is happening. He clenches his teeth and bites his lip until it bleeds, but the hand grabs his jaw and squeezes, forcing him to let go of his lip. Fingers invade in his mouth, swirling around until they have touched every crease and crevice, rubbing against his split lip as they pull out.
"No. I want to hear you."
They're touching him, pushing into him and it hurts--it blazes along his nerves and it hurts so good, but it's wrong, so wrong that he doesn't know how it could ever feel this good--but he doesn't understand.
He doesn't want to see. Because seeing would mean that it is happening and it's not just his disease-addled brain playing tricks on him. If he can't see he can deny. If he can't see then this didn't happen. It's not Reality. This isn't happening, He's not doing this, and he's not feeling like he's about to burst, because it's not happening.
And because it's not real he can speak. Because only in Reality must Ninja remain silent even in the face of torture.
But then all that comes out is a gasp as he feels himself being speared from both sides. The blood is dripping down his chest and the kunai pushes down and he can feel it going deep--just as deep as the heat behind him that shoves until it burns him inside--he chokes and there is wetness on his cheeks. He can smell salt. Is he crying?
It hurts--it's so good because it hurts--and if the kunai goes any deeper he knows it will reach his heart and he'll be dead, but he wants it--and doesn't because then the pain will end and it's too good to end--and he cries out as he pushes deeper and withdraws and pushes again and the pain is so good, he doesn't know if he can last--
"That's it. I'll find you. I'll bring you back."
That mouth is near his ear again, biting, licking, teasing. Teeth gnaw at his neck and a harsh laugh escapes them against his shoulder. The kunai is removed and he chokes again, but the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh drowns out the beginning and it trails away in an unsteady groan. It's too much and he knows that he is about to let go, his eyes falling lidded and his mouth open as he tries to take in as many short breaths as he can, trying to clear his mind enough to think, but it's all too much--
"Let me hear you scream, Nii-san."
The kunai finally plunges home just as he comes harder than he believes he ever has, but he can't speak.
He's too busy screaming.
---------------------------------------------------------------
*Itachi's eyes fly open and his chest is heaving and he sits up immediately, hand going to his chest over his heart. His eyes are wide and his looking around him, as if refamiliarizing him which his surroudings. He looks quickly to the side, and the Hitomi sitting pressed against the tree beside him does not allow for what he is looking at. Then he turns his eyes to the screen, staring at it for a moment, but his eyes are glazed, as if he does not really see what it in front of him. Then his eyes focus and his hands are moving, eyes still trained on the screen. He stands and the Hitomi shakily follows his movements. It looks like he's moving from the area of wherever he is at. The screen goes black.*