The Sweetest Fallacy

20 Multi-fandom Icons

2009-01-02T09:27:08Z

20 multi-fandom icons

[13] Assassin's Creed
[6] Silent Hill 4
[1] Grand Theft Auto IV

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8 Naruto icons

2008-12-02T05:43:53Z

8 Naruto Icons
[8] Sai x Sakura

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Konan x Sakura

2008-11-10T00:24:54Z

Title: Renegade
Fandom: Naruto
Pairing: Konan x Sakura
Rating: NC-17
Content: HJ, oral
Length: one-shot
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto; all characters contained herein are above the age of eighteen.

( The situation did not loom so much as float inauspiciously above her. )

Harry x Heather

2008-10-26T02:20:01Z

Title: Lowercase
Fandom: Silent Hill 3
Pairing: Harry x Heather
Rating: NC-17
Content: Oral
Length: One-shot
Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill.

( She hadn't grown up in the most average of circumstances, and that was one way Heather liked to justify this. )

7 Naruto Icons

2008-10-13T01:49:26Z

7 Naruto Icons
[1] Shikamaru
[1] Kakashi
[1] Karin
[1] Shiho
[1] Naruto
[1] Suigetsu
[1] Shikamaru x Sakura

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Valtiel x Heather

2008-08-02T18:04:27Z

Title: Human Nature
Fandom: Silent Hill 3
Pairing: Valtiel x Heather
Rating: NC-17
Content: soloF, HJ, oral
Length: One-shot
Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill.

( Sometimes, after Heather had been injured too badly, after she had fallen to her knees and let Silent Hill take a hold of the upper hand, she would see him. )

Pyramid Head x Maria

2008-06-05T03:44:03Z

Title: Inutile
Fandom: Silent Hill 2
Pairing: Pyramid Head x Maria
Rating: NC-17
Content: Rape, necrophilia
Length: One-shot
Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill.
A/N: I have discarded my anonymity.

It was a thousand brands on his skin, it was a hundred knifes deeply rooted into the muscle, it was a fire burning in the bone marrow and the tendons and the ligaments and he was dying, he could feel it, dying, he could smell it--

--and he needed this. Needed, needed, never needed more in his life, never wanted more in his life, never craved, never desired, never coveted anything so much as this, and the fire was still burning and now his head was swimming and then his hands began to ache for that touch, for that gratification for grabbing onto something solid and soft and wet and warm and perfect and satisfying but it would never satisfy him, this he knew, and yet he persistent.

Screaming, crying, fighting, struggling, failing, the girl was caught, was in his clutches, and oh, yes, she was solid, and oh, yes, her skin was soft, and oh, yes, he knew she was wet and warm and perfect and maybe, just maybe this time, she could be satisfying.

He twisted an arm, broke it, twisted a leg, snapped it, arranged her against a hospital gurney so that she was open and waiting, even if she wasn't really waiting so much as dreading and screaming more, and that dark, tight place inside her, the place where he wanted to get lost and hide and never come out, it as right before him, and he pressed himself against that place, drove inside, deeper, deeper, deeper and--

--she was still screaming, her throat was dry, still wrestling, but her limbs were dying, still--

He moaned over a breath, an exhale, one telltale sign of gratification, of heaven, of paradise, Xanadu, the promised land. And Maria screamed on, and her good leg dug into his ribs and his side, and her good arm tried to wrest him away, and she screamed so much that her voice trembled, shook, quivered, faltered, and then stopped altogether, and Pyramid Head groaned piteously, because--

--scream, it was all a part of the pleasure; scream, it was all a part of the pain. Pleasure, pain, pain, pleasure, it was all one thing, one train of thought, one course of action, one state of being, so why wouldn't she scream--

Thick hands, gripping her waist, crushing, bruising, destroying, tainting her, toes inside boots, curling at the pleasure, stretching at the pleasure, moving at the pleasure, teeth biting a bottom lip, drawing blood, blood didn't matter, blood was an every day occurrence, blood was a part of the pleasure--

She was limp and he was not and he was moving and she was not and he was coming and she was not and she was dead and he was not. Strings of semen, filling, defiling, never creating, never useful, there just to be there, sterile, inutile.

And she was still limp, unmoving, dead, and Pyramid Head lost all senses of pleasure, lost all senses of lust, lost all senses but the one telling him that this thing no longer existence, that look what he'd done, what he'd touched, look what he could never touch again. Look what a monster he was. Look how useless he was. Strings of semen, never creating, never useful, there to be there, sterile, inutile, painting her thighs, glossing the place that was warm and wet and perfect.

The dead thing was thrown against the ground, thrown against the wall, kicked, punched, stabbed, brutalized, beaten, murdered beyond death, defiled again. And then the dead thing was set carefully atop the gurney and a sheet was placed gently atop the gurney and the dead thing and the sheet and the gurney and the dead thing were wheeled carefully into a corner, where they lay in wait to be inspected by the next passerby. And Pyramid Head left, and Pyramid Head came, but Pyramid Head never really stayed, and he never really had a purpose, and he never really was anything more than a monster, and no matter how many times the process was repeated, Pyramid Head never changed.

A man walks through a hospital hallway, light in his breast pocket, a beaten woman at his side, a cast on her arm and a cast on her leg and a bandage over her eye and she clings to him like a second skin, like a sheen of sweat, like a fresh layer of blood.

And the man walks to inspect the bloodstained gurney, and the woman beside him winces at the pain and the fear, and he feels fearful, too, always fearful, they're always fearful, and he says to himself, "I'm not going to look under there." And he says to himself, "I don't want to know what's under there." And he and his second skin, sheen of sweat, layer of blood, continue through the hospital and down the spiraling walkway and through the fog and the gurney is forgotten, and until the next one comes, the gurney is forgotten, Pyramid Head is forgotten.

And the process was repeated and Pyramid Head never really changed; Pyramid Head never really could change, never get gratification, never reach the land of milk and honey, because he was a monster, inutile, existing just to exist, there just to be there.

Strings of semen, painting thighs, tainting, marking, defiling.

Valtiel x Heather

2008-06-05T03:40:04Z

Title: Distance
Fandom: Silent Hill 3
Pairing: Valtiel x Heather
Rating: NC-17
Content: SoloF
Length: One-shot
Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill.
A/N: I have discarded my anonymity.

Heather was a good person. She went to school and she paid her taxes where applicable and she most certainly had never done anything to deserve the hellish environment of Silent Hill.

She didn't deserve to be criticized or patronized, either; not by herself or anybody. Silent Hill had different effects on different people. Could she blamed if she had suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of sexual arousal?

Well...partly. Especially since she was in a church and the corpses of downed "monsters" littered various parts of the room. She really shouldn't be doing this, but she'd tried to ignore it, and with every step, the heat compounded until it became a significant distraction. How was she supposed to defend herself like this? She'd orgasm from the friction of her thighs rubbing together as she ran sooner than she'd escape from a monster or manage to shoot it in the head.

So here she stood, leaning heavily against a dilapidated wall, one hand down her skirt and the other holding a gun tightly. She tried to finish up quickly and cleanly, also as quietly as possibly, but none of that seemed to be working in her favor at the current time. She'd been at it for fifteen minutes already, and she could barely feel any effect of her ministrations at all. She was also soaking her fingers, panties, and thighs, though that was to be expected. But the fact that she had to keep stifling some very position-giving-away sounds was worrying her. She didn't want to be discovered, by man or monster it didn't matter, and especially not like this!

She needed imagery, something in her head, the help along this process. She thought of Vincent, but that didn't work because he was creepy and also an asshole. She thought of Douglas, but the age gap was far too great for her to consider him sexy, in her opinion. She thought of Stanley Coleman, that creepy stalker, because he might have been attractive, and all girls love rape fantasies. But that didn't work either, because as it turned out, Heather didn't enjoy rape fantasies when she was currently smack-dab in the middle of a place like Silent Hill.

There were boys back at home she could think of, and at last, when the pad of her finger pressed particularly hard against her clit, she felt a sharp pang of pleasure, but it was hard to think of them considering her current disposition.

She just bit her lip and pushed her middle finger inside of her, the knuckle of her thumb stimulating her clit as she did so, and started up a familiar pattern of in-out, in-out. She clenched around herself, thankful that she was almost, almost there.

She could feel her climax fast approaching, and she glanced sideways for no reason in particular. And he was there, that...that monster thing, the one that followed her around in the hospital and was often seen turning valves or tormenting a nurse.

He was watching her, and to Heather's immense surprise and disgust, her pleasure spiked and she drew her knees together, crying out, hand still between her legs.

The man-monster--was he the metatron she'd read about? Yes, he had to be--crept closer on all fours, head twitching here and there, hesitating when he drew too near or when Heather gasped.

She kept her eyes firmly on him, and during the peak of it all, nothing seemed to immoral or disgusting anymore. She closed her eyes and the back of her head hit the chain link fence behind her, rattling it and startling the metatron to jump to his feet and skitter backwards a few steps.

He was the clearest image she had in her head, so she imagined him pushing against her, pinning her to the fence, taking his cock in one hand and rubbing it over her slit.

The metatron advanced once more when she didn't show any outward signs that she would give chase, still on his feet, hunched over slightly, head twitching but barely. He watched her with visible interest, watched her writhe and squirm under her own hands, and finally, he watched her orgasm, clenching around herself, crying out on one long, tortured cry, and then panting heavily afterward.

She didn't move and he shifted closer, but when he was close enough so that he could smell her, she could smell him, she looked up at him with a terrified look in her eyes and backed up, gun aimed at him.

"Get away from me!" she yelled, and she fired some shots after him when he sprinted away, pressing hands and feet to the ground to propel him faster.

Gasping, panting for breath, Heather brushed her bangs out of her face, wet from perspiration. She swallowed a sob and leaned heavily back against the fence, sliding down to sit with her legs drawn in and her face pressed into her knees.

And Valtiel watched from a distance, paced, and his head convulsed curiously.

Pyramid Head x Maria

2008-06-05T03:36:53Z

Title: In the Making
Fandom: Silent Hill 2
Pairing: Pyramid Head x Maria
Rating: NC-17
Content: Just sex
Length: One-shot
Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill.
A/N: I have discarded my anonymity.

She hadn't left, he'd observed. She'd screamed and cried and thrown a fit, but no matter how hard she tried, the portion missing from the road leading out never returned. She'd tried to climb down the side of the broken road, asphalt and dirty crumbling under her searching hands and feet, but she'd returned less than five minutes later, shaky, weak, and cursing about the damn thing probably being bottomless anyway.

Not to him, though. Maria didn't talk to him, and really, he was fine with that. He was fine with just watching.

She'd tried to trek through the forests to escape from the town, but she just continued to return to where she began, or somehow magically on the other side. And after every such event, which she participated in bi-monthly, she'd pull out a metal flask strapped to the inside of her thigh and drown herself in a puddle of vodka and later, her own vomit. But then she'd just pick herself up and stumble off to bathe, and then repeat the process.

She lived through this for about a year or two before she finally realized that no, Silent Hill wasn't going to let her go anywhere, and yes, she should probably just make the best of the situation.

And normally, he had good senses. Damn good senses. He could pin a flesh-eating bug to a wall behind him with the point of the Great Knife, and trust him, the Great Knife was no penknife. He could hear an approaching nurse from miles away and rip her in half before she got a chance to wave any sort of ridiculous weapon around.

So it came as a surprise to him--an immense surprise, in fact; an angry surprise--that he didn't hear Maria sneaking up on him and kicking him hard right behind his knee, causing his leg to buckle, his grip on the Great Knife to slip, his helmet tip forward, and one boot trip over the other. He landed face-first on the concrete, bending his helmet up, exposing his jaw to a rather sharp twig sticking up from between a crack in the cement.

Also, it felt like he'd broken his right wrist when he'd tried to cushion his fall. Broken wrist or not, before even getting up, Pyramid Head reached out for the grip of the Great Knife, rage and fury and everything else that personified utter general intense dissatisfaction pumping through his veins and releasing all that wonderful adrenaline and testosterone that he seemed to have so much of.

A booted foot, much smaller than his own and slightly raised up on a heel, kicked the gargantuan sword away. He stumbled awkwardly to his feet, his helmet dragging him this way and that--did he mention he was very top-heavy?--to watch as Maria picked up his knife, no small task in itself, and deposited it purposefully in a large dumpster. She wiped her hands on her skirt and turned to him, scowling.

He was so shocked that he didn't notice she was advancing on him until she punched him in the gut.

Not that it hurt, but he grunted out of surprise, and with the grunt leaked every bit of testosterone he'd managed to collect all these years in Silent Hill. Surely, this woman was the devil incarnate.

"Listen, you fat son-of-a-bitch," she spat, "you're going to show me a way out of here and you're going to show me fucking now."

He growled deeply and moved to turn around--he didn't have the patience for this--but a swift kick to his left shin forced him to whirl back on the woman. He wasn't much taller than her, in reality, probably just a couple of inches, though the pointed helmet made it seem as though he was absolutely towering.

"What?" Maria demanded, invited, settling such a dark scowl on him that Pyramid Head found himself utterly confused. He wanted to tear her limb from limb, and yet...no. No, he didn't, because this was interesting and painful, and it had been a while since he'd felt any extreme of both of those emotions.

His right wrist was throbbing at this point, he could still feel the sharp prick under his chin from where he was stabbed by plant matter, and now he could feel a bruise forming on his shin. It was quite the invigorating experience, but he was still very angry with her.

"Tell me!" she shouted, balling her fists. "I don't want to be here!" She pulled a handgun from somewhere in her sweater and cocked it, aiming at his chest. "Tell me or I fucking kill you!"

And now Pyramid Head had an erection.

Her finger squeezed the trigger in warning, and as she did so, frustrated tears ran rivulets down her dirty cheeks. He'd seen this all too many times before; the only difference now was that he'd usually either given chase or killed them by now.

But...he didn't feel a need to. She was the only left in the town besides the other demons, and he'd be damned if he didn't make the best of it. He wondered why she hadn't approached him sooner.

With an angry cry, she shot at his feet, and concrete shards flew up to pepper Pyramid Head's boots. "Lardass," she choked, a final insult, and when Pyramid Head still didn't respond, she brought the gun back to herself, pushing the muzzle into her mouth. Her lips had been chapped, and the stretched she had to do with them to accommodate the gun made the corners bleed.

Pyramid Head was aware then that he was bleeding, as well, from where the twig had stuck him, and blood dripped down his neck to disappear under his clothes and down his chest. Not seconds later, blood trickled from Maria's mouth and marked the same path, though it stopped at her choker. She bit down on the barrel of the gun hard, closing her eyes tight, and then pulled the trigger.

The gun made an empty click.

Maria's eyes opened wide, and she removed the gun, staring at in awe. She let the magazine drop out and held it up to see.

Empty.

"Fuck!" She tossed the empty magazine to the ground, as well as the gun. "Fuck!"

Pyramid Head, realizing that the show was over, began to move toward the dumpster that housed his Great Knife.

But, once again, he was intercepted. Maria threw herself at him, clenching fists into the fabric of his apron at his chest. "Kill me!" she said. "Kill me, just fucking get it over with! It's gonna happen anyway!" she stared up from the opening in his helmet, and he looked down at her from over his nose.

She put her hands around his throat feebly. "Kill me, you sick fuck," she snarled, trembling.

And Pyramid Head's erection was definitely back.

He was weighing his options, trying to figure out what course of action to take next--rape then kill or kill then rape?--when he realized that she was far too fascinated with his face, and that look in her eyes was very disconcer--

Off came the helmet, clanking to the ground behind him, and the cold air hit his normally shielded face like a handful of daggers. He winced and stepped backwards, tripping over the helmet, but he caught his balance and steadied.

Maria stared at him wide-eyed, her mouth half-open.

He opened his mouth and closed it a few times, then clenched his teeth together tightly and growled.

"James?" Maria whispered, unbelieving. "James? You--all this time, it was... How is that even possible?"

He reached down for his helmet, but she was upon him quicker, hands moving up his cheeks and into his blond hair, unkempt. She settled her gaze on his green eyes.

And then she slapped him. Hard.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" she demanded.

Pyramid Head made a noise of disgust and felt the place where she'd slapped him gingerly. "I'm not James!" he shouted, and his voice sounded husky, unused, but otherwise identical to James'.

She seemed to mull over this for a while, and then, deciding, "Well, you look a hell of a lot like him."

And that was the moment when Pyramid Head finally let all the rage and fury from earlier sink in, and the adrenaline and the testosterone came back, and he grabbed her by her hair and dragged her to him, kicking and screaming. He was going to have his way with her and then he was going to tear her skin off, because he was Pyramid Head and that was just what he did.

But Maria would have none of this. Her foot connected with his groin on an indignant shriek. "Fuck you! Fuck that!"

Pyramid Head's grip slackened enough for her to pull away, but he reached out and grabbed her sweater, and then he threw her against the brick wall beside them and crushed his body against hers. He heard Maria gasp as the air left her lungs, and then she coughed into his shoulder, still struggling, but weakly.

"You...really are a...fatass," she said, punctuated by coughs, and she tried to roll out from under him, wriggle away. He had her pinned tightly, though, and he pulled her skirt up over her hips, tearing a decent-sized run in her nylons and then ripping her panties clean off. He threw them behind him, where they fell inside his upturned helmet.

"No," Maria growled, but even as she said so, she lifted her head for his mouth to obtain better access to her neck. His tongue, dark and long and thick, wrapped full around that slender neck while his lips and occasionally teeth still teased the skin. Her hands stopped trying to push him off and instead started to rub him appreciatively, tracing his shoulderblades.

She drew one leg up and wrapped it around his waist, and Pyramid Head held it firmly there, pulling away from her neck to bury his face in her shoulder as he used his free hand to pull his apron up around his own hips.

"I'm necking with Pyramid Head," Maria said dazedly, "and I think he's about to fuck me."

He slid inside of her on an impatient grunt, and Maria clenched around him.

"Yes, I'm definitely fucking Pyramid Head."

He pounded into her thoughtlessly, relentlessly, his mind feeling rather fuzzy and muddled. He could hear Maria panting and occasionally gasping, hands running over his back and chest, tickling the hair at the back of his neck, cupping his biceps and dragging light fingers over the inside of his elbows.

"James," she muttered, eyes closed, but Pyramid Head really didn't mind one bit. "James," she repeated, "oh, James!"

Pyramid Head finished rather quickly, and whether she had or not, he pulled out, his cock dripping from moisture. Maria slumped into him, but he drew away from her, walking to the dumpster and retrieving the Great Knife as she recovered.

"Where do you go?" she asked after several seconds. Pyramid Head regarded her when a half-turned head. "I mean...maybe I could go."

"No," he said automatically, and his voice still sounded...rusty.

"Okay." She seemed subdued.

He contemplated killing her, but decided against it, surprisingly, and he picked up his helmet from the ground.

Maria pushed up from the wall. "Well...I guess I'll be seeing you, then."

