[Fic] Prevarication
Title: Prevarication
Fandom: Naruto
Characters: Pein, Konan, Pein/Konan
Word Count: 450
Rating: R
Warning/s: Implied necrophilia
Summary: Once upon a time, there was the ever after.
Disclaimer: Naruto is owned by Masashi Kishimoto. All the copyrights associated with Naruto belong to him. Only the ideas contained within this story are the property of the author. No profit is being earned by the writer of this story.
Notes: I've been toying around with this idea for months on end, and this is the only time I've been able to write it. Funnily, it doesn't even detail the necrophilic part which was what I had been aiming to write in the first place. I guess smut and I really just don't go together, sadly.
He was Pein, the transcendence of humanity into divinity, the living contradiction of truth and falsehood in an enigmatic, infallible fallacy.
But he would always - always - be Nagato (those worn sleeves, that shy smile, the hopes and dreams and ambitions that would be, in the end, his redemption and downfall) to her.
When dawn finally breaks, the sky is beautiful. It is streaked with the brilliant hues of red and orange that draw patterns which race across the sky in lines that gradually fade and vanish from sight. (It is almost comforting.) When the sun slowly chases away the shadows that have been playing over Pein's - Nagato's - face, Konan carefully draws out a soft breath and she runs her fingers lightly down his cheek. (It is beauty in a different light, illuminated by the sun beside the dust and dirt of what once was Konoha.) There is the lingering feeling of victory overwhelmed by the greater sense of disorientation.
- those calm and arresting eyes of his - the curse and the blessing; magnificence in a wretched world - would be forever closed.
(Or perhaps not forever. Eternity is a very long time.)
She lets her hands trail down the front of his cloak. It is torn and bloody and the clouds are stained with a deeper shade of crimson from the battles; he needs to change out of it. Slowly, she undoes the first of the buttons and slips her hands beneath the cloth. (His cool skin burns.)
Konan parts her lips and breathes in.
In the back of her mind, there is a thought. It goes: "He's gone, he's gone, gonegone." But the words are merely murmurs in the area between reality and idealism, and Konan decides to bring this later to mind when there is more time to process it. She does not particularly care for anything but the realization of their ultimate goal because the obstacles have finally been swept away. God had ordained it to be so. (He must be glad.)
She presses her lips against his (cold) jaw.
(Once upon a time.)
It ends with her clothes folded neatly aside, among his, and they lie on the dust because there is nowhere else to lay. He has not moved (she surmises he must have been tired, yes) and she feels a vague notion of disappointment because the preconceived feeling of unity does not make its presence known. In its stead lies the cold dread of emptiness; and when the birds sing their morning calls, all she hears are pretty background noises - superficial delicacy - and she wonders obscurely if her paper cranes can do the same.
(Ever after.)
Fandom: Naruto
Characters: Pein, Konan, Pein/Konan
Word Count: 450
Rating: R
Warning/s: Implied necrophilia
Summary: Once upon a time, there was the ever after.
Disclaimer: Naruto is owned by Masashi Kishimoto. All the copyrights associated with Naruto belong to him. Only the ideas contained within this story are the property of the author. No profit is being earned by the writer of this story.
Notes: I've been toying around with this idea for months on end, and this is the only time I've been able to write it. Funnily, it doesn't even detail the necrophilic part which was what I had been aiming to write in the first place. I guess smut and I really just don't go together, sadly.
He was Pein, the transcendence of humanity into divinity, the living contradiction of truth and falsehood in an enigmatic, infallible fallacy.
But he would always - always - be Nagato (those worn sleeves, that shy smile, the hopes and dreams and ambitions that would be, in the end, his redemption and downfall) to her.
When dawn finally breaks, the sky is beautiful. It is streaked with the brilliant hues of red and orange that draw patterns which race across the sky in lines that gradually fade and vanish from sight. (It is almost comforting.) When the sun slowly chases away the shadows that have been playing over Pein's - Nagato's - face, Konan carefully draws out a soft breath and she runs her fingers lightly down his cheek. (It is beauty in a different light, illuminated by the sun beside the dust and dirt of what once was Konoha.) There is the lingering feeling of victory overwhelmed by the greater sense of disorientation.
- those calm and arresting eyes of his - the curse and the blessing; magnificence in a wretched world - would be forever closed.
(Or perhaps not forever. Eternity is a very long time.)
She lets her hands trail down the front of his cloak. It is torn and bloody and the clouds are stained with a deeper shade of crimson from the battles; he needs to change out of it. Slowly, she undoes the first of the buttons and slips her hands beneath the cloth. (His cool skin burns.)
Konan parts her lips and breathes in.
In the back of her mind, there is a thought. It goes: "He's gone, he's gone, gonegone." But the words are merely murmurs in the area between reality and idealism, and Konan decides to bring this later to mind when there is more time to process it. She does not particularly care for anything but the realization of their ultimate goal because the obstacles have finally been swept away. God had ordained it to be so. (He must be glad.)
She presses her lips against his (cold) jaw.
(Once upon a time.)
It ends with her clothes folded neatly aside, among his, and they lie on the dust because there is nowhere else to lay. He has not moved (she surmises he must have been tired, yes) and she feels a vague notion of disappointment because the preconceived feeling of unity does not make its presence known. In its stead lies the cold dread of emptiness; and when the birds sing their morning calls, all she hears are pretty background noises - superficial delicacy - and she wonders obscurely if her paper cranes can do the same.
(Ever after.)