Fic: It Was a Mortal's Passion; Cynthia/Henry; R
Title: It Was A Mortal's Passion
Fandom: Silent Hill 4
Pairing: Cynthia/Henry
Rating: R/NC-17
Word Count: 1,000
Warnings: N/A
Spoilers: For the first world
Author's Notes: Slightly AU, in which Cynthia is able to give Henry the 'special favor' she promises.
Summary: It wasn't the sort of thing Henry normally did. But here and now, Cynthia's body pressed against him, he just wanted to feel something normal.
The janitorial closet was small and cramped, and suffered the same general dirtiness and rot as the rest of the not-entirely-real subway station. The bottles and boxes seemed normal, but old and tattered. There was dust on the shelves. The wall behind Henry was slightly moldy, darkened with age and water damage and god knew what else.
But his attention wasn’t on the narrow room. All of Henry’s focus was on the woman in front of him. The woman who’s hands were on his shoulders, who’s face was inches away from his own.
This was all so surreal. In a way, this was stranger than crawling through a mysterious hole in his bathroom and ending up in a deranged mirror of a subway station. Nightmares - even ones as realistic as this - were one thing. But it was very, very rare when nightmares included trysts with beautiful women.
Henry didn’t generally dream about beautiful women, anyway. Not like this, at least.
And it never felt this real. He could feel the soft scratch of her manicured nails on his neck. He knew they were manicured, he could feel it. And it was such a strange thing to notice, like the shade of her lipstick or how there was a bead missing from her necklace. Small details that assured him this was real, not a dream.
Her lips were on his neck. Her lipstick smudged against his skin - it was slick and a little greasy. Her hair smelled like cigarette smoke and alcohol, and never before had those two things smelled as appealing as they did now.
Henry’s hands came up and he put them on her shoulders.
“Wait…” he managed, turning his head away from her, his mind swimming and dizzy.
“Why wait?” She moved in close, breath warm against the shell of Henry’s ear. “I’d rather have this sort of dream than a bad one.”
I don’t think it’s a dream, Henry thought, but he was weak under her hands and mouth. It wasn’t that he didn’t want it. It wasn’t that she wasn’t beautiful - she was. But it was so strange. It felt wrong, here and now, to do this with some woman he’d just met.
But everything was strange now.
Before he could finish the thought, she was kissing him. Henry’s lips parted and his eyes closed and he could feel the dingy wall flush against his back. She was pressing against him as she kissed him. Her body was warm and soft.
By the time her hand had wound it’s way down to the waistband of his jeans, Henry wasn’t sure he cared anymore about where they were or why. There was a drunken sheen to everything as Henry felt the buttons of his jeans unsnap. Heady and dizzy. Maybe this was how sex was supposed to be. At least the sort of sex one had in a janitor’s closet with a stranger.
Cynthia began to crouch, going down to her knees. Henry shook his head, reaching for her. It was dirty on the floor, and cold, and her skirt was so short. He tugged at her hips, urging her to stand, and her skirt rode up over her thighs. He could feel bare skin under his hands and it was hot and Henry’s breath caught in his throat.
He felt alive. Every nerve was on end as Cynthia wrapped one leg around his waist and pressed herself into him. Henry gasped and held her, burying his face in her shoulder as she laughed and reached between them to pull her panties to the side.
“We don’t…” Henry began, a hint of protest in his voice.
“It’s only a dream,” Cynthia responded, and Henry wondered if maybe she knew it wasn’t, but had to pretend it was. “It doesn’t matter.”
And it stopped mattering then and there, Cynthia’s breasts against his chest as she moved her hips, taking him inside of her. Nothing mattered except the heat and the need and the way Cynthia’s body moved against his own. Her hands were flat against the wall on either side of them, her head against his, her legs wrapped around him. He could barely stand and he was thankful for the wall behind him. Cold and dirty as it was.
Cynthia was gasping, sucking in her breath as she rocked her hips. Henry gripped her so tightly he felt his arms were going to lock that way, hands on her buttocks. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t even articulate, sweating slightly as he took Cynthia in the cramped janitor’s closet.
When it was over, it was the encounter that seemed like a dream. Even leaning drained against the wall, jeans undone and skin stained with sweat and the leavings of sex, it seemed as thought it hadn’t been real.
“That was fun.” Cynthia was smiling, adjusting her skirt. Fixing her earrings. Doing those little things women did to busy their hands. Henry swallowed hard and nodded, finally putting himself back together. Even that happened like a dream. As though his mind couldn’t accept that he had just gone and slept with a random woman in an unknown world. It wasn’t like him.
But it had been good. It had been a connection, something real and normal and human in all the insanity Henry had found himself plunged into. It didn’t matter how or why, it had happened, and it had been good. Maybe he shouldn’t think about it any deeper or further than that.
“We…should get going,” Henry finally said, glancing towards the door. He’d promised to escort her out, after all. Wherever ‘out’ was. And he had no idea how long they’d been in the closet. Time hadn’t been much of a concern. By the end, nothing was much of a concern at all.
“Mmm.” Cynthia ran her fingers over Henry’s stubbled cheeks before patting one affectionately. “Lead on, handsome.”