He nodded once, quickly, so quick that it didn't look like much more than a nervous tic, and pulled the helmet over his head. A pair of torn white panties fell from the helmet to land on top of his boot.

Maria stared at them before managing a chuckle.

Pyramid Head just stalked away, tangling the panties around his foot, and Maria took off after him.

James x Maria

2008-06-05T03:31:54Z

Title: Stigmata
Fandom: Silent Hill 2
Pairing: James x Maria
Rating: NC-17
Content: HJ, fetish
Length: One-shot
Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill.
A/N: I have discarded my anonymity.

She appeared out of nowhere, much like she always did, slinking out of the night, at first just a shadow that crawled across the walls and the floor and the ceiling until she was right in front of him.

And she startled him, much like she always did, and he jumped and gasped, weapon instinctively raised, just like he always did. The routine was almost becoming monotonous now; he should have had it down to a science.

Dim sunlight tried to cut through the fog, failed, and left Maria's face illuminated by not much more than the flickering lamp outside the Happy Burger restaurant. James dropped his gun to his side quickly, embarrassed that he'd aimed it at her.

"I've been looking for you," she scolded gently, hands on her hips, lips smoothed into a grim smile. "I could have died out here, you know."

"I know," he said, and he scanned the dense fog around them for any signs of alien movement. He saw none and was reassured, so he focused once more on her. His free hand came up to tap two fingers lightly against her wrist. "Are you alright?"

Her eyes flicked down to his hand touching her wrist and then back up to his face, and she shook him off by waving that hand. "I'm fine. A girl like me can handle herself." After some consideration, she added: "Most of the time, anyway."

He inspected her at a distance just to be sure, and then nodded slowly. "Okay." The moment seemed unbearably awkward, then, and he brought the gun up to his chest to stroke the bottom of the magazine fondly.

Maria's grin took a darker turn. "You sure love that gun more than you love me," she commented.

James dropped the gun to his side once more shyly. "Maria, I don't--"

"--love me?" she finished for him, taking a step closer.

"--value a gun more than you," he corrected, shaking his head. She stepped closer, crept, almost, slunk until she could comfortably rest her cheek on his shoulder.

James brought his hands up to wrap tentatively around her shoulders, and his gun pressed only faintly against her back. It left a cold, hollow brand.

They stayed like that for longer than he had the patience to count, seconds ticking away until he found himself distracted by the push of her breasts against her chest, rising and falling with her breath, rising and falling with his breath, coinciding, contradicting, corrugating the iron of a relationship based firmly on a pact of guilt, sin, and suffering.

So maybe, just maybe, it wasn't such a surprise that James didn't protest too much when Maria slipped hands up into his hair, fingers threading and long, manicured fingernails tickling the skin at the nape of his neck. Naked, bare, vulnerable; each were yawning wells of emotion, tapped too deeply once upon a time and now liable to be tapped too deeply once more.

James slammed his back against the adjacent brick wall, and he dragged Maria with him by the collar of her sweater. Breasts firm against his chest; hips teasing against his thighs. Lips ghosting across his jaw, his ear, whispering words and things and declarations that he didn't understand anyway.

And the gun was there, still searing, still stigmatizing. Still defiling.

Bright, pink lips, pursed and quivering; thin, chapped lips, cool and waiting. Tongues on lips, her tongue on his, in his mouth, warm when nothing else quite was, tangible when nothing else had quite been. He could touch her and she wouldn't complain of a weakness or fall away into a dream. Maria was real, Mary had been once.

His head tilted up; bright, pink lips, touched briefly across his throat, over his Adam's apple, jerking when he swallowed, and when lips closed over the crook of his neck and shoulder, he shivered a full-body shiver.

How long had it been since--?

Since Mary?

Five years since--?

When had the disease started?

Years and years since--

Mary.

Maria.

Maria, with the blonde-hair-red-tips and the indecent leopard-print skirt and the willpower and determination and confidence, the latter three of which completely dwarfed him in comparison.

Maria was tugging up his grey shirt, Maria was running fingertips over his abs, now lax but still fairly firm from years of disuse. Maria was following a fingertip down the line running from his navel to the waistband of his pants, Maria was unbuttoning those pants with just a thumb and a forefinger from her other hand.

"Maria."

Maria was smiling into his shoulder, feeling loved, feeling validated, feeling like she wasn't alone, for the first time in a very long time.

And the gun was there, still burning, still marking. Still tainting.

He gritted his teeth and stifled a groan when fingers wrapped around his length, stimulating and soothing. It'll be okay, she seemed to say. Smooth a thumb over the head. I'm here for you now, it was though she whispered. Touch the underside softly, now.

Hands were pulled roughly out of his jeans, ragged and worn, dirty and expensive, but humble, and the jeans weren't in great shape, either. A flash of question passed across Maria's eyes, and James was the one eliciting a moan or two, James was the one giving pleasure, for once, not seeking his own.

Teach me to be selfless, he wanted to say. Teach me to put you before me. But all that came of this was the cold metal of the gun; the barrel cuddled her neck, the muzzle kissed the curve of her jaw, and James' finger caressed only the trigger guard.

His hand, his free hand, his sinful hand, dipped under her skirt and touched the softness there, touched what so many had touched before, touched what James had wanted to touch for five years. Since Mary. Since the disease. Since Maria.

And Maria arched against James, against the gun. "James," she said, "James."

His finger slid in, then another, warm, wet, for him, and it already smelled like sex in this alleyway. His tongue played briefly with the charm at her neck and then it found the hollow of her collarbone. And Maria found James, found what made him tick finally, tugged at his hair and leaned her neck into the muzzle of that handgun. And the gun pushed harder, and it excited her and it excited him, and the bullets sat stagnant in the magazine and the trigger feared it would rust from neglect.

But the gun traveled down, in between her breasts, where she writhed, down her stomach, where she whined, and under her skirt, where she gasped. And the muzzle kissed instead where James' fingers were, and when James' fingers left, the muzzle replaced them, cold, singeing, labeling. This belongs to me, it said. This belongs to me. These breasts and this stomach and this wonderful place that is warm and wet.

James' thumb lingered on the hammer, and when he twisted the gun the topmost sight twisted with it, stimulating Maria, hurting Maria, exciting Maria.

"James," she whispered, harsh, soft, urgent. "James."

The gun was pulled away harshly and discarded on the ground at their feet. And the bullets grew ever more stagnant and the trigger did rust from neglect, and the barrel was coated with a fine sheen of guilt and sin and suffering.

There was no stimulation needed for James; he was already stimulated, hard, erect, so when he pushed inside Maria on a breathless gasp, she dug fingernails into his shoulders, manicured and pretty, but still filthy and broken and worn, and he took her hips in his hands, so much larger than her hands, and steadied her so that she was against the brick wall.

In and out, in and out, push and pull, push and pull, and the gun was still there, watching from the ground, disgusted and lonely so that the other two didn't have to be.

He finished on a loud, husky moan, and she finished after he kneaded her clitoris with the knuckle of his left ring finger. They stood, leaning against each other, panting, vulnerable, tired, but content, if only for a second.

After a while, James picked up his gun and cleaned it off with the inside of jacket. Maria walked beside him, close to him, tall in her boots but not quite taller than him, and James put the hand holding the gun to her back, and the side of the gun pressed once more to her.

And the gun was there, still searing, still stigmatizing. Still defiling.

14 Resident Evil 4 Icons

2008-06-01T08:14:01Z

14 Resident Evil 4 icons
[6] Leon x Ashley
[2] Merchant x Ashley
[2] Krauser x Ashley
[1] Luis x Ashley
[2] Leon
[1] Ashley

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Merchant x Ashley

2008-05-16T04:50:46Z

Title: They Became
Fandom: Resident Evil 4
Pairing: Merchant x Ashley
Rating: T
Content: N/A
Length: One-shot
Disclaimer: I do not own Resident Evil.
A/N: More of rambling thoughts than anything.

She became accustomed to the feel of his stubble brushing her neck, scratching it, rough and abrasive in all the right ways. She became accustomed to the feel of his hands on her waist, callused, forceful, gentle yet firm when that was all she needed after all. And she became accustomed to the feel of his lips on hers, tentative, cautious, needy but hesitating even though she was anything but.

She began to anticipate his presence, find more solace in it than was necessary, sprint ahead of Leon when that blue flame licked at the night around them. Dark brown eyes with a spark of red-brown surrounding the pupil, warm as the afternoons in DC, warm as the sun when it managed to shine, warm as nothing else on this island was. Dark brown eyes were what she began to look forward to, dark brown eyes half-obscured by a handkerchief around his mouth and a hood over his head.

She started to request to stay behind more often, to lie to Leon more than she should, to bide the time she had left. She didn’t know his name, she didn’t know how old he was, but she knew what he looked like. She’d seen the mess of tan hair he sported, the bruises on his knuckles, the scars that crisscrossed and zigzagged all down his body. She’d seen the evidence of a past, and with it, the possibility of a future. She was Ashley and he was the merchant, hands run ragged and torn by the weapons that passed through them, layers of clothing concealing a man that had fallen far from grace, far from fame, far from greatness, a man who now lay with the peasants and the dogs and had never felt his life more fulfilled.

And when she became accustomed to him, he became accustomed to her. Her soft blond hair, growing dirtier over time, growing to occasionally accommodate all sorts of twigs and leaves that he’d dutifully pick out later. And when her hair was not soft, her skin always was, retaining a sort of furtive glow that he’d never quite understand. And her lips, they were just as soft, and if they weren’t, if they were chapped and bleeding because of it and if her mouth didn’t taste like honey and strawberries, well, then he didn’t notice.

When she began to anticipate his presence, he began to look for her wherever he went. Every woman’s voice was her, and when it wasn’t, it was a Ganado, hatchet or knife or pickaxe wielded and at the ready. No, he’d think, this is not her, and no, he’d think, this will never be her, and no, he’d think, it wouldn’t be bad for him to kill this woman before him. She had the disease, she carried the Plaga, and when her physical body died, she would give birth to the monster, the monster that had been the cause of so much suffering.

When she started to stay behind more often, he realized that he had developed a dependency. A dependency on her voice, on her touch, on her very state of being. So when he found that she too carried the Plaga, he should have found himself sickened. I have touched this, he should have thought, I have unearthed emotions for this. But he did not. I have to have her, instead he thought, I have to have her no matter what. He was the merchant and she was Ashley, running with a man that hid behind his guns, a man that toyed with people like they weren’t breakable, who didn’t understand the complexities of human emotions.

“Give them a means of escape,” he’d said, “and I will give you this gun.” And the woman in the red dress had taken her gun and thanked him and dangled the keys to the jet ski in front of his masked face.

“I will give them a means,” she promised, tucking the gun into its holster. “I never said I would guarantee their safety.”

But the merchant had, because he was the merchant, battle-toughened and marked by a history of suffering and fast-times. He’d ensured the safety of Leon and Ashley, and when they’d escaped on the jet ski, he’d piloted his amphibious old puddle jumper just a ways behind them, all the way to the mainland, until Ashley turned and pointed to the plane in the sky and Leon became suspicious but never investigated.

And when they’d docked on the mainland so had he, and he’d emerged from the plane, overcoat removed, weapons disposed of, handkerchief taken from his face, and he was just a prisoner who’d been trapped on the island, he swore; he’d just been a poor American sap caught up in all of this. Oh, all of this money? He’d found it in his cell, it’d been held in his cell just like he had, and no, this isn’t the American government’s property, it was his, and maybe he would donate half to a museum, if they really wanted it.

The police cleared and the puddle jumper and jet ski were taken away and the merchant felt naked without his cloak and pack and weapons, because he wasn’t a merchant anymore, now he was just Jeremy K. McArthur, who didn’t live so much as drift and who had an extravagant taste for all things extravagant.

Ashley, maybe, didn’t recognize him, and when she did, she broke from the guards and jumped him and wrapped her legs around his waist, still wet from when she’d fallen in the water, and she’d pressed her cheek to his and cried and cried. “What’s your name?” she’d asked, over and over again. “What’s your name, what’s your name?”

“Jeremy,” he’s said, “Jeremy McArthur, pleased to make your acquaintance, Stranger.” And he’d let her down slowly until the bodyguards surrounded him and her, and she’d told them to promptly back off, because this man was her friend.

So they both became accustomed to the humdrum lifestyle again, to the comfort and safety of living in their own homes, to the calm that came with returning to normality, to living vastly different lives from another but holding ties that ran bone-deep. And she called for him, more than once, and he visited her, more than once, and she reacquainted herself with the feel of his stubble and his hands and his lips, more than once, and Jeremy and Ashley, the merchant and Ashley, realized, more than once, that their relationship wasn’t plausible, but hey, neither was an island full of infected citizens and a variety of biological testing sites.

And when the end finally came, he was still the merchant, still Jeremy K. McArthur, and she was still the president’s daughter, still Ashley B. Graham, and they still kept that developed dependency, and they still decided that as implausible as it all was, there was really nothing that was impossible these days.

Pyramid Head x Maria

2008-05-05T07:30:14Z

Title: Ounce for Ounce
Fandom: Silent Hill
Pairing: Pyramid Head x Maria
Rating: NC-17
Content: HJ, oral
Length: One-shot
Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill.

Ounce for Ounce

Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill; all characters contained herein are of or over the legal age of eighteen.

A/N: I am completely angsted out.

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City is restless; it’s ready to pounce
here in your bedroom, ounce for ounce
(Violent Femmes, “Add It Up”)

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When it came right down to it, Maria was a creature of habit, and Silent Hill was a town that was all too willing to cater to this lifestyle. From the time that she’d realized just how major a role she played in the town to as she was now, strolling through the broken, empty streets like it was nothing, just another day in the life, she’d always struggled to find some sort of routine.

Because when it came right down to it, Maria craved stability. Habit equaled routine; routine equaled familiarity; familiarity equaled stability. It was all just a part of a plan, the plan, one that had been unconsciously and intricately laid and followed for years.

People came and went. Some survived, other’s weren’t so lucky. Most weren’t so lucky, in fact, and if they did manage by that microscopic sliver of a chance to get out of their Hell, nobody got off scotch-free. They all carried their personal demons, always looming over their shoulders, always whispering hot and heady in their ear.

Sexuality, Maria found, was a very predominantly occurring theme. And sex, Maria deduced, and the never-ending lust produced as a direct result thereof, was quite possibly the root of all evil.

She often played a role in these people’s lives. She was the abusive mother, the sexually assaulted sister, the prostitute in the alley that they had strangled. She supposed they each saw her differently, then, and she didn’t have the strength of will to not become the most influential matriarch in Silent Hill. Next to the Holy Mother of God, of course, but that was a very different subject, one she would rather not dredge up. Organized religion, cult going-ons, was what had brought Silent Hill to its knees, and she’d be damned if it did the same to her. Especially when it was such an easy thing to grab on and anchor oneself to.

And the monsters themselves didn’t harm her. She was one of them, after all. She was a part of the town. The monsters obeyed what the town told them, just as Maria herself did, and when the town said nothing, the monsters were nowhere to be seen. They had the oddest tendency to skitter out from seemingly nowhere when the real monsters—the people that came to Silent Hill for redemption—came about. It was as if they materialized from the darkness itself.

The last person to visit had come a little more than three years ago. He’d been a man with a decadent taste for luxury and a wallet size to back it up. All the money in the world couldn’t have bought him out of his sins, though, out of the dark things that lurked in his mind and made him rot from the inside.

Pyramid Head, resident executioner and overlord nightmare of Silent Hill, had been the one to deliver the final blow with that horrible Great Knife. The man had conned his way to the top, it seemed, and look where it had him now.

Pyramid Head…was much like the other monsters of the town. He had a strong sense of duty, or maybe just a weak sense of independence. If the town told him to fuck himself with his own sword, then damn it all, he’d do it. He probably wouldn’t enjoy it, but he’d do it nonetheless.

Still, he did hold a certain charm. And by charm, Maria meant a certain aura that clearly told her to stay the fuck away. Not that they didn’t have their run-ins, especially when there were strangers in the town, but it was a general rule of thumb that both should avoid each other at all costs.

Well, it was her rule of thumb, anyway. She supposed he followed the same unwritten law, though, because whenever they saw each other on off-days, he’d instantly pretend not to see her. She was the insects that he marched among, as high in rank as any backwards-faced nurse or lingering ghost.

And really, in comparison, she’d much rather hang out with the patient demons than with Pyramid Head.

As much as she wished to have avoided him forever, though, and as much as she had prayed that he would disappear along with the resolving of James’ issues, Pyramid Head was just as much a part of the town as she now was. They were both like actors, pushed into ridiculous roles and forced to play them out. And God help her in the acts that involved her coming face to face with this demon.

His personality or lack thereof was shaped according to the stranger’s fears and trepidations, and Maria often found herself on the sharp end of the proverbial fuck stick. He never actually penetrated her, which, though she was thankful for, was peculiar. When James had been around he’d never even shown a sexual interest in her, though that was a completely different story when it came to other lonely new denizens of Silent Hill.

She remembered one incident quite clearly when a man had come to Silent Hill because of his guilt over involvement in his own sister’s rape and murder. And so, following exactly on cue, Pyramid Head found it in his interests to show up wherever Maria was and stalk her constantly.

She’d actually befriended this man, this “Charlie,” as he’d said his name was, during that time. He wasn’t bad, just a little…off-kilter. But he was nice enough, and Maria had been glad for the company, even if he constantly commented on just how much she looked like his late sister.

Pyramid Head, at first just a niggling presence that lurked in the corners and scared the living daylights out of Charlie, soon started advancing upon Maria. And the fear had been very, very real. While it was true that Maria could not die while she was still contained within Silent Hill, the experience was not pleasant. She’d “died” enough times to know.

His aim wasn’t to kill her, though. His aim was to molest her every chance he got, as long as Charlie was somewhere within eye- or earshot.

The first couple times had been frightening and surprising and just damn confusing. He’d back her up against a counter, splay her out on the floor, force her in a chair and curl his tongue around her neck from behind. The helmet was a nuisance, of course, and it was the cause of several bruises still present on Maria to this day.

But Charlie, in some respects, had reminded her painfully of James, and likewise, what had left her behind. Every time he would come walking into the room, flashlight bouncing across the walls, his name on her lips and her pleas for help in his ears, her chest would ache. Granted, sometimes it was because Pyramid Head was a fatass and when he laid on top of her she felt like her ribcage was going to collapse, but other times…other times he just sounded far too much like things better left forgotten.

“Maria!” he’d call, fiery red hair sticking out at odd angles, the freckles dotting his face blending with the splatters of dried blood. “Maria, oh, God, where are you?”

“Charlie,” she’d cry, trying so desperately to push Pyramid Head away. “Charlie, help me!” No, no, she wanted to tell him to turn back, to go home, to try his best to leave, because she was going to be okay, but the words bubbled up in her throat and spilled out before she could manage to stop them.

What Silent Hill wanted, Silent Hill got, apparently.

