Reflections

Title: Reflections
Author: ClarySage
Fandom: Silent Hill 2
Pairing/s: Pyramid Head/James
Disclaimer: No owny, no suey. What? You know the drill.
Warnings: The following fic contains - not quite rape, sex, smut, copious amounts of semen, the word "cum" and a special delivery of weirdness from my thoughts to your eyes.

Also, this was entirely the fault of ThreePointOh, the eville one. She asked, she recieved...something something...

He’d been wandering the halls of the empty hotel for what seemed days. Burn marks, dust, water stains, debris, memories. It was a memory that stopped him in front of a broken mirror, shards of it just beneath, lying on the floor. Absently he toed one of the pieces, sliding it around with his boot, stopping only when it crunched and turned to mirrored powder. Mary, she’d been here, she’d been here with him.

There had been happier days; sometimes he had a hard time remembering that after…after what? It hadn’t taken that long for the disease to kill her, not long at all. Yet still James felt as if he’d been living years with her dying. He had memories of her wasting away for an eternity, even though it’d taken no time at all. Maybe, he figured, maybe it had just seemed to take years because that’s how it was when someone you loved was dying.

Another shard of mirror crunched beneath his foot, and out of the corner of his eye he caught a flickering shadow. Of course it disappeared when he turned to view it fully, unlike half the other…things…that lived here now. Those things always stayed, stayed and attacked, stayed and whispered, stayed and looked like Mary.

There really was only one beast that didn’t remind him of Mary in any way, shape, or form. Nothing about the red pyramid thing reminded him of Mary, not the muscles covered in blood, or the large knife he dragged along to keep him company, certainly not the way he’d raped the other monsters.

Yet, maybe there was something there that reminded him if not of Mary, then of the things he’d enjoyed with Mary. The nights when they’d laid naked in their hotel room, wrapped around one another, sweaty, panting. Another flicker just behind James’ shoulder, and he turned only to see nothing, again.

He crouched down, carefully picking up a shard of the broken mirror and holding it up to his face. He did not look well, the days or weeks, or maybe it was years, of wandering this place had changed him. His eyes had the sunken look of someone who’d been sick for a long time, his cheeks hollow and gaunt. It seemed as if he’d wasted away far too quickly too, just like Mary had. Even his fingers, holding too tightly to the glass seemed thin and bony.

It was funny, but when he thought about it, he couldn’t remember just how long he’d been in this town now, looking for Mary. A few times he thought he’d found her at last, his heart thumping so rapidly he felt as if he’d die right then and there. That’d been when he met Maria. He still confused her for Mary, much to her annoyance. But it couldn’t be helped, she was so similar. Even though Mary would certainly never dress like Maria, or wear makeup like Maria’s or even walk like her…

James had a brief recollection of Maria’s walk, hips swaying in her short skirt, his eyes caught just below its hem, watching for when it flicked upwards just the tiniest bit. It made him miss Mary, yet at the same time forget she had existed.

There was another flicker out of the corner of his eye, and for the briefest second he thought he saw the outline of the red pyramid thing, knife poised. But of course when he turned fully, it was gone. That thing…with its blood and knife and fucking. James shuddered; it was the fucking that bothered him more than anything else. It turned on wheels that’d been left off too long inside him, so long that they seemed rusted in place, yet they squealed into movement at the sight of the bizarre mannequins being torn and thrust into, left as empty, useless husks when it was done with them.

James gasped at the sudden bright pain in his hand, dropping the glass he’d been holding and sucking at the wound between his thumb and forefinger. Again the flicker came, and instead of turning to try and catch it, James glanced carefully out of the corner of his eyes.

The pyramid headed man stood behind and to the side of him, long knife held forward and along the floor, its tip resting next to James’ foot. Without turning his head, James ran his hand along the floor, inhaling in shock when it met the tip of the knife. It wasn’t there, it couldn’t be, imagination didn’t just turn solid like that…did it? In this place it just might well do so. A more adventurous finger than the rest ran up the edge of the blade, as James remained firmly crouched down, refusing to turn and see. Even if he did turn, wouldn’t it just disappear again?

The thick edge of the blade felt solid, solid and cold, and in some places, sticky. Maybe if he…without letting go of the blade James turned quickly in place and looked up. The mask, or helmet, whatever it was, stared downwards at him. It had no expression, yet it always seemed somehow menacing. This time it felt more ominous than it had ever been previously. But then, he’d never been this close to it before, holding the tip of its blade, kneeling before it as if awaiting his own beheading.