Henry chuckled weakly and left the closet on shaky legs, Cynthia following close behind.
Fandom: Silent Hill 4
Pairing: Cynthia/Henry
Rating: R/NC-17
Word Count: 1,000
Warnings: N/A
Spoilers: For the first world
Author's Notes: Slightly AU, in which Cynthia is able to give Henry the 'special favor' she promises.
Summary: It wasn't the sort of thing Henry normally did. But here and now, Cynthia's body pressed against him, he just wanted to feel something normal.
The janitorial closet was small and cramped, and suffered the same general dirtiness and rot as the rest of the not-entirely-real subway station. The bottles and boxes seemed normal, but old and tattered. There was dust on the shelves. The wall behind Henry was slightly moldy, darkened with age and water damage and god knew what else.
But his attention wasn’t on the narrow room. All of Henry’s focus was on the woman in front of him. The woman who’s hands were on his shoulders, who’s face was inches away from his own.
This was all so surreal. In a way, this was stranger than crawling through a mysterious hole in his bathroom and ending up in a deranged mirror of a subway station. Nightmares - even ones as realistic as this - were one thing. But it was very, very rare when nightmares included trysts with beautiful women.
Henry didn’t generally dream about beautiful women, anyway. Not like this, at least.
And it never felt this real. He could feel the soft scratch of her manicured nails on his neck. He knew they were manicured, he could feel it. And it was such a strange thing to notice, like the shade of her lipstick or how there was a bead missing from her necklace. Small details that assured him this was real, not a dream.
Her lips were on his neck. Her lipstick smudged against his skin - it was slick and a little greasy. Her hair smelled like cigarette smoke and alcohol, and never before had those two things smelled as appealing as they did now.
Henry’s hands came up and he put them on her shoulders.
“Wait…” he managed, turning his head away from her, his mind swimming and dizzy.
“Why wait?” She moved in close, breath warm against the shell of Henry’s ear. “I’d rather have this sort of dream than a bad one.”
I don’t think it’s a dream, Henry thought, but he was weak under her hands and mouth. It wasn’t that he didn’t want it. It wasn’t that she wasn’t beautiful - she was. But it was so strange. It felt wrong, here and now, to do this with some woman he’d just met.
But everything was strange now.
Before he could finish the thought, she was kissing him. Henry’s lips parted and his eyes closed and he could feel the dingy wall flush against his back. She was pressing against him as she kissed him. Her body was warm and soft.
By the time her hand had wound it’s way down to the waistband of his jeans, Henry wasn’t sure he cared anymore about where they were or why. There was a drunken sheen to everything as Henry felt the buttons of his jeans unsnap. Heady and dizzy. Maybe this was how sex was supposed to be. At least the sort of sex one had in a janitor’s closet with a stranger.
Cynthia began to crouch, going down to her knees. Henry shook his head, reaching for her. It was dirty on the floor, and cold, and her skirt was so short. He tugged at her hips, urging her to stand, and her skirt rode up over her thighs. He could feel bare skin under his hands and it was hot and Henry’s breath caught in his throat.
He felt alive. Every nerve was on end as Cynthia wrapped one leg around his waist and pressed herself into him. Henry gasped and held her, burying his face in her shoulder as she laughed and reached between them to pull her panties to the side.
“We don’t…” Henry began, a hint of protest in his voice.
“It’s only a dream,” Cynthia responded, and Henry wondered if maybe she knew it wasn’t, but had to pretend it was. “It doesn’t matter.”
And it stopped mattering then and there, Cynthia’s breasts against his chest as she moved her hips, taking him inside of her. Nothing mattered except the heat and the need and the way Cynthia’s body moved against his own. Her hands were flat against the wall on either side of them, her head against his, her legs wrapped around him. He could barely stand and he was thankful for the wall behind him. Cold and dirty as it was.
Cynthia was gasping, sucking in her breath as she rocked her hips. Henry gripped her so tightly he felt his arms were going to lock that way, hands on her buttocks. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t even articulate, sweating slightly as he took Cynthia in the cramped janitor’s closet.
When it was over, it was the encounter that seemed like a dream. Even leaning drained against the wall, jeans undone and skin stained with sweat and the leavings of sex, it seemed as thought it hadn’t been real.
“That was fun.” Cynthia was smiling, adjusting her skirt. Fixing her earrings. Doing those little things women did to busy their hands. Henry swallowed hard and nodded, finally putting himself back together. Even that happened like a dream. As though his mind couldn’t accept that he had just gone and slept with a random woman in an unknown world. It wasn’t like him.
But it had been good. It had been a connection, something real and normal and human in all the insanity Henry had found himself plunged into. It didn’t matter how or why, it had happened, and it had been good. Maybe he shouldn’t think about it any deeper or further than that.
“We…should get going,” Henry finally said, glancing towards the door. He’d promised to escort her out, after all. Wherever ‘out’ was. And he had no idea how long they’d been in the closet. Time hadn’t been much of a concern. By the end, nothing was much of a concern at all.
“Mmm.” Cynthia ran her fingers over Henry’s stubbled cheeks before patting one affectionately. “Lead on, handsome.”
Henry chuckled weakly and left the closet on shaky legs, Cynthia following close behind.