Pyramid Head was surprisingly docile in the right circumstances, and she almost felt bad for him sometimes. Sometimes. It must have been painful, that helmet, and always having to bend at the every whim and will of some decrepit town must have worn him down quite a bit.

But then he’d twist her nipple and she’d develop a knee-to-groin reflex.

It worked. On occasion. Other times it was like he had steel testes or something, brushing it off like it was nothing.

The attacking, if it could be called that, continued for a few weeks thereafter, which was far too long in Maria’s honest opinion. Especially when he’d started dry-humping her.

The attacks had gone from horrifying to traumatizing to annoying to ridiculous to just downright funny in a very short span of time. And if she didn’t know any better, she’d say Pyramid Head was enjoying, it, too.

…He wasn’t, of course. Not when he was growling in her ear and rubbing his insatiable erection against her thigh.

He had her from behind, pinning her arms at her sides with his arms around her waist, locking into fists at her stomach. She was doubled over and he was doubled over right with her, chest right against her back and his helmet and those dark depths beneath it hovering directly over her neck.

She started to laugh when he’d set in on the humping, though, even when hists fists clenched instead into the fabric of her skirt.

Each thrust presented the danger of toppling over, and yet this just made her laugh harder. Silent Hill was really slipping up in its game. Or maybe she was just getting used to it. But she hadn’t found something honestly worthy of a laugh for such a long time, so she continued to rock her insides with hard laughter.

Pyramid Head had managed to push the both of them right up against an abandoned computer desk, and she leaned heavily against it, keeping them both steady. His hands were kneading into the front of her thighs by then, very likely tearing more holes in her nylons. And the way he was panting as he rocked his hips into her ass, striving for something that Silent Hill just wasn’t going to let him have, seemed absolutely hilarious.

So when Charlie ran into the room, handgun at the ready in one hand and the flashlight shedding more light upon her in the other, the horrified look that crawled over his face was probably warranted.

Maria was laughing so hard that she was crying as a rather frightening man-slash-monster was sexually assailing her from behind.

“Charlie,” Maria laughed, burying her face in her forearms. “Charlie, it’s okay, it’s—it’s funny, he’s not hurting me.” She giggled to herself at the stupidity of the situation, even when all of that insane laughter died in her throat and Charlie shot a few well-aimed bullets into Pyramid Head’s helmet.

The force of said bullets knocked him backwards a few steps, and seeing her chance, Maria bolted. Charlie was on her heels, and Pyramid Head was right on Charlie’s, groaning and growling and pulling that heavy sword behind him.

Charlie didn’t make it out of the building.

That was honestly the only string of incidents where Pyramid Head asserted his sexual prowess over her in any manner. The other times were mainly comprised of him scaring her half to death whenever she turned a corner or chasing her down filthy hallways while even filthier men ran for their lives.

So, much later on, probably a couple years, actually, but they didn’t age, so who knew, she wasn’t surprised to find that Pyramid Head had developed a couple vices of his own.

At first glance, it almost looked like he was dying. He looked like he was in some sort of pain, anyway, fumbling with the sword in his hand, dropping it, almost falling over.

In fact, she would have tried to help him if she hadn’t noticed the number of empty alcohol bottles sitting around him.

She narrowed her eyes.

The bastard.

How dare he get into her stash?

Mentally pulling on her big girl shoes, Maria puffed up and stepped into the room, hands on her hips as she stalked to where Pyramid Head was currently attempting to dislodge his foot from a crate.

And with a burst of courage that probably came from a)the fact that she couldn’t die in Silent Hill and b)the thought of him drinking all of her booze, she pressed her hands to his chest and shoved hard.

His supposedly drunken haze combined with his boot stuck in the crate caused him to topple over backwards, grunting when he landed right on his ass. It had to have hurt, but he didn’t look like he was in any position to retaliate.

Instead, he let his head drop to the floor. The back of his helmet forced his neck to crane at an awkward angle, though, and Maria got an eyeful of a defined chin and what may or may not have been a bottom lip.

He lay there for a while, occasionally shifting, the only sounds in the room being the far-away shuffle of monsters outside the building and each of their breaths. Maria’s was coming far faster than his, of course, but she attributed this to the fact that she had just physically assaulted Pyramid Head, for God’s sake. She must have had a subconscious death wish.

Finally he made some sort of movement, and it was so out-of-the-blue that Maria flinched. He put one gloved hand to the brim of his helmet, tugging at it, adjusting it, and then groaned. He tried to roll to stand, but when he finally sat up, he just vainly tried to detach himself from the crate.

“Oh, jeeze,” Maria said on a sigh, cocking a hip out and furrowing her brow. She donned a wry smile when Pyramid Head finally settled for trying to beat the thing off of him, oblivious to her presence.

She put on her best sexy swagger when she approached him, purposefully clacking her boots against the tile floor louder than necessary. She bent down, tucking her skirt in the crease of her knees to make it stay there, damn it. The last thing she needed was to show off the goods to some random monster.

He didn’t seem to perceive her as any sort of threat, because he just backed off from his captured appendage and tilted his helmet toward her patiently.

She glared at him pointedly before cautiously beginning to pry off the broken pieces of plastic surrounding his ankle. “I hope you know you’re now officially in my debt, you filthy hulk,” she spat, pouting. “No more trying to kill me, shithead. Also, no more molesting. Ever.”

A piece of plastic cut her hand, but she ignored it. She’d finally broken a big enough hole to slip Pyramid Head’s boot out, with a little bit of struggling, and he drew his leg to his chest when he found that he was free.

Maria tossed aside the crate and stood, wiping her hands on her skirt and then licking the bit of blood that formed on her hand. “Bastard,” she mumbled under her breath, and then started walking away.

She must have been halfway down the nearest hallway before she noticed that his presence was still behind her. When she whirled around, he was there, stopping when she stopped.

“What do you want?” she asked, growing wary again. “Come on, no one’s here. Go off and…do your own thing.” She waved her hands for emphasis. “Shoo, shoo!”

He didn’t reply, but when she didn’t make any sort of movement for a while, either, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Sighing, she turned back around and started walking again. She could hear his footsteps behind her, louder this time.

When she opened the door to daylight, she broke out into a full run, heading toward the bowling alley with her heart pounding in her chest. She encountered only a nurse, who turned her bubblehead toward her fleeing form, but none of that really mattered at the moment. Currently, all that she was concerned with was Pyramid Head, his disturbing lack of physical violence, and the fact that he was following her.

She got there in record time, slowing to a stop in the alley running down the side of the building. An old, rusty dumpster allowed her access to the fire escape overhead, and she climbed it dutifully to the roof.

The roof of the bowling alley was more or less Maria’s base of operations. It was the safest place in Silent Hill, as far as she was concerned. There was no other way to get up there, and the monsters didn’t quite have the intelligence or the dexterity to climb all the way to the top.

Sleeping under the stars was nice. It got old fast, but it was nice, nonetheless.

She flopped down on her makeshift bed of blankets and sheets and pillows—more of a nest, really. She allowed herself to catch her breath and her heart to slow to a comfortable pace before she opened her eyes.

The sun was just barely going down, dipping over that unreachable horizon. Fog was slowly beginning to thicken and creep up the sides of buildings, flooding over fire hydrants and engulfing cars. If she looked down over the edge of the roof, she’d barely be able to see the street.

After one long, unnecessarily drawn-out breath, Maria groped around beside her and pulled an unopened bottle of beer from the box by the bed. Pyramid Head had broken into her main stash, but she’d hidden the bottles here and there around the town. She still had enough to last her…oh, about another year, if she was lucky. Neely’s Bar and Texxon Gas stayed suspiciously stocked throughout the course of her stay in Silent Hill. Maria generally stayed in the South Vale area; she wasn’t interested in any of the other sections of the town, especially since her own neighborhood housed all of her needs quite nicely.

She twisted the bottle cap off with a wet pop, bringing the drink to her lips. As soon as the beer splashed into her mouth, though, familiar and bitter, just how she liked it, a loud clatter near the fire escape startled her. She abruptly choked on the drink.

Tossing the bottle aside in favor of rushing to the fire escape, she realized far too late just how old the thing really was.

And peering over the side, there was Pyramid Head, very near to the top, very close to pulling the ladder straight out of the bolts on the wall, and his helmet very, very stuck in the rungs.

She would have laughed if she wasn’t so exasperated.

“Get off of there, you idiot!” she screeched, watching with horror as the bolts slipped with another jerk. She really didn’t give two shits about Pyramid Head, but if the fire escape fell off, she had no way of getting down without having to kill herself or break a leg in the process. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Vainly, Pyramid Head jerked his head back. This just tugged the ladder further away from the wall, though, and he stilled and stiffened when the bolts scraped against plaster threateningly.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Maria demanded, reaching down to try and free him. Again. “If you get me stranded up here, I swear to God I’ll—”

As soon as she successfully nudged his helmet out from between the rungs, the bolts gave one last cry of anguish before slipping completely off of the wall. Panicking and not quite sure what else to do, Maria grabbed one of Pyramid Head’s hands while he gripped the edge of the wall with his other.

He looked sort of helpless at that moment, even when devious thoughts of just letting him go and plucking each finger off of the ledge passed through her mind. She wondered what sort of expression he wore.

Grunting and using most of her weight, damn near dragging her down in the process, Pyramid Head managed to scale the wall, deftly hopping over the ledge and onto the roof when he made it to his feet.

Maria backed way, way up.

He stood there for a second, swaying on his feet, before stalking purposefully to her nest o’ blankets and flopping unceremoniously down.

And as if he was just rubbing it in, the son-of-a-bitch, he took the beer she’d discarded and finished off the contents, the neck of the bottle disappearing under his helmet.

“Hey! No! No!” Half jumping half running, Maria fisted two hands around a bundle of blankets and pulled, intending to rip her bed away from him.

She was barely able to just drag him along, though, blankets scraping dully against the concrete of the roof.

“You Goddamn raving alcoholic!” she accused, growing more frustrated by the second. “Leave me the hell alone!” And why did that sound familiar?

He tossed the empty bottle aside, where it shattered.

“That’s not fair!” she scolded, losing some of her steam when he grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her on top of him.

She landed with a gasp on top of his chest, one knee falling between his legs.

He growled in what she assumed was approval. Oh, God, she hoped it was approval.

Nonetheless, he was absolutely shit-faced drunk, so she glared daggers at him and tried to push herself to stand. He hadn’t relinquished his hold on her wrist, though, and he just held her over him when she tried to get away.

“What are you, an affectionate drunk?” she snorted, trying to pry his fingers off of her.

He tilted his helmet up a bit, just so that it covered most of his nose and upwards, and she saw his lips twist up into a grin. Why the fuck did he have white teeth? She had to fight tooth-and-fucking-nail for a Goddamned tube of toothpaste around here, so why did he—?

He took her silence as an “Ooh, please continue,” because that long, thick, dark tongue slid out from somewhere between those lips and those teeth, still grinning like the madman he was, and it followed the curve of her jaw and to her earlobe. She found that she was quite devoid of breath for a second, but even when it came back, she just couldn’t sum up the willpower to say anything.

Not that he’d stop, but it was the principle of the thing.

His tongue shifted to push all too forwardly past her lips, dipping under her own tongue and then curling around it, moving in a sort of rhythm, filling her mouth, tasting like beer and something else natural that she couldn’t explain.

Her thighs started trembling, then, and some automatic response trigger had her returning the favor in kind, sucking on the tip, pursing her lips around the tongue and moving her head with each curve of the morbid, creepy, wonderful thing. She hadn’t been aroused from a kiss since high school.

Not that this counted as a kiss, exactly, but it was close enough.

He withdrew his tongue back into his own mouth, running it over the front of his teeth once. He swallowed visibly, and when he parted his lips again, his breathing had quickened significantly. Not quite panting, but that part would come soon enough, Maria figured.

Oh, to hell with it. He was an affectionate drunk; she was going to take advantage of it.

The first touch of her lips to his had him jerking backwards in surprise and then stilling, sensing possible danger, but when she tried to copy his previous actions, what with the tongue-on-tongue and all, he quickly recovered. And once again he was dominating over her, steely grip holding her biceps until she was sure she was going to bruise.

Her nails scratched almost teasing lines across his chest in reply, teeth nipping at his surprisingly full lower lip.

One of those deep, disturbing groans rumbled through his chest and into hers, and for a moment Maria had to remind herself that she wasn't, in fact, laying supine on top of a very friendly motorcycle. The thigh that abruptly pushed between her own only helped the thought anchor itself in her mind.

Then again, there were pros to this situation. Maria couldn't exactly fuck a motorcycle. Comfortably. Pyramid Head, however, possessed the right bits and pieces to do the job.

Distracted by the idea of straddling his chest and seeing just how long he could keep up the growling, she was justifiably startled and suitably aroused when one of her arms was released and a wide hand found its merry way down to cup her ass. Shifting against him in a decidedly encouraging manner, Maria was rewarded when two thick fingers squirmed their way further to tease her sex through the thin material of her appropriately wet panties.

He was growling again, groaning, purring, maybe, and she lay her breasts against his chest as he explored every inch of her slit, the calluses on his fingers adding a bit of "oomph" to his ministrations. She slipped one hand down, eventually, figuring he deserved it, to wrap around his length, stiff and deliciously warm in her hands. Pyramid Head jerked appreciatively.

Hell, if he was good, she might even blow him. If he didn't try to make her choke on it, of course; he was definitely big enough, and she could only hold her breath for so long.

...She really hoped he wasn't into carving his own holes or anything. Painful, and not sexy in the least. Forcefully pushing the thought away, Maria tightened her grip on his cock and pumped experimentally, twisting her wrist at the base. Pyramid Head groaned, the sound quickly joined by the sharp rending as he tore her panties away impatiently.

"You stupid shit," she grumbled, though it was significantly drowned by his heavy breathing and her own intermittent intakes of breath. "Good luck finding another fucking pair of panties around here for me."

He didn't seem to care, though, especially when he rubbed a demanding thumb over her clit and stuck his vile, dripping, wonderful tongue into her mouth again. Maria moaned and leaned into it, pumping him and running fingers over the tip.

If she closed her eyes, she could almost picture someone else, somewhere else, anything other than on the run-down roof of a run-down hell of a town where she was playing tonsil hockey with the resident anti-christ of a monster.

A month, maybe even a week ago, the thought might've caused her some pang of concern. And maybe it was still there, that tiny screaming voice of her conscience, but it was easily ignored. Because she was one of the monsters in the end, and it didn't really matter.

Shoving Pyramid Head's bloodstained apron further up to bunch around his stomach, Maria suddenly let her grip go teasingly light, one hand dropping to cup and massage his balls. She broke the contact he had on her and moved lower, touching her tongue to the shaft and sliding it up in one slow, tantalizing stroke.

Pyramid Head let out a sound that might have been a word, an urging to continue, and continue Maria did. She, herself, was feeling it now, the need to be filled, an aching emptiness that was frustrating and masochistically pleasing at the same time. She pushed his length into her mouth, the tip touching the back of her throat, scraping him with her teeth once or twice. He only seemed to enjoy this further, squirming, hands clenching into her hair and the blankets alternately. And she realized, with a great deal of amusement and an even greater deal of sexual pleasure that rushed straight through her and made her hum around him, that he was curling his toes. His big, bulky boots scraped against the pavement of the roof and then stretched out to their full length, every muscle in his body presumably stiff and taut.

Let it be known that Maria was very good at what she did-- the current example being blow jobs. She had done a fair number in her time before she'd ended up in Silent Hell, though a few were a bit fuzzy from the drunken haze she'd been working through at the time.

She also knew that liquor affected normal men in some distinctly fun-crashing ways; while Pyramid Head was obviously male and obviously drunk, she had no idea whether it would impare his sexual prowess. Just in case it did, she was careful to pull away before he could come, fingers tight around the base of his cock while she worked her jaw.

He seemed extremely, extremely averse to this idea, but she straddled his lap and guided his cock against her opening, soaking him and teasing him, giving him none of that control he thought he had in the first place. He started rocking into her, hands on her hips, head back, mumbling things from under his helmet. And finally, with a final sigh of contentment, she pushed him into her.

At the first contact of her inner muscles, clenching around him and pulling him deeper, Pyramid Head started up an impossible rhythm of thrust-grunt-jerk. Maria may have been on top, but that didn't mean she was dominating him. In fact, she found it nearly impossible to do much other than hang on for the ride. Slightly annoyed but not insane enough to pull away, she instead leaned forward, cautious of his twitching helmet, and set her teeth into the curve of a bulging bicep, nails digging little crescents into his battered skin. From the way he jerked her down harder into the next stroke, it was something he enjoyed. Panting, she did it again and again, leaving marks up and down his arms, outlining his collarbones until his tongue invaded her mouth again, muffling her moans.

The situation would have been funny if it wasn't equal parts terrifying and disgusting, but she hadn't gotten off since James had been around. She wondered, while Pyramid Head shifted where he lay, whether Pyramid Head was the jealous type.

All thoughts on the intricacies of Pyramid Head ceased, however, when his tongue fell from her mouth to her sex, double-stimulating her in a way that made all of her pre-conceived notions of sex and the male population's general incapability to satisfy her fall to pieces. She called his name, or the beginning syllable of his name, anyway, rolling into him, making sounds that reminded her more of squeaks than anything, and threw her head back. She ran her hands over her own breasts, squeezed lightly at her nipples, and reveled in it when she realized that Pyramid Head was watching her from beneath that massive pyramidal helmet of steel.

She felt blunt fingernails dig into her hips that slipped until the pads of his fingers were leaving angry red marks on her skin. A decidedly vulnerable and uncharacteristic noise slid from his lips, his tongue withdrawn, and when he tilted his head back, Maria caught a delightful glimpse of infuriatingly white teeth clenched tight. He inhaled sharply, and that acute gasp was what set Maria on that edge, and the subsequent, groggy grunt of her name was what pushed her right over it. Her insides coiled, wound, tightened, and then released, moisture from either her or him dripping down her thighs.

It was apparent that he was already spent, but she couldn't remember when, exactly, he'd climaxed. She pulled off of him and rolled to lay in the bed at his side, her heart slowing to a considerably normal pace. She listened to him breathe, too, and neither said a word, until all was even and in-tune and back to startling normalcy.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd lain next to someone and listened only to their breath, but she did remember that it had been nice. And it still was. The fact that this was Pyramid Head, and Jesus fuck, something must have been wrong with her, never really registered as much as it probably should have.

The air became colder after a very typical Silent Hill breeze raised the goose-bumps on her skin, and she pulled the one blanket that Pyramid Head wasn't laying on over her. And, after careful consideration, she stretched it over him, too. He smelled like booze and metal and, well, skin, and if sex had a scent that she could clearly discern, then he'd probably smell like that, too. Overall it wasn't a bad smell, but it wasn't something she could easily grow accustomed to.

Her mind drifted as she drew closer to absolute sleep, and along with the drifting of her mind went the drifting of her self-control. She couldn't help herself: She tossed an arm lazily over his chest and pressed her face to where his collarbone met his shoulder. The helmet hovered over them haphazardly, and if Maria really tried hard enough, she could see a brief flash of white teeth whenever he inhaled.

