A/N: Oh... shitcakes. Yeah, I'm so burning in hell for this.

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Everyone fantasizes. Some, that a requited love will be returned. Others, a dead friend or family member comes home.

And then there are those who dream about tying some naked girl up in his basement, slowly inching his cock down her throat while she screams.

Sometimes, we like the third fantasy better than the first or second. Sometimes, we like to substitute that girl with someone a little more personal. Sometimes, years of lidded hatred steams and steams, building up pressure, until the third fantasy isn't enough and we're forced to get creative, modifying it into something more satisfying.

We aren't, for example, going to just bind his wrists and leave him comfortably sitting on the ground.

While he's awake, we're going to take our sweet time appreciating his ankle, pulling around it the most splintered rope we can find. We're going to lasso around his waist, knot it like the obi of a yūjo. We're going to let the rope weave around his legs, and arms, and collar his neck. Then, with a pull, we will savor his gasp when his entire body suspends in air, elegantly unraveled in a web, an artistic defiance of gravity. And we will glide our hand down the side of his hip, before placing a gentle kiss at his toe and leave.

We prefer this, because we don't like it when he can rest his head against a wall and sleep, the rise of his chest calm and even. We like him to feel the pain of a crucifixion, to struggle for breath, his own weight slowly killing him. And after a day or two, we like nothing better to call his attention than a single slice that sends him collapsing to the floor, wheezing and weak. Then, we can undress him and inspect our work, the bruised markings of bondage. We can rub his fettered skin while we bring a cup and force water past his lips.

Then kick him down and smile when he chokes, watch water turn red as it trickles down his chin.

And unlike the little girl in the basement, he won't scream when we yank him up by the hair, or mar his face, or crack his ribs. Screams are too easy. Screams are an exaggeration of pain, a cry for attention. We never screamed in those eight simmering years, and neither will he.

Instead, he will suffer silently like us. When we inch deeper into his throat, ridiculing him with words nasty and cruel, he will endure and swallow his humiliation.

And sometimes, we will play nicely, remember to toss him a bowl of rice or two, a sip of alcohol. And sometimes, we will not, stabbing a kunai through both his palms to pin him in place while we spread his legs, finding things we can test inside, human or not, indulging in his sweat and pants and trembles until his knees cave.

And all times, we will politely ask if this is enough hatred. If we are worth his time. If he has finally found his coveted limitation. We will never give up the opportunity to kiss those hands that never make another seal, legs that can never walk again. We will never give up the opportunity to sit astride on his abdomen, asking him why he doesn't open those pretty eyes for us anymore.

He won't break as dramatically as that girl in the basement though. He's not going to turn into some delusional, psychotic slut as seen in the porno films, crawling on the floor dripping wet, begging for a mouthful of cock. Like the scream, it's too easy of a way out, and we want him keep as strong as the devil's pride. We want the fall to be slow. We want him alive and aware and huddled in a corner, trembling in shame.

So for eight pleasant years, he will remain in our basement. His body will rot in filth, our words will devour his mind, his tongue will taste the semen stirred in bittersweet karma. And occasionally, we imagine when it all sinks down into his bones, and he begs for mercy, kneeling in vain for repentance. But only occasionally, because we don't get pleasure from repentance anymore than from rape.

Our fantasy is only about revenge. How to get our traitorous brother to feel the full extent of our pain, because every time we stare into those indifferent eyes, our blood boils. His face is void, touched by nirvana, eternally unaffected by emotion and free from suffering.

And so, what we truly fantasize is the day he's not. When we're thrusting in and making him bleed, he finally opens those eyes, and we see they are clear and agonized. We finally get a mirror of torment and desire and an uninhibited love that forces him to face our hatred, suffer not only from his pain, but ours as well, raw and directly to his heart.

We want the first broken crack to escape his lips to not be from fear nor desperation, but sorrow. For him to know he deserves this.

That's all we want.

Then we'll stop. And we won't harm him anymore, won't kill him, but unlock the door to the basement, leave, and never come back.

Everyone fantasizes. Some, that a requited love will be returned. Others, a dead friend or family member comes home.

We fantasize when we can finally pass on our wretched existence and die.