Someone pointed out the lack of Syaorancest in the fan fiction archives, so I decided to make a story out of it. Warnings: very graphic; rape/incest/depression/etc. I might extend this into a short story, if reviews are favorable, and if I have time, but for now, we'll call it a completed oneshot.
The bark scraped against his skin, tearing it open and leaving the flesh abraded. A hiss of pain broke through Syaoran's teeth, and hot tears ran out of his eyes, stinging the raw skin of his cheek. "Don't," he begged. Something—a foot or a fist—slammed into the small of his back, hard enough to knock the wind out of him.
"Quiet," the Other said. His voice was cold, dangerous, like the point of a sword. Syaoran took a shuddering breath, partly from the frigid air around him, but mostly from fear.
He had wanted to suffer, deserved to suffer for all he had put the others through, but he had not imagined he would suffer like this.
The Other—that was how he thought of his clone, not deigning to call him by name—threw him into the tree again. Syaoran's face hit the bark at a different angle, this time cracking his nose. The resulting jolt of agony knocked him senseless for a moment, and he fell to his knees, gasping. "Please, please, don't . . ." Until today, he had never begged. Until today, he'd been too proud, too stubborn, to yield to such commands. It wasn't so much the pain that was prompting him to do so now as it was the choking fear, the intuitive knowledge that the torment wouldn't end with mere physical pain. Syaoran begged out of fear, begged because there would be no pride left after this, only shame. You're weak, some part of him thought.
"Kneel." One word commands. That seemed to be all the Other was capable of. Empty, Syaoran thought. He's empty. No emotions, no feelings, not even words.
Fingers coiled around his hair, ripping several strands out by the roots. The pain was minimal compared to his broken nose and bloody cheek, but it his eyes budded with nascent tears. The Other shoved him into the tree again, rubbing his raw cheek against the jagged spires of bark. Syaoran could smell the distinct scent of sap mixing with saltwater and iron. Sap and blood and tears. He had meant only to hunt here—the world they'd landed in had scattered pockets of populations, but food was too scant in all the villages they'd visited so far for them to stay in any one place. It might have been the season—late winter was not a time of rich pickings in any world—but he suspected the Other had frightened away all the woodland creatures, his menacing presence warding off anything able to flee.
The hand in his hair shifted, dragged him across the side of the tree so splinters buried themselves in his face, another small pain to add to the mix. Once, he opened his eyes, and saw the lines of red running down the tree. Like dripping paint, he thought irrationally.
When his face neared the ground, a brutal kick brought him to his knees. He tried to breathe, tried to move his frozen legs, but he was too scared, like a deer frozen in front of oncoming headlights.
"Stay," the Other whispered, right next to his ear. Syaoran shivered.
The Other circled him, examining from all angles as an up-and-coming artist might study a sculpture for inspiration. Syaoran could feel the cold seeping up into his hands, numbing his fingers and making his wrists ache, but he dared not get up.
Coward, some distant part of his mind thought. Craven.
The Other finished his slow circuit, then moved once more around him. By now, the piercing cold had seeped up to his elbow, and the sensation in his fingers had disappeared almost entirely. "Perfect," his clone purred. This time, his voice carried some emotion, some poisonous, predatory edge.
"The others will come," Syaoran whispered, trying to make it sound like a threat. The words came out weak and frail. His companions were miles away, and wouldn't be expecting him back for another few hours. If they would even come at all. Syaoran thought of the cold glances, the apathetic looks, they gave him when he entered the room. He had not meant to hurt them so much with his intervention in Tokyo. He'd thought he'd done some good, done the right thing for once in his life. But no, they hated him for it, hated him because he wore the same face as the Other. They would not come looking for him.
"I don't believe you," the Other said in the same predatory voice. There was some other emotion stirring, simmering like a geyser, ready to explode. Syaoran tried to identify the emotion, but it escaped him.
"They'll come," he said shakily. "They'll kill you."
He felt his clone's fingertip trace along the ridge of his neck. "No. They won't."
Syaoran cringed away from the touch, scrambling to his feet. His body pushed forward, carried by the momentum of his first movement, and for a second, he thought he was going to escape. Then the Other's outstretched leg smashed into his shin and brought him down. His forehead hit an exposed root, and the force of the impact left him dazed and disoriented.
"You won't try that again," his clone muttered, back to the emotionless voice he used before. Syaoran tried to run, but couldn't even manage to stand. He went down on his knees again, head swimming with pain.
"Please, let me go. I won't tell them, they won't come after you, just please let me go . . ."