- - -

As pleasant of a night as the previous one may have been, Maria had to admit that waking up to a very hungover, very groggy Pyramid Head puking all over the side of their newly appointed "love nest" wasn't a pretty sight to behold.

She wasn't mad, though. Not entirely. It was actually quite comical, with the way he tilted the helmet up, gasped feebly when one round was done, and then grunted with a stiffening of neck muscles to empty out more of his stomach. The guy looked like he was about to fall apart at the seams.

Maria laughed to herself and rubbed his back, fingers tracing a shoulderblade for less than a second. "Welcome to the morning after, big guy."

He glanced back at her, helmet still tugged up over his mouth and nose, and in the grey morning light, Maria could faintly see the outlines of his eyes. There were dark bags under them. Were they brown? Either way, he certainly wasn't hideous. Not attractive, but not hideous, either.

He held her there in his sights for a while, right up until the dry heaves set in. His entire torso jerked away from her, and he gagged on nothing. It didn't look like he deemed her a threat, in any case. Or, rather, it didn't look like he had any intentions of attempting to kill her anytime soon.

The dry heaves and retching finally stopped, and he only lay back down against the bed, head undoubtedly spinning.

Maria pointed off in the distance toward where the sun was creeping up over Toluca Lake's bleak reflection. "See that thing right there?"

Pyramid Head actually had the decency to glance over at where she was pointing.

"That's called the sun, and from here until he sets, he's your new mortal enemy."

They spent the rest of the day in bed, Pyramid Head sleeping off his hangover and Maria steadily working on her own. Empty, brown beer bottles littered the ceiling by the evening, and she drained her stash ounce by precious ounce.

When the sun set again, Pyramid Head once more realized that he'd developed a taste for beer. The two of them completely diminished whatever supply Maria had, and when the moon took the sun's place over Toluca Lake, Maria was wondering how horrible it was to have unwittingly introduced Pyramid Head to alcohol.

It wasn't bad at all, she decided. And that was that.

Deidara x Sakura

2008-02-24T08:28:55Z

Title: It's a Wonder
Fandom: Naruto
Pairing: Deidara x Sakura
Rating: T
Content: N/A
Length: One-shot
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.
A/N: Stole the child's name idea from aelibia. She is awesome.

“This is your hellspawn and I want it out of me now!”

And that, sadly, was how young Daichi was first brought into the great, wide, blaringly bright world. This sentence, punctuated by brief shrieks, unintelligible cursing in Deidara’s native Earth Country language as he tried to pry his hand away from the mother of his child, and Sakura swearing upon all things holy and unholy that she was going to cut off Deidara’s testicles and feed them to Poko, the family dog. That showed him for releasing his demon seed!

The young doctor might have been smiling. Deidara couldn’t tell behind that surgical mask and thick spectacles.

“Just a few more big pushes,” the doctor announced gaily, as if he were actually overjoyed at the prospect of childbirth. “You know, my wife is expecting, as well.”

“You poor bastard,” Deidara muttered, just as Sakura threatened her lover once more with castration.

“Almost there,” the doctor soothed, even as Sakura possibly broke a bone or two in Deidara’s hand, and even as Deidara grimaced and winced and tried to pay attention to anything but what was going on under that white sheet.

“Don’t you dare close your eyes!” Sakura shouted, and Deidara opened his eyes again ruefully. “If I have to suffer through it, so do you, you son-of-a--ohh!”

Sakura’s mood abruptly went from angry to pained and weak, and tears rolled down her cheeks, her hair a tangled mess that Deidara found he didn’t seem to mind. And so, in a mostly instinctive mood that came along with the territory of sleeping with someone numerous times, risking your life for them, getting your ass saved by them, impregnating them, and forming a codependency and love-bond that was stronger than anything ever made, damn it, he brushed her bangs from her face and kissed her forehead, damp with sweat.

“You’re doing great, yeah,” he said, and he knew she wanted to say something back. He knew she wanted to spear him with a witty retort that would only make him laugh. But she was too concentrated on the fact that her pelvis was currently splitting in two to really care, he figured, so he squeezed her hand back for reassurance.

“Thank you,” he said gently, and she didn’t even look at him. The doctor was shouting something happily, Sakura was way past the point of words and settled instead for moaning and gritting her teeth. She furrowed her brow and cried hard, then, and the doctor’s eyes wrinkled when he smiled, despite his young age, this time.

And there, from under the white sheet, came the bloodiest, loudest, lumpiest, most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

And all Deidara could think about--and, consequently, rejoice about--was that the baby had his daddy’s pretty blond hair.

“It’s a boy!” the doctor said, looking up at Deidara with a proud look in his enviably young eyes.

“Yeah, I think we figured that out in the second trimester,” Deidara grouched, though he was really just putting up a tough front, because his insides felt like a disgusting gelatinous porridge that was ridiculously unbefitting for a man. It was a nice feeling, though. It was, all facades aside, a proud, warm, fuzzy feeling.

“Cut the umbilical cord?” he asked, and Deidara accepted such a challenge. He cut that umbilical cord like no umbilical cord had ever been cut before. Yes, Deidara liked to think he was special in every way.

The doctor handed the infant to a nurse, who cleaned off the screaming baby boy and did a routine check before Sakura started bitching about wanting to see her own damn kid, God-fucking damn it, you pretentious “Ooh, look at me, I’m a doctor,” pricks. She forgot, if only for a second, that she was a medic-nin as well. Deidara made a mental note to remind her of her hypocrisy later on. Because that was just what he did.

There was a brief tussle between lovers as they each tried to decide who would get to hold the carbon copy of Deidara first.

“Look! He’s got my hair, yeah! I should get to hold him first!”

“Bullshit! Was your vagina just ripped in half? I don’t think so. He’s my goddamn kid, I carried him around like a sack of potatoes for nine months, I got fat for him, so I’m holding him fucking first.”

She made a sound argument. Deidara stepped back and simply observed.

When the doctor congratulated them and shuffled out of the room, and the only odd person out was the nurse, who stayed largely in the background, Deidara got the chance to take a deep breath, flex his possibly broken hand, and sink down into a rather uncomfortable hospital chair.

The nurse stumbled through a round of childcare-related questions with Sakura, who had calmed down significantly with her baby safe in her arms. The child had quieted down and was now making gentle fussing sounds, eyes still shut tight, thing, light, mostly dry blond hair sticking up at all angles on his soft little head.

When it came time to decide on a name, Sakura glanced wearily at Deidara, who was snapped carefully out of his paternity-induced trance.

“We’d talked about Daichi, hadn’t we?” Sakura asked, and he could already see faint circles forming under her eyes.

He nodded. “I like Daichi. It’s what we both agreed on.”

The nurse scribbled down his name and then left, leaving Deidara and Sakura to sit in a stunned, comfortable silence and watch Daichi wiggle like a particularly slow-moving fish.

“He does look a lot like you,” she said after a while, and it was so soft that Deidara almost didn’t hear it. He moved the chair closer to her hospital bed, laying a hand on his son’s head. He could almost fit his entire tiny skull in his palm.

“He does, doesn’t he?” Deidara said, a hint of smug confidence painting his tone. Sakura only scoffed motherly.

“I cut the umbilical cord,” Deidara said soon after, mostly to himself. “That counts for something.”

A gentle countenance returned to Sakura all at once, one that Deidara found himself enjoying far too much to be healthy. “You fathered him. She rested her head back against the pillow. “That counts for everything in the world to me.”

“You spoil me, yeah.”

“I know, I know. But he’s still your hellspawn.”

Deidara lifted Daichi out of Sakura’s arms in order to cradle him in his own. “Exactly. He’s my hellspawn.”

Glitch x DG

2007-12-06T22:04:57Z

Title: Alibi
Fandom: Tin Man
Pairing: Glitch x DG
Rating: NC-17
Content: HJ
Length: 4,899
Disclaimer: I do not own Tin Man.
A/N: This started out kinda angsty, but then it evolved into...well...something. Unbeta'd, so sorry for mistakes.

-------------------

He stared at that brain for a long, long time.

Floating in an odd green liquid, probably some formaldehyde-based sort of chemical, wires and tubes running through it and connecting to some other machine, faintly pulsing and a creamy pink that made him sick… Yes, that was Glitch’s brain, and yes, he was actually having second thoughts about it.

In some strange, morbid way, he rather liked being an idiot. That so-called “wide-eyed optimism” had been the only thing to trudge him through the days when the O.Z. was still under Azkadellia’s violent rule. And it had been a week since those days, a week since Wyatt Cain had disappeared with his son, since Raw had bid his warm farewell, a week since everything had fallen back into place.

He wasn’t the queen’s vizier any more, of course. And he expected no less. He was little more than a dumber-than-average citizen now. There was a chance of him getting his job back once his brain was replaced, but then that brought him right back around to the problem at hand.

He tapped the glass, staring incredulously at his lost organ. After a while, the scornful furrow of his brows smoothed into a pout. “…Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he told the glass.

His brain seemed to tremble in anticipation.

Glitch winced.

“Well,” he announced to no one in particular, standing to his full height and straightening out his coat, “I suppose it’s high time I stopped leeching off of DG and the queen like some sort of…some sort of…leech.”

The sound of the door opening startled him, and he jumped, throwing all of that carefully planned grace out the window.

DG closed the door gently behind her. “Glitch?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes. Yes, that’s me.”

She laughed something that sounded a bit like music. Except not. “I thought I’d find you in here. What are you doing?”

He motioned at his brain, sitting still in that fat cylinder, gazing out at the both of them, now, insulting in that degrading sort of stoicism.

She stepped closer to the brain in question, standing directly beside him, now, her shoulder barely brushing his upper arm. Her hands were folded in front of her, hair hanging half over her eyes like they always did, looking all the part the fiery, lively girl he’d come to know.

When he didn’t say anything for a while, just stared at his floating brain—quite odd, really, when he thought about it, she spoke. Very quietly, at that.

“Second thoughts.”

It wasn’t a question; it was a statement, as if she already knew the answer. As if she’d gone through the same if not similar experiences, and she could read whatever was left of his mind perfectly.

He sighed insufferably after a moment, cocking his head to one side in a lazy fashion. “It’s a big step. Going from the smartest man in the Outer Zone to the dumbest and then back again.”

She nudged his arm affectionately. “Oh, Glitch, come on. You’re not the dumbest man in the O.Z.”

He grinned down at her. “Okay, maybe not. But ignorance is bliss, you know? If I am, I’d rather not know. I’m happy being who I am.”

He was growing increasingly aware of her eyes planted firmly on him, studying his profile even as she pursed her lips and bit the inside of her cheek.

“Maybe…” she began, uncertainly. “Maybe…then…if you don’t want to go back to being that person, you don’t have to.”

He looked at her as if it was an insult. “What?”

“I mean, if you’re happier the way you are, then who’s to say you should change it?” She scuffed the toe of her shoe on the floor. “If you’re just going to turn into some depressed chump when you get that brain back, then why do it? Is it worth it?”

“Well…”

“Which do you value more? Intelligence or your happiness?” she questioned, thought softly. She wasn’t demanding or insisting at all. She was merely curious.

He lowered his eyes to the floor. “‘Happiness’ is such a barren word lately.”

“That’s only because you make it that way,” she answered almost immediately. And then: “Come on, this isn’t the Glitch I know and love. I didn’t almost suffocate in a marble coffin, fall off a balcony, and lose all of the O.Z. for nothing.” Her hand was tugging at his wrist, then, pulling him toward the exit to that dank, cold little room.

He was confused, to say the least, and feeling a bit guilty. He was usually the one doing the cheering up around the place. “DG?”

“Just shut up and follow,” she instructed, and he could hear the smile in her voice.

She led him down several flights of stairs, through the living room and then the dining room, and into that massive backyard garden. It was already dark there, but it almost seemed prettier that way. And there was no malicious tint to it, no undertone of malcontent.

She released him when they were both standing in the center of the garden. “Okay. Now what do you like to do?”

“Do?” he asked, blinking at her. “What do you mean?”

“You know…do? What’s your hobby? What makes you happy?”

His feet fidgeted. “To dance. Do you dance, DG?”

She shook her head. “Never had time.” And she held out a hand. “But now would be a perfect time to learn, I suppose.”

And he was all too happy to indulge her in that. He took the proffered hand and bowed deep, kissing the top of it and then pulling her toward him. She stumbled into his chest, surprised at how much the tables had turned.

“Just follow my lead,” he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as she held his side nervously. Three steps to the right, a twirl, three to the left, a dip, and it was all so stunningly simple. And as many times as DG stepped on his toes and made him laugh to himself, there was still something primordially satisfying in the way she tried to keep in time with him.

The pace was upped and she struggled harder, determination apparent by the crease of her features and the spark in her half-shielded eyes. Her grip on him presently became bolder, moving from his side to the curve of his back, between his shoulder blades. She occasionally glanced down at her feet, apologized when she stepped on him, and he was enjoying every little second.

When the time came once more for her to fold into him, she pressed her nose into his neck, and it was chest to chest, nose to neck, and hips to hips. She twirled outward, and Glitch was left depravedly bereft of that warmth.

And when he dipped her, he brushed his lips across the bit of collarbone that her shirt bared, breath on her skin and then her neck, and he felt the hand at his back clutch into the fabric of his coat.

It was quickly becoming something he might not have wanted, he realized, but he didn’t want it to stop.

Another few steps, some intricate turns, a couple more laughs from both parties, and then she was once more sharing that wondrous warmth with him. He didn’t take it for granted this time, and he let his hand fall to the small of her back, running fingers over the waistband of her pants.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help more,” he whispered, effectively breaking that beautiful rhythm they’d kept up until now. But he had a feeling that he was starting a different sort of rhythm, one that was undoubtedly more subtle and more moving.

She was still in his arms, hands retreating to instead rest against his chest, and he could swear she felt his hear pounding beneath the layers of clothing. “You did help,” she protested, and that wide-eyed stare reminded him so much of his own.

He was steadily losing this death grip on reality, regressing into a fluttery, nervous state of mind where all that existed was instinct and the innate human need for doing what pleased him most. And at this moment, nothing would please him more than to find a niche within DG where he could fit in just fine, someplace that was a little more than friendly and always warm and welcoming.

He deserved it. Didn’t he?

The way she fiddled with a braided ornament on his coat distracted him more than it should have.

“Well…I could have done more,” he said lamely, licking his lips.

She laughed, finally ending the staring contest they’d been entertaining. She pressed her forehead to his collar. “Oh, Glitch.”

He smiled and hugged her, soft but tight, distant but oh-so close.

“You did all you could,” she said, pulling away from him only far enough to kiss his cheek. “I think I’ll miss you most of all.”

“Miss me?” he asked, suddenly in a bright, chipper mood, picking her up and spinning around, setting her on a stone bench before them. She was taller than him this way, and she laughed, holding onto the back of his head as he held her by the waist. “But wherever am I going, fair DG?”

“If you ever leave,” she said, nuzzling her face into his hair, curly and coarse and he was suddenly awfully self-conscious. “Which I hope you won’t. But you know. Raw and Cain left, so who’s to stop you from leaving?”

He gave her a lopsided grin. “You?”

“How did I know you would say that? Now turn around.”

He did as asked, and she hopped on his back, legs around his middle and her arms around his neck. He could feel her breasts against his back, but he didn’t want to think about that right not. It was such an innocent moment, and he didn’t want to ruin it.

“Onward!” she shouted, pointing toward the castle door and outstretching her legs as he held her just at her thighs. The denim of her jeans created a wonderful friction on his hands and the fabric of his coat, but yet again, none of those thoughts.

“Where to?” he asked, jumping to lift her higher up on his back. “The living room? Kitchen? Your mother—?”

“My room,” she said, and even if it wasn’t riddled with innuendo, Glitch certainly felt it. It was a stirring in his gut and an irregular beat of his heart, and he almost dropped her.

“Alright,” he answered and he made his getaway, DG clinging to his back, hair tickling his cheek and body heat making his back hot.

She blathered on to him as he went, climbing stairs for her with ease, skillfully evading the cooks and maids and butlers roaming about the grounds. She spoke of how happy she was for Cain, how much she missed Raw, how Toto was constantly hungry in his dog form, and how her mother was so happy back with her father. But mostly she talked about Azkadellia. Oh, she rambled and she babbled and she talked his ear off. Not that he hadn’t done the same several times over, but it was almost tiring from the other end.

He resolved not to do that anymore.

They came to DG’s room eventually, and he let go of her thighs as a sign for her to go.

But she didn’t. She didn’t move a muscle.

“Uh…we’re here?” he announced, glancing back at her.

“Okay, so go in. You’re coming with me. Duh.”

And he couldn’t help it. “Why?”

She dug her heels into his hips, and that was enough of a catalyst to get moving for him. He opened the door and went in, watching for any witnesses as he did.

As soon as he was inside, DG jumped from him to her bed, lying on it and sighing as she bounced.

“Yes, well, thank you for spending time with me, DG,” Glitch said, smiling and wringing his hands. “But I should go now.”

“Glitch, you’re sweating bullets,” DG said, sitting up on the bed and crossing her legs. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine!” he quickly soothed, throwing up his hands in defense. “Really, I’m okay.”

She patted a spot on the bed next to her. “Come sit down. You look warm.”

Oh, indeed, but he doubted that sitting down was going to alleviate that warmth.

And then her hands were on his shoulders, soothing him, urging him to relax, massaging him. He almost jumped. “What are—what is—what?”

“Shut up,” she snapped, continuing her little massage. “You look stiff. You’re going to get a knot if you don’t relax.”

He did so as best he could; really, he did, but it was so difficult when he could smell her and sense and sometimes, if he took a particularly deep breath, taste her. And those hands and fingers, first working at his shoulders and neck, slipped down under his arm and around his chest, and really, since when did massaging a person's pectorals and abs make them less tense? In fact, a particularly different kind of tenseness was assuming control of his muscles, and it had everything to do with the very feminine fingers that were working their way downwards.

He leaned back into her, unsure of whether he should get up and walk away or simply ask her to stop. Or he could just let her continue. That was always an option.

“You said you were going to change once you got your brain back?”

He nodded, almost listlessly. He felt her lips against his neck, whispering into his skin. It was wet and warm, and it made a delicious chill run the length of his spine.

“Well, then I want to enjoy you while you’re still Glitch.” She kissed underneath his ear. “I have a feeling I might not like this Ambrose.”

There was a careful string of tension that was established, then, at her very words, and he dug his hands into the soft sheets covering her bed, intent on riding it out to the very end. If she was willing to give, then hell, he’d take whatever she offered.

And it wasn’t that he was doing this for her. No, no, he was actually being quite selfish. He might have been old enough to be her uncle. Or…maybe a well-respected uncle or something.

In any case, he was older than her. Even if it didn’t seem like it sometimes.

