ПОРНО-ФАНФИКИ по Сайлент Хиллу

**Angel Thanatos** » 02 дек 2006, 19:58 |

--What's -happening-.
There's no pulling away from the tip of the iceburg. As Cynthia's ghastly tongue unravels,
the flesh of his erection is allowed space-- and allowed trajectory. Huffing helplessly
despite herself, Eileen has to take more than a few moments to register what's going on
with the very man she's sought to -save-. The warm splash against the exposed flesh of her
knee is thought of as -blood- at first-- until the translucent sheen of the fluid is made
all the more apparent under the harsh flourescent lights overhead. The final, -powerful- arc
that he puts out has fallen gracelessly along the woman's leg, worming its way down as
though it were part of her wounds-- causing a momentary look of abject revulsion from her
within moments. Stumbling backwards, her good arm trembling from the excessive force needed
to bury the axe into the abomination's head, she looks first at the offended limb--
--And then towards -him-.
Hand spread as if to accentuate the sudden disgust, she has... little to -no- idea how
to deal with this, exactly. With her foot dangerously close to vomit and her leg
spraypainted with semen, she's taken aback. To put it -mildly-.
"...Oh, god," she murmurs, partially raising her hand as though to cover her mouth, her
eyes traversing up along his own legs to the source of his fading arousal. But is the
danger even past? She hasn't -seen- anything of this kind simple roll over and -die-...
surely, it can't be this easy. Did they just stun her? "Oh... god." What else can be
-done-? "Oh... god..."
...can anything else be said?
The moment all of this has come to a 'head,' so to speak, is the moment she finally
lets the -weight- of it sink down against her shoulders, barrelling into her. The mixed,
sordid agonies of her -own- morbid arousal, paired as it is with a sense of -sickness-,
is more than enough to turn her stomach. Though she, unlike Henry, has enough willpower
at the immediate moment (and not as much reason) to contain the contents of her gut.

Just when he thought he couldn't possibly be brought any lower...
He isn't sure what's worse, the mortification caused by the knowledge that he's
just engaged (albeit involuntarily) in what could technically be called necrophiliac
activities, or the mortification that hits him when he feels Cynthia begin to let
go of him, and he opens humiliated eyes to see what's going on -
- only to be met with the sight of Eileen's horrified face, and, upon following the
trajectory of one wide-open green eye, the source of her disgust: the evidence of his
climax spattered thickly across her bare leg.
"Oh, Jesus," he moans, feeling his entire body engulfed in a brushfire - or
*blush*fire, as it were.
Once totally free of Cynthia's now-subdued grasp, he doesn't even pause to consider the
succubus' fallen form, so concerned is he with this utter breach of propriety. So much
for being too mortified, too full of self-loathing to even move - Henry now becomes a
veritable flurry of activity. Though Eileen has just witnessed the full course of a
base sexual act involving him, has seen him laid bare in a way only his lovers
previously have, the first thing he does upon gaining free motion again is to stuff
his waning arousal indecorously back into his jeans and zip up his fly. The second thing
he does is hurriedly remove his white cotton dress shirt, balling it up and holding it
out to Eileen, all the while very pointedly not looking in her direction.
"Here," he says, clearing his throat awkwardly and adjusting the hem of his undershirt
with his free hand. "You can, um...clean up with this."
God. He'd never really understood what all those writers were talking about when they
said they wished the floor would open up and swallow them whole...until now.
"Jesus, I'm sorry, Eileen," Henry continues, still unable to look her in the eye, but
managing at least to level his gaze around her shoes. This is progress. "I'm so, so
fucking sorry. I, um..."
He has no idea what to say, aside from just foisting more apologies onto the injured
woman. What does one say to a girl who's just witnessed them being brought so low - who's
just had *semen* shot all over them from the next-door neighbor she'd barely smiled
at in passing and who'd never said more than two words to her before today? 'Was it
good for you?' Don't be perverse, Henry, not everyone gets off on being a voyeur, even
when it's out of necessity.
...even though he *had* been sure, at one point, that he'd seen something decidedly akin
to desire flash in Eileen's one good eye before the disgust had driven it away. But that
had probably been his imagination - that dear old chum who so liked to play games with
Eileen especially. Why, his imagination could turn something as simple as the young
lady bending to remove her socks into something sordid, a series of seductive movements
enacted for his sole, solo, benefit.
But enough of those sorts of thoughts. Now, almost certainly, any chance he might have
previously had (the mysterious man-next-door factor, his brooding good looks, the streaks
of gray in his hair which seemed to titillate so many women) of making his desperate
fantasies a reality had passed away along with the seed he'd shed, dying in its sad
little puddle on the floor, drying to a crust on bruised white skin. Better to focus
now on finding a way out of here.
His gaze seems to scrape along the floor as he forces it to look in Cynthia's direction.
The wraith now lies prostrate on the floor, his rusty-trusty axe lodged in a thick
tangle of black hair, lodged deep in the bone of the skull. No blood shows on the blade
or around the floor, presumably because the poor woman simply has nothing left in her
to bleed. Skin crawling with disgust and the remembrance of the way his hair-wrought
shackles had felt clamped around his arms and waist, the way her mouth had felt clamped
around *him*, he approaches her fallen body slowly, raises one boot-clad foot and stomps
it down with brutal force on the delicate bones of the Latina's neck. While he holds
her body down with one foot, he grasps the handle of the axe and, after a few hard tugs,
manages to wrench the blade free of bone and scalp with a sickening wet sound. He then
steps back, regarding the crumpled form with something akin to the pity and sadness
he'd felt when he first watched her die, but with a great deal more relief than anything.
Requiescat in pacem, Cynthia. This time for serious, please.
Turning back to Eileen, *still* unable to drag his eyes up to look at her face, he
gestures toward the turnstiles with the axe. He says nothing, but the meaning is clear.
Let's blow this den of iniquity.

END

**Nadine** » 02 дек 2006, 22:07 |

Angel Thanatos,
Мне понравилось! :grin:

**Mystic** » 02 дек 2006, 22:10 |

а я практичезге тока села читать) осталось ещё --What's -happening- дочитать....

**Angel Thanatos** » 02 дек 2006, 22:28 |

Концовочка мне там нравица

мда... вот такое я извращенно странное

**Nadine** » 02 дек 2006, 22:38 |

Хех,все мы тут Изврашенно странные...

**Mystic** » 02 дек 2006, 23:10 |

Nadine, не, мы просто любим СХ :twisted:

и всё к нему относящееся.... :roll:

если рассказы хорошие, чё ж не почитать?...а тупые пейринги фтопку :roll:

**Vincent** » 03 дек 2006, 00:29 |

Mystic писал(а):А чёй-то на западе так популярна пара Уолтер/Генри?

Ничего удивительного... Кстати, не только на западе.
И одно, слово, которое я хочу сказать тем, кто постил в этой теме фанфики на английском : САДИСТЫ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

**Angel Thanatos** » 03 дек 2006, 00:48 |

Vincent, дааа, я такая :twisted:

**Mystic** » 03 дек 2006, 00:57 |

Vincent писал(а):одно, слово, которое я хочу сказать тем, кто постил в этой теме фанфики на английском : САДИСТЫ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

а на русском нету! :twisted:

переводить...влом.... :roll:

хотя, у кого есть свободное время....может кто может :roll: