Post by Rockinmuffin on Aug 1, 2007 19:57:34 GMT -5
Disclaimer: Gaara belongs to Kishimoto and Sharon (the OC) belongs to herself.
First, I’d like to apologize because I think I wrote you horribly out of character, Sharon; too chatty, too smiley, or whatever. But I couldn’t help it! This all just rushed out to me from my mind and I was just like “Whoa, slow down, I can’t type that fast!” and then some crazy stuff happened and blah blah blah. Point is, I probably wrote you OOC and I’m sorry.
I think this is a slightly different writing style for me; I repeated things a lot and there are a lot of run-on sentences which is something I usually don’t like but I thought it was fitting because things are told mostly from Gaara’s perspective and I made him pretty crazy in this story. I actually feel very disturbed after writing this… Oh well! I hope you like it, Sharon. D:
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He can still remember the first time he had seen her; she’d casually passed by him on the streets, silky hair blowing gently in the warm breeze and soft eyes briefly glancing at him before abruptly directing their attention back in front of her as she headed towards her destination. He hadn’t paid her any mind at the time, brushing her off as just another person he would eventually kill in order for him to feel alive.
Now, as he watches her naked and bleeding and broken and bruised and beautiful, he can’t help but grin.
As he saw the crystal-like tears dripping from her eyes and the drops of crimson blood trailing down the length of her neck to pool down at her collarbone he almost felt sorry for her. But then he would remind himself that it was all her fault for looking at him, smiling at him, acknowledging his existence.
It was her fault for catching his eye.
The second time he had seen her she had been walking down the streets again; two other girls were by her side, laughing and chatting, and Gaara briefly wondered if these were her teammates or just her friends. As they passed by each other the girl made eye contact with him, only for a second, and smiled before hurrying her steps to catch up with the other girls. Again, he ignored the girl, not even giving her a backward glance.
His grin widened as she coughed violently, blood coming out of her throat and splattering gently her chest, the floor, anything it could reach. He moved closer to her, his hand outstretched as he wiped a stray blood droplet from her lips before bringing the digit to his eyelevel. He took a moment to stare at the faint red stain on his fingertip then brought the finger to his mouth as a pink tongue darted out between rough lips to lick away the stain.
The taste was addicting and he wanted more.
The third time he had seen her she was sitting on a park bench, watching as a group of children chased and tackled each other, laughing whenever they squealed or giggled or pouted. Sometimes one of the children would walk up to her and invite her to play but she would just laugh and pat their head and tell them to go back to their friends and play.
This time she caught him staring at her and she simply smiled and waved to him before getting up from her wooden park bench to retire home. He watched her retreating form with a blank stare until she was out of sight, then turned away to head off to a nice, quiet place where he could be alone and stare up into the night sky.
It was a full moon that night.
He took another step closer to her and she let out a quiet whimper in response. At this, he frowned; she had no right to whimper, no right to act as if she didn’t want this when it was she who had brought this all upon herself. It was she who had smiled at him and acknowledged him and continued to appear everywhere he looked.
She had led him on, acted as if she wanted this, wanted him, and it was too late for her to take it back.
The fourth time he had seen her she had been sitting by herself in a café, long fingers tapping the hard surface of the table to the beat of a wordless song playing in the background as she took small sips of her drink. She set the cup down and saw him, her eyes widening and the corners of her lips curling up as she smiled brightly. She waved him over, calling out his name and urging him to come over to her.
He blinked in confusion (though one wouldn’t be able to tell since his expression remained emotionless as always), not because he was surprised that the girl knew his name even though they had never been introduced (after all, who in Sunagakure didn’t know Gaara of the sand?) but because she seemed to actually desire his company. It was an odd thing for someone to want, his company, and because of this he responded in just as odd a manner; he gave in to her request and sat at the table with her.
He stayed silent as she talked about things of little importance; her favorite color, her favorite animal, her hobbies, the types of music she listened to; but he still listened intently and locked away the new information in the back of his mind. After a few minutes of her smiling and chatting he stood up from the table abruptly and left, clutching tightly at his chest.
His heart had been beating rapidly and aching in a not-quite-painful sort of way and he wasn’t sure how much more of it he would be able to take.
He came closer to her again, his frown still in place as he tried to ignore the whimpers and the tears, and he placed his fingers gently in her hair. He twirled a small strand of her once-soft hair, now dirty and crusted with her own dried up blood, and brought it under his nose before inhaling the scent. It smelled like her and blood and it got his heart beating fast and clenching in that almost-painful way again and he wondered if her heart was doing the same thing.
His hand traveled through her hair, down her neck, and past her collarbone until it reached just above her left breast to feel her heart pounding against her own chest. Was she feeling what he was feeling, he wondered, or was it simply fear?
Whatever she was feeling, Gaara would drink it up without hesitation.
The fifth time he saw her he had actually been seeking her out. The café had been empty and the streets seemed to be crowded with everyone in Sunagakure except her but he had finally found her sitting at the exact same park bench she had been only nights before. This time, instead of watching children run and play (there weren’t any children at the park at the moment; it was about that time where their parents forced them to come inside and eat) she had her face buried in a book, her eyes scanning over the words quickly before her fingers worked to furiously turn a page to see what would happen next, repeating the process every minute or so.
She was so engrossed in her novel that he felt reluctant to interrupt but he rarely ever approached anyone of his own free will (and even then it was usually to kill someone) and she could read her book any other time.
He casually moved towards her, stopping once he reached her and his shadow blocked the sunlight that allowed her to read her precious story. She looked up, probably to ask whoever was in her light to move out of the way, and stared at him with raised eyebrows once she realized who it was. She smiled quickly and patted the seat to next to her in invitation. He stared at the spot with blank green eyes but sat down quietly as she started to talk to him about the book in her hands, telling him about the plot, the characters, and other pointless details that he shouldn’t have bothered to remember but he did anyway.
She continued to talk to him well until the sun began to set, painting the sky with a warm, orange glow. She brought her book to her chest, stood from her seat, and bid him farewell before she started to walk away, only to find that he was walking with her. She raised her eyebrows in surprise (Gaara couldn’t really blame her; he probably would’ve raised his eyebrows in surprise of his own actions if he had any but he didn’t so he simply held his normal emotionless gaze) before smiling even brighter than before and walking off with him by her side.
He ignored the strange urge to grasp her hand in his as they walked side by side and settled for listening her talk about how nice the weather was and how pretty the sunset looked and how lovely the moon and the stars would look later once it was dark out.
She bid him farewell again once they reached her house and she waved cheerfully to him before entering her home and slowly shutting the door behind her.
He kept his hand in place, feeling the contrast of warm blood and cool skin beneath his outstretched fingertips as her heart continued to pound against her chest so hard that it felt as if it would push itself past her blood and muscles and skin and right into his awaiting hand. She struggled weakly against him, using what little strength she had left to grab hold of his wrist and try to push his hand away but all her efforts were in vain. He easily resisted the weaker force that tried to keep him away and simply pulled her closer to him, ignoring the pained cry as some of her wounds brushed against the rough material of his clothing.
He watched as her skin stained his shirt with blood and he couldn’t help but think he had never seen anything more beautiful.
The sixth time he had seen her she didn’t know that he was watching her. After all, she was in the privacy of her own home, sitting on her bed as she read her book again; she was only a few chapters from finishing it, Gaara recalled.
In less then an hour she was done with her book and set it aside on the bookshelf by her bed before she walked off to brush her teeth then came back to her room to change into her night clothes and retire for the night. With a yawn, she slipped beneath her bedcovers and fell into a dreamless sleep the instant her head hit the pillows.
He watched carefully as her chest would rise and fall and rise again in deep, even breaths beneath her sheets as she slept. He clutched at his heart as it began to beat fast again in that strange way that almost hurt but didn’t. As he watched her face, soft and beautiful but missing that lovely smile that he had grown accustomed to, he wondered if this beating of his heart was what it felt like to be in love.
She whimpered again, finally giving up in her efforts to escape from his grasp, and cried against his chest as he cradled her to his body. He watched as her body shook in a fit of violent sobs and she coughed up more blood and her tears were mixing with her blood on his shirt and he couldn’t resist the urge to grin softly because she was naked and bleeding and broken and bruised and beautiful for him, all for him.
This has to be love, he thought to himself.
Many times he had found himself watching her in her home without her knowledge, though he still continued to meet with her on the streets, at the park, in the café; anywhere he could find her. His heart would ache, would hurt, when he wasn’t around her and it was much more irritating than that not-quite-painful ache he had when she was around. He didn’t like that painful ache, not one bit, and the only thing that kept it away was her presence, her smile.
He needed it, needed her.