However, she made it apparent that this fact couldn’t have mattered less when she slipped her hands under his coat and the shirt under that, skin on bare skin, ghosting past his navel and making him jump. And that ever-looming presence of her mouth on his neck wasn’t something that he could easily forget, leaving red marks and that tingling sensation wherever she went.

It wasn’t until the paths of her hands and mouth started becoming more frantic, when she was whispering unintelligible little things against his skin, that he realized just how much she was enjoying this, as well. He felt her rock her hips against his back, and a lance of pleasure shot straight through him.

“You’re not going to just get up and leave, are you?” she asked when he tore himself away from her long enough—a grievous, difficult task, indeed—in order to follow her onto the bed, hovering just above her as she stretched her arms over her head.

He shook his head fervently, those ridiculous curls bouncing in time. The zipper down his skull had never felt heavier than at that moment. “Of course not.” He buried his nose into the crook of her neck. “Did you think I would?”

Her hands threaded into his hair gently, and she lifted her head in submission. “I wasn’t sure.”

He flicked his tongue out to briefly trace a tendon. “Well, now you are.”

And it was so wonderful how far the tables had turned.

She was kicking off her shoes and he was following the example, and then she’d used hands to instead begin slipping off his jacket. He shrugged out of it easily, quite aware that he was straddling her hips and she was wriggling helplessly beneath him.

She wore a plain t-shirt and those everyday jeans, but if she’d worn anything else, it probably would have seemed odd. This is the girl that Glitch had come to call DG, and he would be severely disappointed if she decided to change anything now. Especially if it was just for him.

“You know what’s funny?” she asked, even as he pulled his own shirt over his head and set to running his hands up and down her sides, underneath her shirt.

“What?”

Her fingers followed the curves of his shoulders and the slant of his back, and he did everything in his power to keep his breathing even.

“I didn’t really like you at first.”

And at this he had to laugh, because not many people did like him. Not at first, anyway. “What changed your mind?” His hands brushed the bottom of her bra, and he almost stuttered. This really wasn’t the time to lose his nerve…

“Just…spending more time with you. Figuring out who you were inside.” She laughed softly and unhooked the clasp on his pants, thus sending him into a sweep of lust-induced vertigo. “You’re such a klutz. I love that.”

“You would be the first,” he wanted to say, but he was far past the point of words, urging her to take off her shirt before she could continue with whatever work she was making with his pants. She relented eventually, and she even slipped off her bra, to which he was immensely grateful. His hands were shaking something awful.

She had to arch in order to remove her pants, though, consequently pressing flush against him, and this time he couldn’t hold back a gasp. It was strangled, though, and he was sure she didn’t catch it. At least he hoped she didn’t.

Then, quite suddenly, Glitch found himself sprawled on his back; DG was quite strong, given the right leverage. She’d been able to hold herself on that balcony, and she’d shown him far more in the limited amount of time they’d spent battling Azkadellia for the continued existence of the O.Z.

Something shifted above him.

Naked DG. Right. Naked DG whom was straddling his thighs, the soft skin of her stomach rubbing in the most delicious of ways as she leaned forward to mouth kisses across his chest. And there was no way he could pass this off as a slip into one of those memories, because the last woman he’d been with had been years and years ago and it was nothing like this.

She was back to his pants again, tugging them down by the waistband, and he was suddenly frustrated with how slow things were moving. It was like she was teasing him, drawing forward and then pulling back before he could grab onto what exactly was going on here.

And there they were, half naked on this bed, on her bed, and Glitch didn’t think he’d live to see it happen. But it was, and he so grateful, so happy, so everything, so he only concentrated on DG and the whimpering noises she was very close to eliciting from him. He had some shred of masculinity in him, and he held those noises back quite well.

She made it increasingly hard, though, and here he was speaking both figuratively and literally, when her fingers brushed him almost unconsciously through his thin briefs.

He could see where she was going with this, and as happy as he was to oblige and lay back and let her do her worst or best, he just couldn’t. It would be all over too quickly, and he definitely didn’t want that to happen.

So he managed to find a way to squirm around her and eventually pin her under him, positions flipped again, though it wasn’t easy, and was horribly embarrassed when he saw her glance down and then back up to his face. Well, he couldn’t help it if he was so incredibly—

She disposed of her panties accordingly. Aforementioned string of tension settled snugly in Glitch’s gut tightened.

DG huffed. “And here I was thinking I could do you a favor.”

He did something that he probably shouldn’t have, then, but he didn’t want this to be for nothing. He kissed her, and she returned the action in kind, her words drowning as they left her and he was lost in her, then. It didn’t matter at that moment what they were going to do after this, how they were going to explain it, whether DG was protected or not because he certainly didn’t carry those sorts of things around, and…

He pulled away finally and pressed his thumb to a particularly sensitive bundle of nerves that made DG bite her lip and clutch the sheets, much like he’d done earlier. He may have been a naïve halfwit, but he wasn’t some depraved little man. He knew his way around just fine, thanks very much.

He dragged that thumb through her heat once before focusing his attention on that one spot, grinning at her when she gasped and panted and mewled all for him.

“A lady shouldn't have to do all the work,” Glitch berated teasingly, and he would have wagged a finger if they weren’t all currently preoccupied.

She just scowled prettily until he slipped a finger inside her, wherein she immediately turned a dark shade of red and stiffened.

“No?” he asked, ready to draw out, but she threatened him quite clearly with death if he so much as thought of moving from where he was.

So he laughed, and she shuddered with his movements.

He brought her to that wonderful edge and then back again, repeating the process, tugging her toward falling and then deliberately pulling her back to reality, and when he sensed that she was either going to kick him in the face or take over the process and finish for him, he withdrew.

She groaned piteously at the loss. “You’re such a—”

“—gentleman,” he finished for her proudly, and he positioned himself in such a manner that it made him half delirious. She gave him a look that said she was going to rip his throat out through that zipper on his head if he didn’t hurry the hell up.

He was all too happy to indulge her in what she’d been aching for since he’d kissed her. So he pushed in and kissed her again, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

There was a motion that she immediately started up, completely taking over the situation. He met her thrust to thrust, and it reminded him of dancing in some perverse way. It was just an improvised sort of thing, but there was a certain bit of soul and rhythm to it that he couldn’t describe. Something purely primal and delightful was embedded into the act, so he didn’t think, he moved.

And she certainly moved as well, and she shouted, and she cursed him for something he didn’t really understand, and she threatened him with death or something worse if he didn’t stop “Being such a damn tease, you son-of-a-bitch, wonderful man.”

He kissed here again to silence that foul mouth. He’d really never seen DG as the aggressive type, but he had to admit that he was teasing her quite badly. And that wasn’t to say that he wasn’t going through his own sort of torture, because he was about ready to explode and not in the good way if he didn’t stop stalling soon.

Oh, but he had to keep up that gentleman front, so he whispered things in her ear, things he’d never repeat and that she could probably blackmail him quite nicely with if she so desired. But it seemed to take a favorable effect, because she started muttering. At first it was quiet and he couldn’t really make it out, but then it escalated into a breathy, whiny sort of thing. “Ah…” and occasionally “Yes,” and more often than not just, “Glitch!” and that was the one that really sent him reeling.

His grip on her hips and her shoulders and sometimes her sides tightened until he was sure he was leaving bruises, though he didn’t have time to feel guilty about it at the moment. Because she was tightening imperceptibly around him, almost screaming every time that he filled her completely, and she was probably leaving red marks on his back from those fierce fingernails she had, and he didn’t dare open his eyes and look at her, because that alone would be enough to send him careening off that same edge that he’d taunted her with.

She broke on a cry that he muffled with his hand, because she was being way too loud, and he’d be utterly mortified if her mother or father walked in. Or worse, Azkadellia! He didn’t even want to think about it, and it was way too much of a buzz-kill to be comfortable.

When she shuddered and trembled and shook like a little leaf, he finally reached the point where he was very, very close to biting down hard on something or just making some stupid noise he knew he’d regret. He couldn’t quite stifle the gasp-like grown that tore from him, and everything was suddenly warm, wet, tight, and perfect. He loved every second of it.

It was still over far too soon, as he was concerned, but DG seemed sated and he felt lightheaded and happy, so he collapsed almost on top of her, his face hidden in her neck. She smells good, was really the only thought that was pulsing through that half-brain of his. Well, that and I love you so much yesyesyesyesyes.

She played with his hair for a while as he caught his breath and she recovered from whatever she’d previously struggled pleasantly through. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt like he was floating.

“Glitch, if you change after you get your brain, I swear I will—”

“Oh, trust me,” he muttered, “I wouldn’t miss this for all of the O.Z.” And he pulled away only to kiss her nose.

“That’s so…mushy,” DG said with a pout.

He laughed. “Well, I could always just—”

There was an abrupt, heart-stopping knock on DG’s bedroom door.

DG cleared her throat. “D—don’t come in! I’m not dressed!”

“DG?” And it was old Lavender Eyes, and Glitch’s heart, previously flying and fluttering and singing and dancing, immediately plummeted into his stomach.

DG forced him to the other side of the bed, and he fell, being the damn klutz he was, right on his shoulder. He held back the grunt of pain, but he dragged the blanket down to cover himself, stiff and still as he waited for the screech that was sure to follow.

“Yes, mother, I’m not dressed. Just a second.”

He heard the shuffling of DG pulling her clothes on, then cursing under her breath when she couldn’t find some article of clothing.

She bent to where Glitch was. “Stay here!” she whispered hurriedly before bounding to the door.

He winced. He was going to be beheaded or something if they found out what had just happened. Would the Queen really do that to Ambrose, former vizier and trusted friend?

DG opened the door, and he could almost hear her mother’s surprise.

No, he figured. But her father certainly would. And he’d do it with pleasure.

“Are you alright?” her mother asked. “You look warm.”

“Oh, I think I might be coming down with something.”

“…Well, you don’t have a fever.”

“Uh, anyway, mother, what’s, uh…what’s up?”

“Are you coming to dinner?”

“Yes.” He heard the relief in her voice.

“Good, good. Ah, one last thing.”

“Yes?”

“You haven’t seen Amb—Glitch, have you?”

“No, I, ah, I haven’t seen him for a while. Maybe he’s already downstairs?”

After a few more moments of small-talk, the Queen was gone and DG closed and locked the door.

“Can I get up?” Glitch whispered, and DG tossed his clothes at him.

He dressed and they both hurried out the door, spreading far away from each other. Glitch arrived from the north wing as DG came from the east, looking no worse for wear than himself.

“You both look a mess,” DG’s father commented when they all sat down to dinner, scratching his blond head. “You aren’t coming down with something, are you?”

“Maybe just a cold,” DG admitted, smiling. She kicked Glitch under the table, and his own grin faltered for a moment.

“Yes, just a cold. I hear there’s one going around.”

DG’s father didn’t look convinced, though, and Glitch swallowed.

He leaned his chin on his hand, looking deathly serious and the scariest thing Glitch had seen is a while.

“Tell me, Glitch. Just how old are you, anyway?”

His hands shook nervously and he could’ve sworn he blacked out for a moment. “Wha—um. I’m sorry, have we met before?”

DG looked like she was about to keel over, but Miss Lavender Eyes just laughed.

Pyramid Head x Maria

2007-10-30T02:47:43Z

Title: Rain
Fandom: Silent Hill
Pairing: Pyramid Head/Maria
Content: n/a
Length: One-shot
Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill.
A/N: I'm not sure how much sense this makes. :/

And amidst it all, she sneezes, maybe because she’s catching a cold from the rain—and to this her mother’s voice drifts in and out of her mind: “You don’t get sick from being cold, silly; you get sick from viruses”—or maybe because she’s finally developed some sort of allergic reaction to the acid-spewing demons skittering off.

Either way, Maria is alone, lost, and standing in the pouring rain—the rain that the monsters seem to avoid like the plague.

And she’s still in Silent Hill.

This makes no sense.

James is gone. He left a long, long time ago. He obtained his justification or retribution or whatever it was he wanted to call it and left her hanging in that metal…thing to just rot.

It’s a wonder she even found a way down. But she had, and so she stands here now, frustrated beyond belief and probably coming down with something.

And she highly doubts there is any Tylenol or Nyquil for the pains she can feel welling in her chest.

She watches a stray nurse stumble under the awning of a building, waiting there in a line with a few other creatures. They stand together, occasionally twitching, gasping, retching, watching, and waiting for her to come near them—within reach. Waiting for the rain to stop. For the fog to come back. For the gloom to settle again.

And so Maria prays that the rain will stay forever.

There are creatures from all walks of the town soon, gathering in the shelter and piling on top of each other, struggling for a better look. And then Maria realizes that once the rain does stop, they’ll kill her. And that will be the end of things for her.

She starts crying then. Because she misses her mom and her family and her old life. Because she’d give anything to go back to the days when she didn’t have much to care about.

“Mom,” she whines in that voice usually reserved for James’s name. “Mom, I’m scared. I want to go home.”

There’s a sound behind her, and she turns, spotting Pyramid Head at the end of the street, hands empty of a weapon, though the rain rolls down his body. He doesn’t mind the rain.

And she knows without a doubt that there are worse things than death.

The prime example stands in front of her.

Very much aware of the monsters lined up around them like vultures, Maria stares at Pyramid Head, eyes tearing, biting her bottom lip, metal pole clutched tightly in her hand. “Mom, I want to go home.” And even quieter, she says, “Please let me come home,” and the rain drowns out her voice.

Before she can realize quite what’s happening, the creature—man—stalks forward and stands directly in front of her, so close that she can smell him. He smells like metal and rust, but she notices that the rain is pounding hard enough to wash off most of the blood coating his arms and boots, and even his helmet. His hands, though, are stained a dark red. Not like raw skin, more like an unhealthy tan.

“What do you want?” she whispers, quite close to sobbing. “Are you going to kill me?”

He keeps his ridiculous stance: pelvis thrust forward like he’s just waiting for her to throw herself on him, arms lax at his side, tip of his helmet pointed down toward her.

“Please,” she says, and then her voice breaks into gasps as she sinks to her knees, steel pole falling from her hand to roll away. “Please kill me.” She buries her face in her hands, shielding herself from the rain and hiding the expression she makes when she cries. She’s always hated it.

The tip of his boot nudges her ankle carefully, and she sniffles loudly. It’s barely audible above the rain.

When she doesn’t move, but just continues to cry, he nudges her again.

She looks up this time.

And he extends his blood-stained hand, wide and waiting.

She doesn’t understand and just weeps harder. “No, no, you’re not supposed to do this. You’re supposed to try and kill me again. Please kill me!”

He kneels down, hand still offered, other hand bracing him on the asphalt.

She takes it in hers cautiously, her other hand slipping from covering her eyes to covering her mouth. She doesn’t care about the smeared makeup or the ratty appearance of her hair, because she’s going to die anyway. Maybe he’ll kill her quickly.

He stands back up and takes her other hands in his, and there they stand, both hands tightly connected, rain pouring all around them, monsters of Silent Hill playing witness to the insane new mannerisms of Pyramid Head.

Maria watches him, watches the raindrops drip from the edge of his helmet, watches the wrinkles in his dirty apron get soaked through, fitting and sticking to the muscles beneath.

He releases her only to step forward, one hand pressing callused, strong fingers into her bicep while he uses his other arm to tug her close to him, face to chest, her arms drawing up to push away but to stop when he doesn’t move.

She doesn’t want to believe what’s happening. Silent Hill is a mindfuck—one big mindfuck that doesn’t ever stop mindfucking, even when she’s on the brink, and this is just another little game.

Her hands fist and she presses her nose into him, not minding the smell of copper and something strictly masculine that isn’t quite comforting, but isn’t quite unpleasant. The jut of his helmet hangs over her head, blocking the drops of rain from hitting her even more, and she cries harder than she can ever remember.

She never would have imagined that Pyramid Head would be the one to comfort her in a place like this.

But he is, and there’s not much she can do about it.

Deidara x Sakura

2007-09-05T03:32:34Z

Title: The Spoils of War
Fandom: Naruto
Pairing: Deidara x Sakura
Rating: NC-17
Content: HJ, SoloM, oral
Length: one-shot/"deleted scene"
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.
A/N: Why is it that my DeiSaku porn!fics always just run straight into the smut?

Geh. Anyway, I was originally going to incorporate this into Found somehow, but plans changed. So now you get to enjoy this wonderful deleted scene!

“Well, I—” Deidara stopped short. Was that—was her—

Sakura most definitely had her hand on his thigh.

She smiled at the group of friends across from them, pressing her fingers into him. “We’ve been married for…well, a couple months now. Almost a year, I think. Has it been a year, Makoto?”

Deidara almost didn’t hear what she said, because the presence of her hand and the exact placement was just so distracting. “Uh…I think that’s about right, yeah.”

“Well congratulations!” one man slurred, very obviously drunk. “I’ve never been married. Don’t plan to!” He ended this with a hearty laugh.

Sakura copied his laugh with a much sweeter one, and her hand drifted slowly to the inside of his thigh, thumb rubbing lazy circles while her fingers continued to knead in a manner that was probably meant to be soothing.

Deidara tried so, so hard to keep his composure, but it was so, so difficult. “I—it’s an interesting experience.”

“So I hear,” a woman said, pouring herself some more sake. “So,” she continued slyly, chancing a look at Sakura, “how was the wedding night?”

“Oh, it was amazing,” Sakura said, and at the word “amazing,” she held him completely through his pants, and Deidara nearly tore the tablecloth from the table in surprise. He was instantly hard, and the entirety of his groin tightened, making him clench something—anything—just to hold back a moan. At the questioning looks shot at him, he smiled good-naturedly.

“It was,” he said, trying desperately to make up a story, his voice unnaturally high and probably giving him away. “R—real magical…or something…”

“Mm,” Sakura happily concurred, and she actually—did she just—no, he must have been imagining it. His mind must have been playing dirty, delicious tricks on him, because there was just no way—

She did it again.

It was reality, and Sakura had most definitely stroked the length of him slowly, her thumb brushing over the head and making him clench his teeth.

This was dangerous in front of so many people. What if they caught them? What if they—

She flicked her wrist on a particularly hard downstroke, and he whined, gripping the tablecloth with all his strength.

Another decidedly sober woman cocked her head at him. “Is something the matter?”

“No!” he lied, smiling wryly. Underneath the table, Sakura’s fingers slipped to stroke the underside harshly, and his smile faltered for only a second when he let a strangled gasp slip.

His erection—very persistent and very pleading at this point—strained against the thick material of his pants, making it very inaccessible to a more-than-willing Sakura. He shifted and straightened out the legs of said clothing, hoping to make it less constricted, but nothing helped. He was shaking badly at this point, mouth permanently half open, the muscles in his abdomen drawn in taut and his hips arching ever so slightly out.

Sakura took the initiative and unzipped his pants silently, though he could still hear it, and when she reached underneath the layers of cloth to firmly take him in her hand—bare skin against bare skin and her hand was so warm and he was so, so hard—a fine tremor traced the length of his spine.

She seemed to be enjoying this just as much as him, judging by the faux grin on her face. Hiding behind that grin was a satisfied smirk—a “Hah, I beat you, you totally lost the bet,” expression, but at this point, oh, to hell with the bet.

“Like I was saying,” the boisterously drunk man said, waving a dismissive hand. “I will never get married! I heard that,” —here he took a moment to burp quite…uncaringly— “the sex life sucks.”

Sakura mumbled something that Deidara honestly didn’t understand, her fist closing around the base and then back up, repeating the process a few more times, but faster, and he swallowed every little noise he was just aching to make.

“No,” she said, and she sped up her pace, feigning like she was fiddling with a napkin in Deidara’s lap. Fingers traced veins as she smoothed pre-cum over the head, occasionally her pinky finger would brush over his balls, and everything would just compound in on itself, and he felt like he’d died and been revived and died again and she was moving faster still. He couldn’t help it. He slumped in the chair, head back, furrowing his brow and closing his eyes tight, bringing his hands up to helplessly cover his expression. He was going to come right here all over himself and her hand and he still couldn’t believe she was actually doing this, but he was glad. Because it felt so, so, so good, so sinfully gratifying to finally be this intimate. It was just right—it was just something that fit—and he found his mind drifting to the thought of her mouth around him, her tongue laving maddeningly along the slit before she completely swallowed him to the hilt, and—and—he was going to—he was—there was no—

Abruptly, she pulled her hand away. The sudden loss had Deidara convulsing not once, but twice, and he jerked into an upright position, staring at her open-mouthed as though she’d just committed some heinous crime.

“Well, it stays fine if you have the patience to prolong it,” she replied to the man once more, but he wasn’t listening. She shot Deidara a sideways glance. “Enjoying yourself?”

His chest was heaving at this point, erection throbbing, hands twitching to hers and urging her to take him again, to continue, but she pulled away every time.

“Sakura,” he whimpered, scooting his chair to her so that he could nuzzle his nose into her neck, trail his lips across a tendon, and touch himself quite unconsciously, his own hands slicking over his length, a tongue darting out once or twice for just that added sensation.

She leaned into him, taking one of her hands and covering his where it stayed closed around himself, and she pumped him once or twice—agonizingly slow, teasingly slow—before nodding happily at the small group across from them.

“It’s been nice,” she said, and she sounded breathless. “But we really should be going.”

The people didn’t pay them much attention, and finally she was able to stand, pulling Deidara with her.

He was in no condition to walk—no condition at all, and even if he was, the result of her endeavors was painfully obvious by the tent in his pants and the sweat forming at his temples and the creases of his neck.

She pulled him along, though, darting between people, and before he knew it they were running, skipping the elevator altogether in favor of taking the stairs, jumping two at a time. And it wasn’t that he had a hard time keeping up, it was just that the adrenaline rush it was giving him was turning his legs to gelatin and his hand clenched around Sakura’s was sweating and growing slick.

They were racing down their hallway soon enough, and they came to a dead stop in front of the door. As soon as they did, Deidara was planting sloppy, wet kisses wherever he could possibly get to on Sakura, tongues on his hands teasing the underside of her jaw and her nipple through the thick fabric of her shirt. She was fumbling with the key, having a hard time concentrating when Deidara was so persistently palming the expanse of her hips, sliding one middle finger down to press against her sex, and she almost dropped the keys on a gasp, holding the wall for support.

“Deidara!” she panted, glaring at him. “Let me get the door open!”

He didn’t answer, just kept up his ministrations, occasionally grinding himself against her thigh, and when she finally got the door open, she almost threw it open, stumbling inside and closing and locking it behind her.

It wasn’t messy or hurried or ungraceful at all, because Deidara simply took her to farthest bed, where he immediately slid his pants off all the way, followed by his tank and mesh undershirt. Sakura simply pulled all of her clothes off, as well, and Deidara sat back on the bed, where she stood between his knees.

He took just a second to get a full glimpse of her—of her naked body, her breasts, her collarbone, her stomach, her hips, everything, because though he’d seen her naked before, it had never been like this. It had never carried such heavy connotations.

One of his hands pressed to her nipple, tongue slicking over it, making it pert in a second, and he took the other nipple in his mouth, pulling it gently between his teeth. Honestly, he had not the slightest idea what he was doing; aside from the few occasional women he’d been with, he’d never really had an intimate relationship. Most of what he was doing was just educated guesswork.

She threaded her fingers into his hair, moaning something that might have been his name, and watched him. He pulled his mouth away from her with a wet pop in order to kiss her, and she happily complied, especially when he placed both hands on her breasts to continue what he’d pulled away from.

There was no long, soft strokes of lips, but he curled his tongue immediately around hers, opening his mouth against her, pulling his hands away to press into her back and closer to him. She angled her head in a way for better access and arched into him, and he stiffened, shoulders high, straightening out his spine and making whisper-soft noises that even he couldn’t discern.

He pulled her on top of him as he lay back against the bed, and she straddled his hips, his erection sliding against her inner thigh as she pulled away from his mouth. Her eyes were half-lidded and expectant, especially when she took him in her hand and teased him by slipping the head just barely inside and then slipping it back out, rubbing it along the slit, making herself wet and slick and hot.

He grabbed her hips in his hands and rocked in toward her. “Sakura,” he murmured, followed by a softer, “Oh, fuck…”

She stretched herself across his chest like a cat, hand running up and down and across his chest, tracing straining muscles. She pushed the hair out of his face and kissed him again, just one quick sweep of her tongue, before pulling away and sliding down his torso, planting her hands firmly on his thighs.

He propped himself up with his elbows. “What’re you—?” Her mouth closed around him, though, and broke off his speech, eliciting another half groan, half whine.

He still couldn’t believe this was happening, but he didn’t dwell on it, because her tongue circling the tip and then her taking him completely in, skirting her gag reflexes once or twice, was sufficiently more interesting.

He was almost more aroused by the sight of what she was doing than by the actual feel of it, and he licked his suddenly dry lips, unable to tear his eyes away. She bobbed once, twice, and when he hit the back of her throat, a deep foreshadowing of pleasure damn near made him buck into her mouth.

“Do you want—do you want—” he valiantly tried between gasps and pants, and she looked up at him, eyes wide and beautiful green and innocent. “Do you want me to—?”

She pulled away from him just before he felt like he couldn’t hold back anymore, crawling on top of him again. And then she positioned him just right and eased herself onto him, and he was inside her, warm and wet and perfect, just like he’d imagined, everything tight around him.

She obviously wasn’t a virgin because she wasn’t complaining, and really, he liked it better that way. She lifted herself up and came down upon him again, and he met her, thrust to thrust, stroke to stroke.

The waterbed made a wonderful rhythm with how they were moving, and it seemed to move in tune with them.

Deidara turned her over, though, kneeling behind her, and she almost seemed nervous at first.

“D—Deidara?” she asked, glancing at him over her shoulder.

He didn’t even ask; he pushed in, and she was tight in the first place, but from behind was just—

She gasped at this and then clenched her fists when he pulled out and pushed right back in, and then out again and then in, clutching her by the waist to hold her steady. One hand drifted around to her lower stomach, though, and then to her clit, and the tongue on his palm flicked out to tease it.

She clenched around him. “Dei—!”

He could feel the tension coiling tight in his gut, and he flicked the tongue again, starting up a chaotic sort of rhythm, teasing, drawing it out, even as he continued to thrust into her and she continued to pant and gasp and make those little “Ah!” sounds that made him dizzy.

The only noises he made were strings of very colorful curse words, occasionally punctuated by her name, and panted just as hard. He deliberately slowed himself down, though, whispering in her ear as she arched back and he leaned into her, asking if she was there yet, if she was ready, and she never answered, just clenched her teeth and her inner muscles and screamed his name—“Deidara! Deidara! Ah, Deidara!”

He could feel her shaking, and once he did, he immediately upped his own pace, pounding into her hard and fast, his hand and tongue stilling above her clit when she spiraled down from her orgasm, riding along with him now.

And he was there not moments later, and everything was so tight, so constricting, sensitizing him to every touch, every stroke, every slide, every whisper and breath, and he stifled a rather loud moan, muscles everywhere going stiff, and she was repeating his name over and over again, so he copied her. “Sakura, Sakura, Sakura, Sakur—”

He found himself quite unable to speak and instead opted for simply groaning and whimpering, but he didn’t care, because he was finding that blessed release, and he filled her completely one last time, coming in short bursts as the winding, roiling pressure exploded and ebbed slowly, leaving him trembling and breathing hard.

He pulled out of her when he found the presence of mind to do so, feeling drained and accomplished and content for the first time in a long, long time.

Pein x Sakura

2007-08-25T23:57:30Z

Title: Clouds
Fandom: Naruto
Pairing: Pein x Sakura
Rating: T
Content: N/A
Length: 100-word Drabble
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.
A/N: In light of the new manga chapter.

She stands there, staring at him, watching, waiting.

This man stares blankly up into the vast, cloudless sky, his odd, ringed eyes with too much pink around the edges half lidded. He is dying. He’ll join Tsunade and Jiraiya soon.

He closes those eyes, and without even a clap of thunder, it is pouring rain. Drops fall on his face, slide down between his eyes, dot his lips, and he smiles so, so weakly.

“I love the rain,” he whispers, and perhaps, Sakura muses, he does not know she is there. “But it’s not enough to wash away the blood.”

Itachi x Sakura

2007-08-25T04:38:34Z

Title: Everything
Fandom: Naruto
Pairing: Itachi x Sakura
Rating: T
Content: N/A
Length: Drabble
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.
A/N: Didn't see this one coming.

Everything

--------------------

“Why am I blindfolded?” she would ask.

“Because I don’t want you to see me, Sakura,” he would answer. And then he would kiss her. And she would feel content, if only for a second.

“Why am I bound?” she would ask.

“Because I don’t want you to feel me, Sakura,” he would answer. And then he would touch her. And she would feel uneasy, if only for a minute.

Why am I gagged? she would wonder.

“Because I don’t want to hear you, Sakura,” he would answer. And then he would undress her. And she would feel obligated, if only for a while.

“Why are you doing this?” she would ask.

“Because I can’t lose, Sakura,” he would answer. And then he would leave her. And she would feel empty, if only for a day.

“Why can’t you forget me?” she would ask.

“Because I refuse to, Sakura,” he would answer. And then he would steal her. And she would feel helpless, if only for a year.

“Why are we together?” she suspects she will ask.

“Because we can be, Sakura,” she supposes he will answer. And then he will be her. And she will feel trapped, if only for an eternity.

“Why are you still with me?” he would ask.

“Because I want to be, Itachi,” she would answer. And then he would look at her.
And she would feel happy, if only for the first time in her life.

Tobi x Sakura

2007-08-12T07:33:08Z

Title: Dear You
Fandom: Naruto
Pairing: Tobi x Sakura
Rating: NC-17
Content: oral, hj, tablesex
Length: One-shot
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.
A/N: Wayyyyyyy overdue. Used Tobi's "earlier" personality, too. So yeah. : D Enjoy.

Dear You

---------------------

He thought it was chocolate milk.

Oh, God, but it wasn’t chocolate milk, and nobody knew this fact better than Tobi himself did at this moment, because he was having these strange reactions unbefitting and inappropriate to the current situation.

Especially when Sakura bent over the exam table like that to grab the pen she dropped.

Tobi fidgeted where he sat, scratching behind his ear and at the base of his jaw nervously. It was awkward. Too awkward. He liked the relationship he held with Sakura: friendly and easygoing.

She straightened and brushed the front of her white labcoat off. “Okay. Now, tell me again what exactly you drank in here? Actually, start off by why you were in here in the first place.”

She pulled a stool up to sit next to him, and he flinched away from her. “Tobi was looking for you.”

“Please drop the third-person act,” she sighed, putting a hand to her forehead in assumed agitation. “It’s really not cute anymore.”

“Tobi is—I’m sorry, it’s a reflexive thing To—I—do when I’m nervous.”

She shook her head. “There’s no reason to be nervous. Well…yet.”

That didn’t sound promising. He swallowed and shifted, hands gripping the edge of his seat in a vice-like grip. “I was thirsty and saw a glass of something, so I picked it up and drank it. I thought it was your chocolate milk and didn’t think you’d mind…”

“Chocolate milk?”

He nodded vehemently, trying valiantly to rid himself of these…filthy images. Sakura on her knees in front of him, Sakura straddling his lap right in the chair, Sakura underneath him on that exam table as she moaned and wrapped her legs around his middle and he completely buried himself inside her…

“Tobi, are you alright?”

Tobi blinked. “Yes?”

Sakura frowned. “You were whimpering.”

“I…was?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Anyway, where did you find the drink?”

He couldn’t stop staring at her lips. They were so distracting…

“Because if you found it on the rack in the far west corner, I wouldn’t go near water for a while, and…”

Her voice droned in and out, and Tobi couldn’t help but stare at her. She couldn’t tell with his mask on what he was looking at, anyway. He took her in—every inch of her. From her pretty pink hair, to her green eyes and the way they darted across her clipboard and his mask, her mouth, moving as she spoke and forming the words, and…and Tobi was quite certain he’d groaned, because the thought of those lips wrapped around his length, her tongue teasing the underside, mumbling and creating delicious vibrations as her hands slicked over her own saliva was building a coiling, tightening tension in his lower abdomen. And these sensations didn’t usually come unless his mind was drifting in his own quarters, and in that case he could easily take care of it himself…

“Tobi? Tobi, you’re panting.”

He couldn’t deny it. He knew he was. He also knew that he was sliding forwards in the chair, pelvis arched out, hands still clutching tightly to whatever was solid around him. If he didn’t have his mask on, she’d probably be able to see that his mouth was parted just a fraction of an inch, his eyes half-lidded and brow furrowed. This was absolutely killing him.

“Tobi!”

How easy would it be to just bend her over that exact same exam table and pull that labcoat up around her waist and those cute little shorts around her thighs? She was probably tighter from behind, and it wasn’t that he doubted she was already imperceptibly tight, but there was the sensation of all that was warm and wet and soft in Sakura clamping down around him as he thrust in carefully, drew out, pushed in again, hands around her to grip her shoulders and then her breasts, and she was moaning, moaning his name. Tobi, Tobi, Tobi…

“Tobi!”

He took a deep breath that was more of a gasp. “Sorry, Tobi’s sorry…sorry…”

“It’s okay, but I need you to calm down and tell me where that glass you drank came from.”

He shook his head. He was far past the point of words, now. All he could think about was Sakura and her warmth and her smile and her lips and her hands and how she could just lick a path down from his navel to his—

“This is obviously adversely affecting your ability to speak,” Sakura mumbled, standing and holding out a hand for him to take. “How about you show me where you found it, instead?”

He hoped to whoever the creator of the universe was that she wouldn’t notice exactly how adversely the chocolate milk-like drink was affecting him.

He took her hand in his, and even through the gloves he could feel her fingers delicately fold around his, her palm fit inside his larger one, and he bit his lip to keep back another groan. Even the smallest things…

“Okay, now,” she said, standing still with him. “Lead me to where you found it.”

He didn’t remember. He didn’t remember, because that exam table was looking extremely good at this moment, especially when he had her by the hand and in his clutches. Throw her on it, climb on top of her, suck and breathe and lick and trace down her neck to her cleavage that might not have been there at all, but that was okay, because Tobi thought it was nice that her breasts could fit so perfectly in his hands, and close his mouth over her nipple through the fabric of whatever she held to bind her breasts to her.

And then he was panting harder and his knees buckled. He caught his balance against that damned exam table, staring up at the light overhead.

“Tobi? Tobi!” Sakura exclaimed, kneeling down to help him.

“N—no, don’t,” he pleaded, and lifted himself slowly so that he stood straight, resting his elbows against the table. “This is bad; Tobi is a bad, bad boy…”

“Tobi is not a bad boy,” Sakura reassured, placing her hands behind his knees, and Tobi almost fell from the sheer feel of her hands on any part of his body.

“Sakura, Sakura, Sakura…”

“It’s okay,” she said, running her hands up past his knees, to the back of his thighs, sliding around to the front and getting so close—oh, so close—before running back down. “I’m checking for any injuries or deformities the substance you drank might have caused.

“S—Sakura,” Tobi panted, and his hands unbidden slipped to his abdomen, where they rubbed over his hipbones, darted between his hips, smoothed over the waistline of his pants, and then deliberately began to undo them. “Sakura…”

She didn’t even look up, though she spread her fingers to knead slightly into his upper thighs, unaware of his own hands working at his belt shakily, pulling it through the loop until it made a clanging sound that brought Sakura’s attention to him.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, taking his hands to stop them from moving so much. “Are you hurt near here?”

Tobi never, never lied, but this seemed like a good enough time to, if any. So he nodded.

She took over the task for him, and the sound of her unzipping his pants made him roll his hips in toward her, hands gripping the table behind him for support once more. His knees bent ever so slightly. “This is…Tobi is…”

She pulled them down, leaving his boxers—plain, black, nothing special—as the only thin cover separating her mouth from a very sensitive organ that was begging for her to…

She seemed to notice that he was, in fact, very much aroused and ready to die because of it, because she blushed a pretty shade that made Tobi chew on his lip and look the other way before slipping her thumbs underneath the bottom hem of his boxers, feeling out with skin-on-skin for anything that might be amiss.

Before he could stop himself he was taking her hands and guiding them to his erection that was as clear as day, urging her to wrap a hand around it or just touch it or for goodness’ sake, do something to relieve him.

She blinked up at him. “T—Tobi?”

“Please?” he whispered, still urging her. “Please, please, Sakura. Tobi needs this…please just…”

She furrowed her brow and pulled away, and Tobi felt something die a little inside of him. So incredibly close to release…

And then she pulled his boxers down, too, and ghosted her fingers over his length, swallowing hard, before she took him in her hand. “I know what you drank now.” Her hand tightened briefly—not enough to hurt, but definitely enough to stimulate.

“I’m sorry, Sakura; Tobi is such a bad boy. Tobi will never bother you again after this, but Tobi—”

“No, no, it’s my fault. I should have…” —she made a loose fist around him and pumped experimentally, and he bucked on a stifled cry— “…labeled it or something. God knows that stuff’s dangerous if you don’t handle it right away. You could explode just about anywhere—”

The sudden shock and idea of him exploding had him choking back a groan. “I’m going to explode?” he asked in horror, tugging away from her for a minute.

She blushed darker and shook her head. “No, no, no! Not literally! Explode as in…um…”

“…Come?”

She pursed her lips and nodded, looking away.

And then the mental image of Sakura with her lips around him wouldn’t leave Tobi alone, and he said something far, far too indecent to say to a lady: “Sakura, please suck me.”

She flinched, hand still around him, and he squeaked, putting a hand to his mouth. “I mean—that was rude—I—Tobi is—I—I—ohhh, Sakura…”

She’d done as earnestly requested, and now he could feel her tongue slipping around the base, maddeningly along the slit for a moment before plunging forward, blissfully forthright in her ministrations that were making him gasp and pant and unconsciously put one hand on her cute, pink head.

