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muah.
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rianax 'cause I wuw you: a small slice of the EVIL Kyuubi-won fic, Sasuke POV.
WARNING: talk of torture and rape and hopelessness. Is part of a fic I won't start posting for a while, and the whole thing is quite NC-17.
KIN!! ne lis pas.
The worse, really, is that you get used to it. You get used to sleeping in a pile with other naked, dirty bodies in a cold underground room, you get used to cringing every time steps echo down the corridor, you get used to being on your knees, to eating out of His hand, you get used to being thrown on your front or back and penetrated roughly, to choking on His cock, to being streaked with dried cum and blood. You get used to the sick relief every time you're not chosen, you get used to the shame that before would have had you committing suicide on the spot -- you get used to surviving it all, day after day, just to live for more of the same. You get so used to awful things that you can even separate things into different levels of awfulness, and when it's merely unpleasant, then it's a good day.
Sometimes He leaves for days, and then you go hungry, and you wonder if He'll leave you all to die in this hole -- you wonder how far you'll go to survive, if the first one to die will end up being eaten by the others -- but the hunger is a fair price for the relief of not bearing his overwhelming presence, the permanent threat of His very existence. Or would be, if all along you didn't wonder how long you have left before He comes back; and sometimes hearing His steps is a relief from the debilitating anticipation.
And then you choke on His chakra flooding the room, and you wait with cold dread as He makes his choice -- or worse, as He doesn't and doesn't and doesn't and when is He going to...? -- and you fall asleep to the sound of someone else's pain, because this is the only time you can be reasonably sure you're safe. Most of the time, that is -- but it's still more of a guarantee than anything else.
And you get used to it all, and when He touches your hair, like one would pat a dog, and congratulates you on a blow-job well done, you even feel that sick, sick glow inside your chest -- because you pleased Him, you pleased your master -- and you can tell yourself as many times as you want that you're glad because when he's content, he doesn't hurt you as much, but the sad truth is that He's branded himself on your soul and you will never be free of Him. He is your pain, your relief, your fears and hopes and anger and hopelessness. He is your provider, your world, your god. He is everything.
And you don't even remember what hate is anymore. There is nothing else to measure it against. There is no hope of revenge to keep the black flame alive. When you resist, it's out of habit -- He would be disappointed if you didn't resist, and disappointing Him is a bad, bad idea -- and even then, you calculate very precisely just how far you can go before His amusement turns into honest annoyance. He likes to tame you, every time, again and again. He feeds you well, better than most of the others -- just so you can resist Him more. Your neck is scarred with the imprint of His fangs, more scar tissue than smooth skin. And you survive, day after day after day of the same and the same, and you never knew someone could be broken that badly and not die. But you're broken indeed, chipped and scarred and bent in places, and yet you don't die. Not yet. Not yet.
And He wakes up, eyes fuzzy with sleep, and for a few seconds the eyes are blue and the voice is soft, as he asks you what time it is, and when the mission will start, and then the eyes turn red and you're pulled closer and molested, and then, then you think you might die. You will die. You die every time he dies, and this is what will end up breaking you beyond repair. Not the torture. Not the rapes. Not the forced submission. Not the cold or the hunger or anything like that. No, what will end up killing you, is the death of your hope, every time he dies.
But even then, you wait for his rebirth. This faith is not of your doing; you never had it in you to have faith in anything, in anyone. He put it there, and there it stays. And this is one thing He hasn't broken yet. You know He would, if He knew it was there. You know He will, anyway, eventually, just by keeping on doing exactly what He's been doing all along.
But despite it all, you will survive. Just another day. After all, you can get used to anything, really.
rianax 'cause I wuw you: a small slice of the EVIL Kyuubi-won fic, Sasuke POV.WARNING: talk of torture and rape and hopelessness. Is part of a fic I won't start posting for a while, and the whole thing is quite NC-17.
KIN!! ne lis pas.