Their frozen tableau remained that way, time stretching infinitely as James stared upwards. Already this apparition had tried to kill him, it’d tried to kill Maria as well, and for all James knew, maybe it’d already killed Mary and that’s why he couldn’t find her. His eyes circled back down and focused on the overly large knife his hand rested upon, his fingertips were coated in the half-dried blood from it, sticky. With the air of someone whose mind was elsewhere, James closed his eyes and slowly rubbed his fingers together. It felt familiar.

Above him there was a long, hollow exhalation, followed by a barely audible grunt. The blade tapped at James’ boot, jerking him out of his reverie. Just as he was prepared to take flight, spring up and out of the room, there was a clang of metal. The knife had dropped.

A bloody, gloved hand reached downwards, fingers open and oddly familiar; James held still, waiting to see what would happen next. It didn’t seem to be going for its usual of stab and ask questions later, and he didn’t know why this time was different from all the others. He just knew it was.

James was about to ask it if maybe it’d seen Mary, when the hand that’d been heading his way reached its destination and jerked him from the floor. Being up close to the large, metal helmet didn’t in make it less chilling, if anything, it made it more terrifying. There was no way to judge expression, no eyes to see, no mouth to speak, no ears to hear it if he were to shriek. “What are you?” James rasped out beyond the hand that clenched at his collar. Of course, there was no answer, had he really expected one?

Slowly the creature began to move, its boots sounding like a corpse being drug across a floor. James didn’t dare even breathe too loudly. He didn’t know what the red pyramid thing was going to do, but he had a feeling if he were to struggle, it would only make it worse. At last they reached the wall, and to James’ surprise instead of being thrown against it, he was placed almost delicately in front of it, the gloved fist holding onto his collar carefully letting him slide down until his feet once more touched ground. James breathed a sigh of relief.

Then in one long swipe, the hand ripped open James’ shirt and suddenly he found his breathing out of control, heart thumping rapidly within his chest. Maybe it was going to rip his heart out while still beating, or just stab him directly through with only its hand. Maybe it was going to bite open his throat somehow, or …but it didn’t do any of those things.

Instead, the hand drifted lower, and James found his pants around his ankles, a little unsure how it’d happened. He had a vague recollection of the button to his jeans popping, ricocheting off the helmet, and then the bloody glove was back tilting James’ face upwards, as if the helmet, though lacking eyes, could see him, wanted to see him. The hand tilted his face to the left, then the right, one finger almost caressingly tracing James’ jaw before falling to the creature’s side, gently swaying with the movement of its breathing.

James could feel his entire body trembling, quaking with fear. He was going to die, he knew it, and it probably wasn’t going to be pleasant. His mind quickly supplied him with images of torn and spattered mannequins, body fluids dripping from them, legs nearly ripped off. They’d been mere dolls.

As if to confirm his thoughts, the thing stepped closer, and James’ noticed a distinct breeze from his nether regions. The beast had just made his underwear into tatters. Too quick to see, so fast he only realized they were gone when he felt the air on his skin. “Oh God.” It was going to rape him, just like the mannequins.

He began shivering uncontrollably from head to toe, unable to move, or cry out, frozen in place as the pyramid headed creature slowly ran a hand down its own chest. It seemed like a pantomime from a bad porno, its bloody gloves sculpting their way over tight muscles, compact abdomen, strings untied. James jerked, coming back to himself as the other monster in the room was revealed. He knew now why the mannequins had been torn, and why they’d been spattered with what looked like buckets of ejaculation.

The monster’s monster was wet, glistening trails caressing the thing, the tip still seeping and leaking fluid. James shuddered again, only this time he was appalled to realize it wasn’t because he was afraid. Naked the beast was at once terrifying and an object of pure sex and malevolence. It radiated desire. Whether that desire was to fuck or to kill, didn’t seem to matter.

Now that it was naked, it reached down, holding onto its overly large cock and slowly rubbing it, as if priming an already primed canon. James stilled in anticipation, back to the wall, literally and figuratively.

Was this how the mannequins felt? Did they ever feel anything? They never did cry out, but then, how could they with no mouths? Or perhaps, this was the reason they existed at all; merely to satisfy the cravings and urges of the pyramid monster. Was he, James, just another way to satisfy the deranged and perverted lusting? Did he exist only to entertain this monster? Or was it the other way around, did the monster only exist because James desired it?

For a moment, only a brief second of time, the creature seemed to flicker in and out, like an old movie without sound or color. Then it was more solid than ever, its bloody gloves reaching for James’ shoulders, spinning him about and down until his knees slammed against the floor, the breath rushing from his lungs.

It was going to happen, he knew it. There was nothing now that could stop the momentum. He was going to die. For some strange reason, the thought of death didn’t seem so abhorrent. A small voice whispered to him from the back of his mind, that this was because he’d see Mary again. Then that little voice was drowned out by the feel of the bloody gloves on his body, probing and pinching, one of them circling over James’ stomach, the other traveling over his tensed back muscles.