Tobi, for the first time in whatever he could remember of his life, wanted more. The others had teased him sometimes because he never took much interest in the common prostitutes they picked up, but now…now the urge to be inside her and fill her and hear her come on his name was so overwhelming that…

“More,” he whispered, and Sakura took this as a bid to continue, for she upped the pace, skirting her gag reflexes once or twice.

He stopped her ruefully. “Sakura, one more favor for Tobi…”

She stared at him for a moment before standing. Tobi pulled her against him, bucking into the cradle of her thighs.

“Tobi, I can’t…”

“But Tobi—” He remembered what she’d said and corrected himself. “I really like you, and I…Tobi would like to…”

She frowned at him sternly. “Take off the mask and I’ll let you.”

“I’ll take off the mask if Sakura closes her eyes.” The answer was so automatic that he wondered if it even came out of his mouth at all.

She frowned, but ultimately acquiesced and climbed atop the table.

He hesitated for a moment, hovering over said table, hands clutching the edges in tight grips because he wasn’t quite sure what to do next. Sure, he knew, but he didn’t, because he was so, so hard and so, so close to finishing himself off right there, patiently waiting eyes be damned.

She lay down, knees drawn up and eyes closed. She was nervous. Obviously.

He took off his mask slowly—how long had it been since someone had seen his face?—and slipped off his clothes, leaving only his boots. They took too long to take off and he was way more impatient than he should have been, in any case.

He pulled her clothes off, too, before he climbed on after her, brushing his bare fingers down her leg, straightening it out slowly and unzipping her long boots. She sighed and turned her head to the side away from him.

He did the same thing with the other leg, but this time he leaned down to kiss the soft spot on her skin just beside her knee, then carried the kiss down just over the curve of her calf, stopping at the start of her boot. He pulled this off with ease.

She writhed a little as if unable to sit still, pulling her arms out of the lab coat before continuing to unzip the front of her shirt, before she slipped out of that, too.

And then Tobi couldn’t take it any more. It was all just too much too fast, and he held her legs down to the table tightly, panting and damn near thrusting into the side of the table. He lifted himself atop it, releasing her legs in favor of planting one knee on either side of them, and his hands were inching over her breasts before anyone could think twice. His thumbs passed briefly over the underside of her nipples, and she made a little noise that had Tobi pressing his face—his naked face: no mask, no cover, absolutely nothing—into her sternum, nuzzling his cheek against her as he grazed his palms particularly hard over her breasts.

“Tobi,” she whined, threading her fingers into his hair. “Tobi.”

He pulled away only enough to glance up and see if she was still closing her eyes, and though she was, the expression on her face had him crying something strangled against her skin and fitting his hands automatically to her hips, pulling her up to grind against him, showing her without the words that he desperately could not phrase to do whatever it was he needed.

She undid the buckles at her med-skirt and then pulled it down, and Tobi fumbled with the skin-tight shorts underneath. She slipped both off at the same time, and he busied himself with her panties while she did that.

She laughed under her breath. “Impatient.”

“Please, Sakura.”

She took him in one hand, but he didn’t need any guidance at all. And once he positioned the head just inside of her, waiting for any sign that he was allowed to continue and that she wasn’t going to back down, she pulled her hand away.

“What are you waiting for?”

He filled her to the hilt.

The first push felt so sinfully gratifying. A hot, tight sensation all around him, wet and perfect, closing in around him, pulling him in deeper, and he just let himself feel it for a moment, wondering why he, of all the Akatsuki men at the compound, was the first to actually…be sexually accepted by Sakura. He’d seen how the others hit on her, and he’d seen how she’d blown each and every one of them off.

Now that he thought about it, it made perfect sense. He was the only one she’d spend any lengthy amount of time with. He was the only one she’d willingly have a conversation with. He was the only one—

She slid her hands up his chest, fingers clutching into his shoulders.

—who she would ever do this with. Ever.

He slid out and slammed right back in, judging by the expression on her face as to whether he was doing it right or not. By the way she bit down on her lip and furrowed her brow, he guessed he was doing just fine.

Thank God for that.

Before he could do it again, she slipped her legs higher up his waist, and he picked up what she was trying to tell him by grabbing her firmly by the thighs and hooking each leg over each of his shoulders. It wasn’t an easy position to work with by any means, but it clenched her muscles around him so tightly that he wanted to just pound into her until he couldn’t breathe anymore, and when she prompted him to continue with a little circling, swaying motion of her hips, he knew that it was worth it.

He found soon enough that the exam table wasn’t exactly the sturdiest thing in the world, especially when he gripped her around her waist and pushed into her like that, and especially when she threw her head back, body rocking from his almost desperate movements—in and out and in and out again and harder, faster, deeper, this time, Tobi, go deeper, all the way, fill her completely, don’t leave an inch unsatisfied, move faster, faster. It jerked and shook and threatened to buckle underneath them, but Tobi could barely hear anything over her pants and her little sounds of pleasure and the sound of skin on skin, and sometimes he could hear his own heavy breathing and he thought he groaned once, but he didn’t know—

She moaned particularly loud, and she moaned on his name, and a jolt of incomprehensible pleasure shot through every ending in Tobi’s body, from the tip of his toes to the tips of his fingers where he dug into her soft, warm skin. He started up an animalistic, uncontrollable pace, head dipping to pull a nipple into his mouth, passing his tongue over the tip and then sucking, and she moaned again, and he made it his mission to have her climax first, because he wanted all of his attention on the little movements and sounds she made when she had no hold on anything stable or within the defining lines of reality.

“Tobi, Tobi, Tobi,” she murmured between breaths, between thrusts, between gasps and whimpers, clenching around him whenever he pushed as tightly into her as possible and then rolling her hips when he pulled out again, and her hands that were at first running pleased, anxious patterns over his lower abdomen reached up and over her head to hold on to the edge of the exam table as she arched herself up. Her lips formed perfectly around a long, drawn-out moan that started as something soft and harmless and needy and ended in a pant, and then she did it again, quicker this time, and again, those little pant-moans, the “Ah, ah!” that was driving him insane; he wasn’t going to last—not when she was doing things to him like this, not when—

“Tobi!” she said on one of those exact sounds that sounded vaguely like a whine or a plea for help, and heaven knew he would come to her help if she ever needed it. He’s risk his life for her a thousand times over and he’d die a million times just to see her live, because he was so incredibly, irrevocably, ridiculously in—

Her whole body lifted off the table, rising to meet his, and he pulled away from her slick breast in order to move even faster than before, almost impossible, but he was doing it, and if this worked especially in this position, then there was nothing he couldn’t do. She sounded like she was screaming, but it was more of another one of those faux pleads for a savior, even when she repeated his name over and over again like a manta. He might have breathed her name; he wasn’t so sure, because everything was going fuzzy.

And then he could feel her around him and was hypersensitive to just about every feather-touch, and he could feel something tighten and clench and grip and maybe convulse and pull him in deeper, and he couldn’t quite take it anymore, and he hoped she’d come before him, but if not, he’d make it up afterwards, because he just couldn’t…

He thought he might have stilled inside of her—it wasn’t like he hadn’t had sex before; he took up the offers of those concubines sometimes—but he didn’t. Instead he just kept going at that insane pace, disregarding the fact that she was just barely recovering and was breathing hard still, and then he could feel it, and everything in his body was tightening: every muscle, every limb, every tendon, and it all just compounded in on him into this tightly wound ball until something shattered and he was there and it was just like dying and going to heaven and dying again until he couldn’t feel his arms and legs and this carnal pleasure was the only thing that was real in the world.

He slowed and then stopped, and he collapsed on top of her, cheeks flaming from the effort of simply releasing every bit of fine tension in him. His breath came out quick and heavy and uneven, and he pressed his forehead into the crook of her neck.

He stayed inside her and she stayed curled up underneath him, legs still over his shoulders, arms still spread up around her head. His hands made lazy little circles at her hips until she squirmed from his weight.

“Tobi,” she said quietly, and he pulled out of her. Even that action had his dormant erection damn near flaring to life, but he kept himself in check. He didn’t think either of them could handle another round.

“Thank you,” he said as she pulled her legs off of him to sit up. “Thank you so much.”

She smiled sheepishly. “N—no problem. It was…it was…”

“Great?” he piped in cheerfully.

“…partly my fault, anyway.”

“Oh.”

“But that, too!” she reassured, putting her hands on his biceps. He noticed that her eyes were still closed as she traced the curve of his muscle, and he flexed experimentally. She smiled. “It was…wow. I’d love to do it again—I mean—”

“Really?” he asked, smiling widely, taking her hands into his. “Again? Tobi’s—I’m free later tonight, and probably all day tomorrow, too, ‘cause I know that Kisame and Deidara have some mission to go on.”

She laughed. “You’ll be the death of me, Tobi.”

He grinned so hard that his cheeks hurt. “I—Sakura, what was that, anyway?”

“What?” she asked, and her eyelids fluttered prettily.

“What I drank.”

“Oh, it was…it was a failed experiment.” She pulled her hands from his. “It was supposed to increase virility, but…well, you can see the side-effects.”

In a move that was part instinct and part giddy, post-orgasm euphoria, Tobi leaned forward to pin her to the table with his forearms on hers, and pressed his lips against hers.

“Tobi?” she muttered around him.

He grinned wide into the kiss. “I’ll let you see my face if you promise you’ll stay with To—me.”

“Stay with you?” she asked, though he could detect the excitement in her voice even as he pulled away. “What do you mean?”

“Be Tobi’s girlfriend!” he chirped, as if it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Tobi, that is so…that’s so…juvenile.”

“So?”

“So it’s…I don’t know, Tobi. Fraternizing and everything, and…”

He pressed another kiss to her lips. “Please?”

She was silent for a moment before she sighed deeply. “Fine.”

He was so overcome with joy that he leaned forward and pulled her into a tight hug, rocking her back and forth. “Thank you! I’ll take the best care of you! And I won’t let Kisame or Deidara or anyone get near you, because now you’re my girlfriend and they can’t have you.”

She giggled and his heart did a little dance for a second. “Your turn. I get to see your face.”

“Okay!”

She opened her eyes quickly, and he wasn’t quite ready. But when she settled on his features—took everything in, from his dark brown hair that hung not quite over his eyes to his dark brown eyes that were just so painfully typical to the smooth, clean-shaven texture of his face. And when his lips curled up into a delighted, suddenly shy grin, she took in that, too.

He’d never been examined so closely before and it was slightly unsettling. But she was his girlfriend now. His girlfriend. Significant other. Spouse. And maybe he could marry her? That was such a good idea!

“Sakura, will you—?”

He stopped short.

Too much too fast. Don’t want to overwhelm her. She’d just seen his face a second ago! He was definitely moving too quickly.

She didn’t touch his face. She didn’t trace his boyish little cheeks or pass her thumb over his jaw line. She didn’t even kiss him. She just smiled, apparently satisfied, and the look in her eyes told him everything he needed to know.

She approved and he hoped she loved, and he loved, too.

They climbed off the table and threw their clothes on, Tobi slipping the neck of his shirt up over his chin and then moving to pull his mask on.

Sakura stopped him for a moment. “You look kind of like Yamato.”

He furrowed his brow. “Who?”

She smirked and shook her head. “Just someone from the old days. A friend I used to have.”

He pouted and pulled the mask over his face. “Tobi looks like Tobi. Only Tobi.”

“Right, right.”

He helped her put on her lab coat, but she refused it.

“I’ve got to take a shower, anyway.”

“Can I go too?” he asked hopefully, grinning behind that orange-swirl mask.

She glared at him.

Definitely a no.

“Can I go…next time?” he asked earnestly, following her out the door and taking her hand in his as they strode down the hallway, and he felt her jump a little at the contact.

“Maybe,” she said in a contemplative voice: the kind he usually heard when she was pondering something but had really actually made up her mind about it.

The kept on walking down the hall, talking about mindless things as he “escorted” her to her quarters for that shower, his gloved hand in hers as he thought about when the next best time to ask to marry her would be.

They passed by Kisame on the way, who only stared after them with raised eyebrows.

Tobi felt a twinge of pride.

Tomorrow sounded like a great day to ask!

Info

2007-08-04T08:20:08Z

FYI: I've decided to archive all of the just-smut stories here.

This journal, of course, will be the first place that I update, though. Just wanted to let you all know.

Pein x Sakura

2007-07-28T23:10:54Z

Title: Coincide
Fandom: Naruto
Pairing: Pein x Sakura
Rating: NC-17
Content: HJ, fetish, tablesex
Length: One-shot
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.
A/N: It's been forever since I've written porn. Bask in it.

Coincide

--------------------

It was hard to believe, in retrospect, all that had happened in Sakura’s life.

And as she washed down the steel exam table with a washcloth and a bucket of disinfectant, she reflected. Because that was what Sakura did when the work day was over, most of the time: reflected back on her life, how things had ended up how they did, why they did, and why she was happy they did.

Yet…there wasn’t much Sakura could really say any more. She’d turned the events over again and again in her head; examined all her courses of action; picked everything to pieces until she was exhausted both mentally and physically. And it always came down to one conclusion that served both as an excuse and a consolation to her: The Akatsuki weren’t evil. They were bad, sure, but they all strived for some greater, albeit selfish, cause.

That said, they’d all failed miserably, of course, and now they existed as more of a fraternity house than anything. There weren’t many members left, and those who were left weren’t interested in any more plans for world domination.

Well…okay, so the Akatsuki compound was more of a shelter, actually, because technically fraternities consisted solely of males who all proclaimed each other “brothers,” and—

A knock on the open door cut her train of thought off there, thankfully. She glanced up and smiled at the man who strode in slowly.

He removed his cloak dutifully and folded it over a chair. “Hello.”

She nodded. “Hey. Something you need?” She finished up quickly and put away the cleaning supplies, moving over to the sink to thoroughly wash her hands.

She heard him take a seat somewhere behind her. “I was injured sparring today.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, shutting off the faucet and drying her hands with a paper towel. “With Kisame?”

He nodded.

“I see.” She knew from experience how serious Kisame could get when sparring. She couldn’t count the times he’d sent his partners in, either unconscious or damn near the breaking point. “Well, what’s the damage, then?”

He rolled up the fishnet covering his right arm. “It’s not as bad as it could have been.”

Sakura grimaced. “No, but it’s still pretty bad.” She sighed and reached for some scissors, proceeding to cut the fishnet shirt off of him. It wouldn’t do to aggravate the wound more by trying to pull the shirt over his head.

He didn’t seem fazed at all, just watched her intently, arm placed placidly on the armrest.

She disposed of the shirt and returned with gauze and some peroxide, humming as she cleaned the area around the wound. It was slightly difficult, seeing as Kisame’s Samehada literally shaved skin, and she couldn’t tell where his skin ended and the injury began.

She dabbed some more peroxide on him, and he flinched. Just barely. The peroxide fizzled and bubbled over the flakes of torn skin at the edges of the large wound. “You’ve really got to be more careful, Pein. You’re in here almost every other day.”

He made a noise that might have been content.

She glanced up at him for a second. “Are you just having a bad month this time around or something? It seems like you’ve been getting beaten up pretty badly.”

He shrugged.

She frowned and squeezed his arm, to which he winced at. “Pein.”

“Yes?”

Her frown fell into a worried pout. “Please listen to me. If something’s wrong, you can always tell me.”

“Yes.”

And then Sakura gave up. She could talk until she was blue in the face, but this man would only reply with a curt nod or a simple, “Yes.” He was more infuriating than Sasuke had been, years and years and years ago.

She finally started the actual healing process, the light green glow of her chakra pressing into his skin, cooling it, piecing together and rebuilding his cells and his flesh, restoring whatever had been damaged. And when she finished not long later, the only thing left was a small, raised, pink section of skin on his right arm.

He thanked her and stood, gathering up his cloak.

She tossed the pieces of gauze into the trashcan and sighed for what must have been the hundredth time that day. “Pein.”

He paused.

“Please try and take it easy.” She closed her eyes as she screwed the cap back on the peroxide, eyebrows upturned. “I don’t want you risking your life if at all possible.”

There was no answer, so she assumed he’d left. With a shake of her head and a scowl, she leaned over to place the bottle back on its appropriate shelf.

“It’s just sparring, Sakura.”

His voice, closer than she remembered and…well…there when he had presumably left the room, startled her into turning quickly around, dropping the bottle of peroxide and sweeping her arm unconsciously across the counter.

A glass bottle—she guessed it was just rubbing alcohol, but she wasn’t sure—rolled off the counter and toward the floor, and she gasped, reaching out to grab it at the same time as Pein.

He caught it before her, of course, the bastard, and when they both straightened, she realized that he was far closer than she had originally thought.

She stared at him for a moment, giggling inwardly at the fact that his cloak hung open around his frame, revealing his bare chest, before he looked away and held up the bottle innocently.

“Here.”

She took it, confused at the warmth in her cheeks. “Thank you. And sorry. You scared me for a minute.”

He huffed softly and still refused to look at her.

This was getting ridiculous. Sakura was the only medic-nin in the whole goddamned compound, and if he didn’t like her, well…then he’d just have to learn to deal with it.

She grabbed him by his sleeve harshly, half intent on leaning heavily on him, but was thrown for quite the loop when his cloak simply slid off his shoulders. And before she knew it, her balance was shot, and there was the ground, ready to kiss her face.

She was going to catch herself. Really, she was. What kind of shinobi was she if she couldn’t retain her balance after something like that?

But…she decided that clutching to Pein’s outstretched arms was a wee bit more satisfying.

She looked up at him, fingers gripping his arms as his hands on her sides attempted to steady her.

He cocked his head to the side, those strange, reddish-orange eyes finally locking with hers. “Are you okay?”

She set her jaw. “Yes, fine, but I have a question for you!” Even when she stood up straight, he still didn’t release her. “Why do you hate me?”

He blinked hard. “Huh?”

Well, at least she was seeing some emotion from him. If nothing else, that was good. “Don’t ‘Huh’ me! Something’s wrong. You come in here constantly but you never want to talk. And yet get anyone else within five feet of you and you’ll talk their ear off!”

He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. “Are you just sexist? Chauvinistic? Do you simply not like me?”

“I’m not—”

She hunched her shoulders around her, staring angrily at a tear in his pants just above his thigh. “I mean, I know I’ve got my faults—everyone does—but do they really bother you all that much?”

“You—”

“I can understand if you don’t like that I get angry easily, but damn it, I can’t help it sometimes.”

“Sakura, d—”

“And I…I’m kind of bossy, too, I know, but I like to be in control of things. I’m a medic! I like to—”

It was Pein’s turn to cut her off. “You know, you’re making it increasingly difficult for me to prove you wrong.”

Her gaze snapped to meet his eyes, and as soon as they did, his lips were on hers. He stepped closer as she stepped back, meeting her with every tentative withdraw and sound of surprise.

She managed to pull back before things got out of hand. “P—Pein?”

He wasn’t really making much of a facial expression that she could make out. Frustration, but with her or himself?