And so he continued to watch her. He watched as she slept, watched as her lips would twitch during a dream. He watched as she woke with a start, watched as she frantically turned her head back and forth as if she were searching for something. He watched as she spotted his shadowed figure in the darkness, though she probably couldn’t tell it was him. He watched as she screamed in shock, as she jumped from her bed and ran, as she ran away from him…
But he couldn’t let her run away. He had to stop her somehow. He had to stop her any way that he could.
His face was as emotionless as ever when her scream echoed throughout her home as the sand surrounded her, scratched at her skin, tore her clothing, broke her bones, bruised her organs. Her blood was everywhere and the scent was intoxicating and there was a voice inside his head screaming for him to hurt her, taste her, fuck her and it was so hard to concentrate on anything around him because she was naked and bleeding and broken and bruised and so, so beautiful.
He ran his fingers through her hair in a soothing manner, hoping to get that smile from her but only receiving another sob in response.
She was hurt now, but everything would be okay; once he explained to her that he just didn’t want her to leave him so he did what he had to do to stop her and then she would smile up at him again like she always did and forgive him and then she would talk to him some more and tell him her favorite food, favorite book, favorite game, the names of her best friends, the type of shampoo she used and he would watch her with a blank expression and listen to her intently even though he already knew all these things (he’d watched her for so long that he probably knew her more than she knew herself) and it would all be worth it just to see her smile again.
This has to be love, he thought again as he pulled her against his body tighter even as she let out a pained moan in protest. The harder he held her the louder her moans became so he silenced her with lips and tongue and teeth.
And in a sick, twisted way it was. He’d spent so many years loving only himself, being loved by only himself; how was he supposed to know how to act to someone close to him, someone he cared for and loved? When he first saw this girl he had felt nothing but a small urge to kill her one day but now he only felt love; he loved her hair, her eyes, her tears, her cries, her blood, but he loved her smile most of all.
He frowned again because she wasn’t smiling (she was crying and bleeding but not smiling) and he wanted to make her bleed some more, he wanted to hurt her until she gave him that smile but he stopped himself because she was his now and there would be plenty of time for her to smile for him later because she was his and he would never let her leave his sight again (even though she hadn’t left his sight for days but now she would know that he was always watching) and he would watch her as she cried and whimpered and bled and maybe, just maybe, then she would smile again.
And until then he would continue to hold her and cradle her and run his fingers through her hair because she was naked and bleeding and broken and bruised and beautiful and everything he had ever wanted and needed and desired and loved.
First, I’d like to apologize because I think I wrote you horribly out of character, Sharon; too chatty, too smiley, or whatever. But I couldn’t help it! This all just rushed out to me from my mind and I was just like “Whoa, slow down, I can’t type that fast!” and then some crazy stuff happened and blah blah blah. Point is, I probably wrote you OOC and I’m sorry.
I think this is a slightly different writing style for me; I repeated things a lot and there are a lot of run-on sentences which is something I usually don’t like but I thought it was fitting because things are told mostly from Gaara’s perspective and I made him pretty crazy in this story. I actually feel very disturbed after writing this… Oh well! I hope you like it, Sharon. D:
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He can still remember the first time he had seen her; she’d casually passed by him on the streets, silky hair blowing gently in the warm breeze and soft eyes briefly glancing at him before abruptly directing their attention back in front of her as she headed towards her destination. He hadn’t paid her any mind at the time, brushing her off as just another person he would eventually kill in order for him to feel alive.
Now, as he watches her naked and bleeding and broken and bruised and beautiful, he can’t help but grin.
As he saw the crystal-like tears dripping from her eyes and the drops of crimson blood trailing down the length of her neck to pool down at her collarbone he almost felt sorry for her. But then he would remind himself that it was all her fault for looking at him, smiling at him, acknowledging his existence.
It was her fault for catching his eye.
The second time he had seen her she had been walking down the streets again; two other girls were by her side, laughing and chatting, and Gaara briefly wondered if these were her teammates or just her friends. As they passed by each other the girl made eye contact with him, only for a second, and smiled before hurrying her steps to catch up with the other girls. Again, he ignored the girl, not even giving her a backward glance.
His grin widened as she coughed violently, blood coming out of her throat and splattering gently her chest, the floor, anything it could reach. He moved closer to her, his hand outstretched as he wiped a stray blood droplet from her lips before bringing the digit to his eyelevel. He took a moment to stare at the faint red stain on his fingertip then brought the finger to his mouth as a pink tongue darted out between rough lips to lick away the stain.
The taste was addicting and he wanted more.