The hands found there destinations at nearly the same moment, one pulling on James’ half hard cock the other probing him roughly from behind. Then, positioning his body like that of one of the mannequins, he was pulled ass into the air and face down. A slip of paper fell out of his jacket to flutter to the floor. Even from his strange viewpoint James knew what it was, the letter from Mary. He stretched his hand out for it, fingers straining to catch at the edge of the paper, when suddenly all thoughts of anything left him. The monster’s monster was making an entrance.

It certainly felt like it was making one, rather than using the one already there. Of course he’d seen the size of it. Yet still, the actual feel of it trying to press inside of him was a completely different sensation than just looking. Though, peculiarly, the copiousness of its semen helped, easing it in rather than ripping a way in. But then, why had the mannequins been torn every time?

James tried not to think of the mannequins or their tattered bodies, or Mary, or the letter. After a moment, he managed to not think at all as the beast began pumping. James had never been with a man before, and now he wondered if he’d been missing out on something. Each sensation seemed to be magnified a thousand times, he could feel every solid molecule of the cock sliding its way inside of him, every new spurt as it continued to cum even as it came.

The red pyramid thing gave a little grunt of satisfaction as he seemed to reach an impasse within James’ body. For a wildly fear-filled moment James was terrified it might try to push past that point inside, and break down the thin internal walls. Instead, the creature reached around and began pumping James in time with each thrust from behind. It was like listening to music, only it wasn’t, unless music picked up some new instruments and formed a band called “Ass-Fucking”.

James abruptly added his own voice to the melody, crying out loudly as something was touched deep inside. His shouts almost sounded like they had an echo, each one punctuated at the end by a separate yet similar voice. It took James a while in his current state of being done right through the floor, to realize that it was the monster making those noises. Even in his distressed mind he knew there was something familiar about the voice of the beast, and his mind, in turn, ran from that awareness.

His fingertips crawled and scrabbled for a purchase on the floor below, desperately searching for a handhold, for something to let him know it was real. James could feel the profuse fluids slipping out of him and down his thighs, the bloody gloves gripping his hips with hard fingers. Yet no mouth connected to his flesh, no lips breathed on the back of his neck, there was only the occasional brush of cold metal. Or when the monster went far inside like a diver from a cliff and his skin rubbed against James’ for a brief second.

The flesh that was inside of him and outside of him was warm, just like a human. Every pulse was that of living tissue, blood throbbing through veins and arteries. Even though the hands themselves were covered with the rough material of the gloves, James could feel the heat of the hands inside them, pressing and pressing deeper grooves into his body. He knew later that there would be bruises, if he was left alive.

There seemed to be no peak in this bizarre and uncalled for act of lust. Endlessly the pyramid man thrust in and out of him, using James’ body in the way the mannequins had been used, as a hole in which to plunge. Then, just as James felt he couldn’t take another moment of it without passing out, he came, long jetting streams of semen leaping from his cock to spatter against the floor and walls, streamlets of it caressing the front of his thighs traveling down his legs.

Much to James’ surprise he came again immediately after, lesser this time, but still a shockwave throughout his entire body, another tide to wash away what had been rotting on the beaches of his mind and soul. A third wave followed, smaller still, and then James was released to slip bonelessly to the floor, head bouncing softly on the carpet.

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“I got a letter. The name on the envelope said, Mary. My wife’s name. That’s ridiculous, couldn’t possibly be true. That’s what I keep telling myself. A dead person can’t write a letter. Mary died of that damned disease three years ago. So then, why am I looking for her? “Our special place.” What could she mean? This whole town was our special place. Does she mean the park on the lake? We spent the whole day there, just the two of us staring at the water. Could Mary really be there? Is she really alive? Waiting for me?”

James sighed and shook his head. He didn’t know why he was here, not really. But somewhere in Silent Hill, he knew he’d find the answers. One way or another, he’d find Mary. He began walking, the fog filling his footsteps.

Behind him, for a brief moment, a shape flickered in out and out like an old movie, before solidifying. A man with a pyramid shaped helmet and a giant bloody knife in one hand. Behind the mask, green eyes narrowed thoughtfully, one blood-spattered glove coming up to remove the giant iron helm.

James watched himself walk towards Silent Hill. He knew this story; he’d lived it hundreds of times. In the end, James would always come back to him. After all, he could never leave himself… But he certainly could torture himself. With a brief flash of sinister smile, James slid the helm back down over his features and followed. There were some mannequins he needed to do, and James to torture. The days never ended in Silent Hill.