“Pein…”

He rubbed the back of his neck absently. “I don’t hate you. Why would I hate you?”

She shrugged.

“If I hated you, you’d be dead.”

She closed her eyes in agitation. “Good point.”

And then before she open her eyes again and demand why he’d been acting so off-handed and why he had kissed her, for fuck’s sake, he was grabbing her wrists, holding them together and behind her with one large hand.

She frowned into his face. Not because she was angry. Not because she was aggravated. Because she was confused. Pein wasn’t stupid by any means at all, and he knew just as well as she did that she could easily break the hold—however firm it may have been—on her and kick his ass all up and down the exam room. It’d be a fight and a half, but hell, she could do it.

His free hand fingered the zipper at her throat as he pressed his lips to hers again, angling his mouth in such a way that she actually reeled for a second. The insisting presence of one of his hands holding her arms behind her back, the other pulling the zipper down to reveal more of her chest, and his body pinning her very snugly against the counter became just a nagging little thought in the back of her mind as the kiss took up all of her attention. And when one of the spikes through the corner of his lower lip grazed against her lip, that dizzying sensation came back.

“What…?” she managed through all of whatever it was he was doing to her, pressing her harder against the counter every second. It was almost starting to be painful.

The only answer he gave her was to finish unzipping her shirt and pushing it aside, and then slipping his hand underneath her bra to—

She gasped and drew back. “Pein! What the hell are you doing?”

“A long, long time,” he murmured, breathless, the hand clutching her wrists squeezing lightly. “Too long…” The thumb of his other hand passed briefly over her nipple, and she bit her lip.

Okay, so she wanted to do this. She’d never said she didn’t. Pein was absolutely gorgeous in that sort of…odd…rugged way, but there were so many forces telling her how wrong this was!

“What if someone catches us?” she tried to reason, glancing to the door he had shut upon walking in, but he drew her attention back to him with his mouth on her neck, teasing the underside of her jaw just below her ear, tracing some tendon and oh, God, she could swear he was letting those lip piercings graze her skin on purpose, because it was making her mind go black.

“Then let them catch us,” he said after a while, and Sakura had to seriously strain herself to remember what she’d asked. Oh yeah. Door unlocked.

Fuck the door. Fuck locks. She hated locks. Fucking…doors with their locks and their wood and their…their fucking—ohh—doorjambs…

She almost laughed at herself and her inward incoherency. Well, at least she wasn’t trying to outwardly express herself.

She did the best she could with this equal states of arousal thing, but it was hard to do anything she knew with Pein when a) her hands were behind her back and b) he was bent over her, making an area of skin on her neck red and sore.

Quite on a whim, she leaned forward as best she could and drew the first earring into her mouth, tongue tracing the loop and then slipping through to touch the soft skin behind his ear, and she literally felt him groan against her. The grip he had on her—on her wrists, on her breast, on her body—all tightened imperceptibly.

Well. Bid to continue, then.

She leaned even further, which was quite a task in itself, to run her lips along the curve, trailing along each individual earring until she darted out her tongue to slick up and down that one long bar through the entire length of his ear, brushing over his skin occasionally.

His breathing changed from deep and heavy to completely uneven and ragged, and he rolled his hips once—twice—into her, moving his hand from her breast to the small of her back to push her tighter against him. He kept her wrists pinned, though, and Sakura wondered if this was a sort of fetish of his.

“What do you want to do?” she asked softly, her lips feathering his earlobe, her cheek barely touching his.

“Fuck,” he answered hoarsely, strained, ending the single word with a tense sort of sigh.

She laughed quietly and managed to tug her arms free of his grip—finally—in order to pull loose the drawstring of his pants.

She heard his breath hitch and slipped her hands under the waistband, pulling them down around his hips. “Good,” she whispered, making a bold move and placing one small, cool hand around his length. He bucked into her fist on a grunt, and she felt oddly satisfied. “Because so do I.”

She pumped him experimentally, and judging by the sounds he was attempting to muffle by burying his face in the crook of her shoulder and her neck, she guessed she was doing something right.

In between pants and those little sounds of pleasure that made Sakura throb, he muttered her name into her hair, his hands lifting her bra to her sternum.

He urged her to stop—it was so dizzyingly delicious being able to make a full grown man plead with her to quit it—so that he could lift her up and set her on the counter. It was a low counter, really, and it was the perfect fit when he pulled off her skirt and shorts and her panties, to boot, tugging her to him so that she wrapped her legs around his hips. She should have been amused that all she had left on was the shirt hanging uselessly around her shoulders, open, the bra pushed up to damn near her neck, and her boots.

“Sakura,” he said again, and when he nuzzled into her cheek and her neck—something that was quite new to Sakura and her few experiences with men that she’d obtained in the twenty-something years that she’d lived on this earth—the balls at the end of the barbells running through his nose grazed her skin, giving her chills that alternated between cold and inexplicably warm, but overall very delightful.

He didn’t even give her a warning, which was a bit selfish, in retrospect, but the surprise at the sudden fullness inside her made her whimper. He was hot and thick as he slid in slowly to the hilt, stilling when he could go no further. And then he simply whispered, “Thank you,” before pulling out and slamming into her again, and Sakura could swear she saw stars.

The position they entertained—Sakura half laying, half sitting on the counter and Pein standing up as he trust into her, hands gripping her waist to steady her—made the pleasure double for Sakura, and she wondered if Pein had known this when he’d lifted her up here. Either way, he’d set a rhythm that was damn near impossible for her to meet, but she tried as best she could, running her hands up and down his chest, slightly amused but definitely not surprised when she found a nipple ring and thumbed it carelessly.

He shuddered and murmured her name, eyes closed tight, mouth drawn into a grimace of sorts. And then he slammed into her forcefully, and Sakura realized that he wasn’t going to last.

That was simply not fair. He was going to come before she had a chance to have her mind go completely fuzzy and arch into him. So she took one of his hands and brought it to her sex, urging him to—

Oh, he was a fast learner. He slipped a finger in immediately, brushing over her clit, and the double stimulation soon had Sakura crying out and leaning up, threading her fingers into his hair.

He groaned into her shoulder, sucking on that tender area of skin once before moving to simply rest his forehead against her collarbone. He brushed over that particularly sensitive area again with his finger and Sakura bucked and muffled another cry against him, and he seemed to realize that yes, he should do this again, several times in succession, in fact. So he did, and Sakura started to shudder and pant in breaking waves, not finding the presence of mind to do anything but lay back and close her eyes tightly, breathing his name and pleading with him to never stop.

He came first, of course, because even as he continued touching her, she could hear him try to stifle a rather loud, groaning, “Sakura,” and she completely missed the warm, sticky mess that filled her, because he hadn’t stopped with his finger, and now his other hand was teasing her breast, and it was just too much, and there were those stars, and—

She mumbled his name beneath a whimper, and then that whimper turned into a soft moan as her hips arched out toward him, her nails attempting to claw through the tile of the counter for something solid to clutch. A long, winding shudder shot through her as something tightened and tightened and it wouldn’t stop, and then it snapped, and she was breathing harder than ever right before she came on a hurried murmur, not quite sure what she was saying…

When she was able to calm her heart down enough to open her eyes, chest heaving still, she saw Pein, hovering over her, smiling in a relieved, satisfied way. Lazily, still panting just as hard as she.

She smiled, too, and he huffed a small laugh before collapsing, resting his cheek on her sternum. “Thank you.”

She put her fingers in his hair, playing with the strands of rusty orange, reveling in the fact that Pein, of all people, had actually…with her…

“Thank you for what?” she asked, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

He sighed. “For this?”

She laughed. “For this, or for the fact that I’d like to do it again sometime?”

He lifted his head off of her, disbelief apparent in his eyes, and when she didn’t waver, just smiled bashfully, he leaned forward and kissed her, grinning against her lips.

“I just can’t believe,” she said when he pulled away, “that you actually liked me all this time.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t want you to know.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t like the possibility of a ‘No.’”

She rolled her eyes and sat up, and he did the same, helping her fix her bra and zip up her shirt. She thought it was adorable when he handed her the skirt, pants, and panties, but when he started smoothing down her hair and fixing it perfectly, she shooed him away.

He righted his own clothes, draping his cloak around his shoulders again.

“I’ll have you know,” she said, buckling her skirt and smoothing out the wrinkles, “that there are repercussions to this.”

He stared at her intently, looking worry, for all intents and purposes.

She held up a finger. “One, you have to take me on a date. Okay? Two, you can’t pretend like this didn’t happen.” She poked him in the chest with said finger. “Because it did. And no more being stoic and quiet! I hate that.”

He nodded. “I wasn’t going to, but okay.”

She paused her a moment, and he waited patiently. “…Also, you have to take a shower with me, because I just realized that I’m really sticky and sweaty and gross.”

He shrugged. “Fair enough.

They walked off toward the shower at the back of the lab, still slightly radiating from their actions not moments before.

Sakura grinned. “I’d like to see you take off all those piercings, anyway.”

Pyramid Head x Maria

2007-07-21T12:57:37Z

Title: Maria Hates You
Fandom: Silent Hill 2
Pairing: Pyramid Head x Maria
Rating: T
Content: N/A
Length: One-shot
Disclaimer: I do not own SH2.
A/N: This is also very old.

Maria Hates You. Very Much So.

---------------------

“You son-of-a-bitch. I hate you. I hate you so much. I wish you would die a horrible, horrible death. I hope you’re sodomized by your own goddamned spear, you sick fuck.”

Sick fuck that he was, her outward expression of malice and abhorrence intrigued him. There was nothing to do anyway.

And so he shoved his spear into the ground—yes, it was concrete, and yes he was able to pierce it, because he was just infinitesimally awesome like that—and leaned against it. If she could see under his helmet, she’d be able to see that he was smirking.

“No. No! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

His smile widened, and he was suddenly disappointed that she couldn’t see it. He shifted his boots.

“I don’t fucking think so! You can just take your psychotic, murdering ass right back out that fucking door!” She stamped a foot angrily.

He stamped his.

She screamed in frustration.

He copied her with one hell of a war-cry of his own.

She visibly withdrew into herself.

And he almost laughed.

“I’m going to kill you when I get out of here!”

If she got out of there. Something in his head retorted to her comment with a soft, “Oh, really?” and proceeded to flood his brain with the most amusing images he’d ever had the privilege to view.

This was just too much fun.

In some sort of mock-furious stance, he pulled his spear from the concrete—that’s right, he wasn’t stuttering, concrete—and pointed the blood-encrusted, rusty tip in her direction.

“Oh, what the fuck are you planning on doing, then?” she asked in that smart-ass tone, placing her hands over her hips. “Unless the point of that thing is somehow magically able to detach itself and turn into a heat-seeking missile, you’re wasting your time. Because if you haven’t noticed, several iron bars are separating us.”

Pyramid Head lowered the spear, dejected. What a bitch this one was.

Well, he’d change that.

So he stuck the spear between the bars as far as he could and groped around to shank her with it.

She dodged every swipe, retreating to the far corners of the cell and scowling. “You can’t get me this time! Stop trying! I realize you probably had a beautiful little party ruthlessly murdering me in the hospital, but once is quite enough, you bastard, because I’ll just respawn again, find James, and tell him that you killed Mary!” She kicked a folding chair as hard as she could, sending it flying to hit the metal bars. “Maybe then he’d have a reaction to anything I’d said!”

Well, she certainly was just a little bag of emotions if he’d ever seen one. Maybe he’d bitten off more than he could chew.

Just then, the doorknob to Maria’s cell jiggled, and she smiled brilliantly.

“James,” she sighed, all but floating to said door. “I knew he’d come back. I knew it. He wouldn’t leave me here with you running around.”

She opened the door, arms outstretched, and threw herself at the body before her.

Pyramid Head watched with mild interest as her victim struggled under her hold.

Something seemed to click in her head, for she pulled back, her whole body going rigid, and stared into the face of the person who had wandered through the door.

She stared into the face—or lack thereof—of a Patient Demon.

Her scream just might have broken Pyramid Head’s eardrums.

The monster looked frightened for a second, and it stumbled backwards over itself, unconsciously spraying its acid over the length of the room. A bit of it touched Pyramid Head, but he’d been burned by it so much before that it didn’t faze him at all.

The girl—Maria—on the other hand, didn’t fare so well. She screamed in sheer pain this time, clutching and rubbing at the left side of her face—the place where the demon had burned her. Blood poured from it, staining her shirt and parts of the lone bed.

The demon skittered around on all fours for a minute, low to the ground, as Maria continued to cry and yell and grasp at the flesh boiling and peeling away from her very delicate face.

She almost tripped over the chair she’d thrown earlier and, in her literally blind rage, picked it up and smashed it over the creature’s head. She smacked it so hard that the plastic broke off the chair and littered the ground, and even when blood began to spurt from all over its body, she kept beating it.

Eventually, her hands became raw from the effort, because she stumbled back to collapse on the bed.

And…died? Again?

Well, damn. That didn’t last long.

So, not quite sated but not really in the mood to slice the metal bars in half and rape the brains out of a dead girl, Pyramid Head left.

And ran straight into James Sunderland, who stared at him for a second, fumbled with his handgun, and then took off in the opposite direction.

Maybe he should start drinking. Or find a hobby.

Yes.

Pyramid Head glanced down at his clothes, dirty, torn, and worn beyond coherent thought.

Sewing sounded like a good idea.

Pyramid Head x Maria

2007-07-21T12:53:54Z

Title: Young
Fandom: Silent Hill 2
Pairing: Slight Pyramid Head x Maria
Rating: T
Content: N/A
Length: One-shot
Disclaimer: I do not own SH2.
A/N: This is very old.

Young

“Mom says you’re my dad.”

Pyramid Head tried to ignore the child. He really did. Because, if at all possible, he did not like to harm children. Even he was above such things.

“Is your name ‘Dickhead’?”

But this kid was pushing it.

“Mom told me about you.”

He kept walking, spear clenched tightly in one hand and the other fisted, but the child followed him down the streets of Silent Hill relentlessly.

“She said you wore a dress.”

Apron, damn it. It was a butcher’s apron.

“She said you were always really bloody because you didn’t have any self-control.”

Who was this woman, and what was the fastest way to cut off her lips and feed them to her?

The child formed a cage around his head with his arms. “She said you wore a helmet shaped like a triangle.”

Pyramid, to be precise. Hence his nickname, which, apparently, the kid was not aware of.

Pyramid Head turned down Katz Street, and the child ran to catch up to him. He fell in step with his long strides, half-jogging to not fall behind again.

“She doesn’t hate you, you know.”

He stopped, and so too did the child.

Dirty blond hair stood out at odd angles around his head, and bright green eyes pierced the gloom of the outside air. He looked to be about seven or eight.

“She talks about you a lot.”

His grip on the spear loosened.

“She says you didn’t mean all that you did to her.” The boy bit his bottom lip for a moment. “She said that you had to. She said that you didn’t have any other choice!” He stomped his feet.

And that was when Pyramid Head continued on.

The boy trotted beside him again. “Is that true? Did you really have to hurt her?”

No, he didn’t.

He had wanted to.

The little boy ran in front of Pyramid Head, frowning slightly and walking backwards as fast as he could. “Can’t you visit her? I think she’s lonely.” He almost tripped. “She never goes out anywhere with friends or…or anything.”

He didn’t, of course, answer.

“Mom and I don’t live…here,” he said cautiously, glancing around. “But she’s here now! She wanted to come back to remember things, she said.”

Still no answer.

The boy stopped walking, and so did Pyramid Head. “Do you remember her? Her name is Maria.”

Yes, of course he remembered. He’d “killed” her enough times…

“She has pretty blue eyes,” he continued ecstatically. “And she used to have blonde hair, but she said that she didn’t want it anymore so now it’s brown.” He leaned forward to whisper, “I like her better this way,” at about the level of Pyramid Head’s kneecaps.

“Yes,” Pyramid Head mumbled, not quite sure why he’d said so.

The child did a little jig right there in the street. It was then that Pyramid Head knew for certain that this kid wasn’t his.

He playfully ran around Pyramid Head and punched him in the kidney.

Perfectly innocent, but Pyramid Head choked on a grunt anyway. Okay, maybe he was his…

“Since you won’t tell me your name and I’m not allowed to say ‘Dickhead’ ‘cause I’m pretty sure it’s cursing, I’ll call you Triangle Head.”

Wow.

“Mom says she first met you in a hospital,” the boy said, putting his hands in his pockets. “She said that was when you told her you wanted to have me.”

Complete and utter bullshit. What kind of lies was this woman feeding her child?

“It’s sad that you guys were separated. But now you can see her again! She’s by the lake. She thinks I’m asleep in the car, so…I have to get back soon.”

Triangle—Pyramid—Head grunted in the “No,” sentiment and continued on.

A frantic call sounded from far down the street. The voice was a woman’s, though Pyramid Head couldn’t make out what she was saying.

The child’s eyes widened. “Oh, no! That’s mom! She found out!” He started to run in the direction of her voice, but stopped for a second. “By the way, my name is James!” He waved. “Visit sometime, okay?”

Pyramid Head watched James disappear into the fog. When the woman’s voice stopped chanting in a panicked manner, he knew they’d left. They’d probably never return again.

For the rest of the day, Pyramid Head couldn’t keep the events out of his mind. And this bothered him more than it should have.

“Hello, my name is James, and mom says that you’re my dad.”

Obito x Sakura

2007-07-17T05:26:47Z

Title: It's Been Forever
Fandom: Naruto
Pairing: Obito x Sakura
Rating: T
Content: N/A
Length: One-shot
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.
A/N: This is what I get for staying up late. I might actually expand upon this at a later time.

It’s Been Forever

------------------

He talks about lots of things. Like the obscure fallacies of his old crush. Like the taste of his first kiss. Like the cowlick on the back of his head that’s always annoyed him. Like simple, petty things that make Sakura glad that he’s nothing like Kakashi or his entire generation—that he’s the odd one out from his flock.

And somehow…his mass deformation doesn’t bother her. She doesn’t even see the grotesque scars and the warped flesh on his right side. The crude absence of his left eye doesn’t even deserve more than a passing glance. Because the things that she absolutely adores—cherishes—about Uchiha Obito, alive, warm, and sitting in front of her in that hospital bed as he recovers from everything, completely override whatever physical defects he may harbor.

She watches him draw a smiley face in the “O” of his name on those official hospital reports, and when she signs it, herself, she ends the tail of her signature with a heart.

It’s the first time that he presses his lips to hers, stitches stretching, taut, scarred skin of his cheek rubbing against the smooth skin of hers.

And she doesn’t mind at all.

Not even when Naruto, happy and content because everything is back to normal in his world, walks in and almost has a heart attack.

Not even when Kakashi, stoic and disapproving, but happy that his friend is back, shakes his head and visits every chance he gets.

Not even when Sasuke, down from his revenge high after the death of his brother and finally home, huffs a soft, almost unnoticeable, “You always knew you’d fall in love with an Uchiha.”