The third time he had seen her she was sitting on a park bench, watching as a group of children chased and tackled each other, laughing whenever they squealed or giggled or pouted. Sometimes one of the children would walk up to her and invite her to play but she would just laugh and pat their head and tell them to go back to their friends and play.
This time she caught him staring at her and she simply smiled and waved to him before getting up from her wooden park bench to retire home. He watched her retreating form with a blank stare until she was out of sight, then turned away to head off to a nice, quiet place where he could be alone and stare up into the night sky.
It was a full moon that night.
He took another step closer to her and she let out a quiet whimper in response. At this, he frowned; she had no right to whimper, no right to act as if she didn’t want this when it was she who had brought this all upon herself. It was she who had smiled at him and acknowledged him and continued to appear everywhere he looked.
She had led him on, acted as if she wanted this, wanted him, and it was too late for her to take it back.
The fourth time he had seen her she had been sitting by herself in a café, long fingers tapping the hard surface of the table to the beat of a wordless song playing in the background as she took small sips of her drink. She set the cup down and saw him, her eyes widening and the corners of her lips curling up as she smiled brightly. She waved him over, calling out his name and urging him to come over to her.
He blinked in confusion (though one wouldn’t be able to tell since his expression remained emotionless as always), not because he was surprised that the girl knew his name even though they had never been introduced (after all, who in Sunagakure didn’t know Gaara of the sand?) but because she seemed to actually desire his company. It was an odd thing for someone to want, his company, and because of this he responded in just as odd a manner; he gave in to her request and sat at the table with her.
He stayed silent as she talked about things of little importance; her favorite color, her favorite animal, her hobbies, the types of music she listened to; but he still listened intently and locked away the new information in the back of his mind. After a few minutes of her smiling and chatting he stood up from the table abruptly and left, clutching tightly at his chest.
His heart had been beating rapidly and aching in a not-quite-painful sort of way and he wasn’t sure how much more of it he would be able to take.
He came closer to her again, his frown still in place as he tried to ignore the whimpers and the tears, and he placed his fingers gently in her hair. He twirled a small strand of her once-soft hair, now dirty and crusted with her own dried up blood, and brought it under his nose before inhaling the scent. It smelled like her and blood and it got his heart beating fast and clenching in that almost-painful way again and he wondered if her heart was doing the same thing.
His hand traveled through her hair, down her neck, and past her collarbone until it reached just above her left breast to feel her heart pounding against her own chest. Was she feeling what he was feeling, he wondered, or was it simply fear?
Whatever she was feeling, Gaara would drink it up without hesitation.
The fifth time he saw her he had actually been seeking her out. The café had been empty and the streets seemed to be crowded with everyone in Sunagakure except her but he had finally found her sitting at the exact same park bench she had been only nights before. This time, instead of watching children run and play (there weren’t any children at the park at the moment; it was about that time where their parents forced them to come inside and eat) she had her face buried in a book, her eyes scanning over the words quickly before her fingers worked to furiously turn a page to see what would happen next, repeating the process every minute or so.
She was so engrossed in her novel that he felt reluctant to interrupt but he rarely ever approached anyone of his own free will (and even then it was usually to kill someone) and she could read her book any other time.
He casually moved towards her, stopping once he reached her and his shadow blocked the sunlight that allowed her to read her precious story. She looked up, probably to ask whoever was in her light to move out of the way, and stared at him with raised eyebrows once she realized who it was. She smiled quickly and patted the seat to next to her in invitation. He stared at the spot with blank green eyes but sat down quietly as she started to talk to him about the book in her hands, telling him about the plot, the characters, and other pointless details that he shouldn’t have bothered to remember but he did anyway.
She continued to talk to him well until the sun began to set, painting the sky with a warm, orange glow. She brought her book to her chest, stood from her seat, and bid him farewell before she started to walk away, only to find that he was walking with her. She raised her eyebrows in surprise (Gaara couldn’t really blame her; he probably would’ve raised his eyebrows in surprise of his own actions if he had any but he didn’t so he simply held his normal emotionless gaze) before smiling even brighter than before and walking off with him by her side.
He ignored the strange urge to grasp her hand in his as they walked side by side and settled for listening her talk about how nice the weather was and how pretty the sunset looked and how lovely the moon and the stars would look later once it was dark out.
She bid him farewell again once they reached her house and she waved cheerfully to him before entering her home and slowly shutting the door behind her.