"No." The Other grabbed the hood of his cloak—just a thin shred of cloth keeping him from the worst of the cold temperature—and jerked it back. Syaoran instinctively struggled to hold onto the warmth, but the Other's strength and leverage made any attempt to do so futile. Half a minute later, Syaoran's shoulders were bare and exposed. Freezing air wafted over his uncovered skin, stealing his body heat at an alarming rate. A moment later, his clone snatched the back of his undershirt and brought it up around his head. The sound of stretching seams tore through the silent air.
What is he doing? Syaoran wondered as the breeze dug its nails into his back. His teeth chattered. He had felt cold before, but never like this, never so foolishly exposed to the elements.
Behind him, he heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper being unzipped.
That jolted him out of his frightened submission. He leapt to his feet, not caring about the rush of vertigo that followed, and staggered across the thin layer of snow. Under the trees, few snowflakes made it to the ground. They mostly settled on the barren branches and prickly pine needles of the trees. Still, what little snow there was made the ground slippery, and he fell twice, hard enough to bruise his tailbone. Bolts of agony flashed up and down his body, no longer emanating from one or two sources, but from every muscle and bone. All the adrenaline in the world couldn't stave off the pain.
A hand caught hold of his elbow and dragged him down again. The Other slammed a fist into his face, leaving another fracture in his nose. Syaoran tried to breathe, then realized no air could pass through his nostrils.
"Stop. Please, just stop . . ."
The Other hooked two fingers around the edge of Syaoran's pants and pulled them down. Tears ran down his bloody face as he realized what his clone had in mind. "Stop, please, please just stop . . ." His voice broke with a sob as his lower half was left exposed to the elements. His clone slid off his undergarments with a similar lack of emotion.
"Don't fight," the Other said. Syaoran stayed down, breathing hard, trying to gain control of his aching body. A hand came down on the small of his back, holding him in place. Pleas still escaped his lips—hopeless, unanswered pleas. Another hand rested higher up on his back as the Other got into position.
No one's coming, Syaoran thought, sobbing in earnest now. No one's coming to help me, I'm all alone.
I'm always alone.
He could feel the Other's hips moving across his bruised tailbone. He whimpered. Like a dog, he thought. Whimpering like a fucking dog.
His struggles had ceased now. He wasn't strong enough to fight his clone, and no one was coming to save him. The only mercy was that the piercing cold was numbing his extremities, reducing the small pains that had accumulated there.
The Other made a sound of contempt and drove his hardened member deep inside. Syaoran recoiled, howling as the pain registered with him. It was so sudden, so sharp and shocking, that his mind rejected it, dismissed it as something that couldn't possibly be happening. The blessed numbness lasted only a moment before the agony lanced through him. Syaoran had known pain, had felt the Other's sword piercing his leg in Tokyo, had felt the agony of ripping his own eye out, and the anguish when he realized it had done his clone no good, that he was still a soulless monster. Yes, Syaoran had known pain.
Never like this. Never layered with such shame, such disgrace. The clone drove deeper, rending his insides apart like the claws of a beast. Syaoran felt something tear deep inside, felt the sticky wetness of blood, shifting around as the Other moved inside him. His hands clamped around the brown grass under the snow, trying to cope with the violation.
The Other dug his nails into Syaoran's back, one more miniscule pain on top of the gut-wrenching agony of his thrusts. He could feel the Other's breath on the back of his neck, and almost retched at the thought of what was happening to him.
No one's coming, no one's coming, oh god, no one's coming for me . . .
His clone pushed impossibly deeper, tearing the inner lining of his body. Through all the pain, Syaoran was revolted to realize his own member had grown stiff. I don't want this. I never wanted this.
His clone's hands moved up to his shoulders. The monster readjusted their positions, shoving Syaoran's face into the dirt while he rose to a standing position. All at once, Syaoran tasted blood and salt and dirt.
It has to end soon, he told himself, feeling the distinct pulsing of the Other's length as he thrust once again. Hot liquid flooded Syaoran's cavity, and he gagged at the thought of what was happening. It's almost over. It must be. Please, let it be over.
The Other held him there a moment longer, demonstrating his total dominance. Syaoran sobbed, feeling the various fluids running down the back of his thigh. After a long moment, his clone pulled out and stepped back. More sticky fluid ran down from his opening, but he dared not move.
Coward, some faraway part of him accused.
Behind him, he heard the Other zipping his pants. "See you soon, Syaoran."
He whimpered. There was no defiance left in him, no vestige of dignity or self-worth. The Other walked away, his footfalls audible as his feet crushed the snow. Only when he was out of earshot did Syaoran dare to sit up. With a sort of shocked numbness, he picked up his clothes and pulled them back over his body, protecting himself from the cold. Even then, he couldn't stop shivering.
Nothing would ever be okay again.