The worse, really, is that you get used to it. You get used to sleeping in a pile with other naked, dirty bodies in a cold underground room, you get used to cringing every time steps echo down the corridor, you get used to being on your knees, to eating out of His hand, you get used to being thrown on your front or back and penetrated roughly, to choking on His cock, to being streaked with dried cum and blood. You get used to the sick relief every time you're not chosen, you get used to the shame that before would have had you committing suicide on the spot -- you get used to surviving it all, day after day, just to live for more of the same. You get so used to awful things that you can even separate things into different levels of awfulness, and when it's merely unpleasant, then it's a good day.
Sometimes He leaves for days, and then you go hungry, and you wonder if He'll leave you all to die in this hole -- you wonder how far you'll go to survive, if the first one to die will end up being eaten by the others -- but the hunger is a fair price for the relief of not bearing his overwhelming presence, the permanent threat of His very existence. Or would be, if all along you didn't wonder how long you have left before He comes back; and sometimes hearing His steps is a relief from the debilitating anticipation.
And then you choke on His chakra flooding the room, and you wait with cold dread as He makes his choice -- or worse, as He doesn't and doesn't and doesn't and when is He going to...? -- and you fall asleep to the sound of someone else's pain, because this is the only time you can be reasonably sure you're safe. Most of the time, that is -- but it's still more of a guarantee than anything else.
And you get used to it all, and when He touches your hair, like one would pat a dog, and congratulates you on a blow-job well done, you even feel that sick, sick glow inside your chest -- because you pleased Him, you pleased your master -- and you can tell yourself as many times as you want that you're glad because when he's content, he doesn't hurt you as much, but the sad truth is that He's branded himself on your soul and you will never be free of Him. He is your pain, your relief, your fears and hopes and anger and hopelessness. He is your provider, your world, your god. He is everything.
And you don't even remember what hate is anymore. There is nothing else to measure it against. There is no hope of revenge to keep the black flame alive. When you resist, it's out of habit -- He would be disappointed if you didn't resist, and disappointing Him is a bad, bad idea -- and even then, you calculate very precisely just how far you can go before His amusement turns into honest annoyance. He likes to tame you, every time, again and again. He feeds you well, better than most of the others -- just so you can resist Him more. Your neck is scarred with the imprint of His fangs, more scar tissue than smooth skin. And you survive, day after day after day of the same and the same, and you never knew someone could be broken that badly and not die. But you're broken indeed, chipped and scarred and bent in places, and yet you don't die. Not yet. Not yet.
And He wakes up, eyes fuzzy with sleep, and for a few seconds the eyes are blue and the voice is soft, as he asks you what time it is, and when the mission will start, and then the eyes turn red and you're pulled closer and molested, and then, then you think you might die. You will die. You die every time he dies, and this is what will end up breaking you beyond repair. Not the torture. Not the rapes. Not the forced submission. Not the cold or the hunger or anything like that. No, what will end up killing you, is the death of your hope, every time he dies.
But even then, you wait for his rebirth. This faith is not of your doing; you never had it in you to have faith in anything, in anyone. He put it there, and there it stays. And this is one thing He hasn't broken yet. You know He would, if He knew it was there. You know He will, anyway, eventually, just by keeping on doing exactly what He's been doing all along.
But despite it all, you will survive. Just another day. After all, you can get used to anything, really.
no subject
This is for me?...... I am very flattered and very scared at the moment, but more of the former. Your work smothers me, overwhelms me, and drowns me, no one else has this effect on me. The repetition and the numb horror you describe hits me in the gut like fist and I able unable to breathe.
no subject
*squirms* *blushes* *embarrassed* ##^-^##
no subject
*glomps and percedes to slowly suffocate Askerian*
no subject
... but I want to see the rest of it. o_o
::loves the way you write Kyuubi::
~Sam
no subject
I'll write more another day. Kyuubi ain't talking to me right now. ~_~ also, i must sleep.
no subject
Yea, I lurks a lot so you won't be brothered by me.
no subject
btw, just posted more teamwork. You shall delurk and comment, because I say so.
(kidding, you don't have to. I've got tons of lurkers, so it's really not important. I know they wouldn't be watching if they didn't like. XD Still ... *whores self for comments*)