He kept his hand in place, feeling the contrast of warm blood and cool skin beneath his outstretched fingertips as her heart continued to pound against her chest so hard that it felt as if it would push itself past her blood and muscles and skin and right into his awaiting hand. She struggled weakly against him, using what little strength she had left to grab hold of his wrist and try to push his hand away but all her efforts were in vain. He easily resisted the weaker force that tried to keep him away and simply pulled her closer to him, ignoring the pained cry as some of her wounds brushed against the rough material of his clothing.
He watched as her skin stained his shirt with blood and he couldn’t help but think he had never seen anything more beautiful.
The sixth time he had seen her she didn’t know that he was watching her. After all, she was in the privacy of her own home, sitting on her bed as she read her book again; she was only a few chapters from finishing it, Gaara recalled.
In less then an hour she was done with her book and set it aside on the bookshelf by her bed before she walked off to brush her teeth then came back to her room to change into her night clothes and retire for the night. With a yawn, she slipped beneath her bedcovers and fell into a dreamless sleep the instant her head hit the pillows.
He watched carefully as her chest would rise and fall and rise again in deep, even breaths beneath her sheets as she slept. He clutched at his heart as it began to beat fast again in that strange way that almost hurt but didn’t. As he watched her face, soft and beautiful but missing that lovely smile that he had grown accustomed to, he wondered if this beating of his heart was what it felt like to be in love.
She whimpered again, finally giving up in her efforts to escape from his grasp, and cried against his chest as he cradled her to his body. He watched as her body shook in a fit of violent sobs and she coughed up more blood and her tears were mixing with her blood on his shirt and he couldn’t resist the urge to grin softly because she was naked and bleeding and broken and bruised and beautiful for him, all for him.
This has to be love, he thought to himself.
Many times he had found himself watching her in her home without her knowledge, though he still continued to meet with her on the streets, at the park, in the café; anywhere he could find her. His heart would ache, would hurt, when he wasn’t around her and it was much more irritating than that not-quite-painful ache he had when she was around. He didn’t like that painful ache, not one bit, and the only thing that kept it away was her presence, her smile.
He needed it, needed her.
And so he continued to watch her. He watched as she slept, watched as her lips would twitch during a dream. He watched as she woke with a start, watched as she frantically turned her head back and forth as if she were searching for something. He watched as she spotted his shadowed figure in the darkness, though she probably couldn’t tell it was him. He watched as she screamed in shock, as she jumped from her bed and ran, as she ran away from him…
But he couldn’t let her run away. He had to stop her somehow. He had to stop her any way that he could.
His face was as emotionless as ever when her scream echoed throughout her home as the sand surrounded her, scratched at her skin, tore her clothing, broke her bones, bruised her organs. Her blood was everywhere and the scent was intoxicating and there was a voice inside his head screaming for him to hurt her, taste her, fuck her and it was so hard to concentrate on anything around him because she was naked and bleeding and broken and bruised and so, so beautiful.
He ran his fingers through her hair in a soothing manner, hoping to get that smile from her but only receiving another sob in response.
She was hurt now, but everything would be okay; once he explained to her that he just didn’t want her to leave him so he did what he had to do to stop her and then she would smile up at him again like she always did and forgive him and then she would talk to him some more and tell him her favorite food, favorite book, favorite game, the names of her best friends, the type of shampoo she used and he would watch her with a blank expression and listen to her intently even though he already knew all these things (he’d watched her for so long that he probably knew her more than she knew herself) and it would all be worth it just to see her smile again.
This has to be love, he thought again as he pulled her against his body tighter even as she let out a pained moan in protest. The harder he held her the louder her moans became so he silenced her with lips and tongue and teeth.
And in a sick, twisted way it was. He’d spent so many years loving only himself, being loved by only himself; how was he supposed to know how to act to someone close to him, someone he cared for and loved? When he first saw this girl he had felt nothing but a small urge to kill her one day but now he only felt love; he loved her hair, her eyes, her tears, her cries, her blood, but he loved her smile most of all.
He frowned again because she wasn’t smiling (she was crying and bleeding but not smiling) and he wanted to make her bleed some more, he wanted to hurt her until she gave him that smile but he stopped himself because she was his now and there would be plenty of time for her to smile for him later because she was his and he would never let her leave his sight again (even though she hadn’t left his sight for days but now she would know that he was always watching) and he would watch her as she cried and whimpered and bled and maybe, just maybe, then she would smile again.
And until then he would continue to hold her and cradle her and run his fingers through her hair because she was naked and bleeding and broken and bruised and beautiful and everything he had ever wanted and needed and desired and loved.