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31_days2008-01-24 12:28 pm
rosehiptea.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2008-01-24 12:28 pm
[January 24] [Silent Hill 4] Temptation
Title: Temptation
Day/Theme: January 24/I'll note you in my book of memory
Series: Silent Hill 4
Character/Pairing: Cynthia Velasquez/Walter Sullivan
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: dark themes, sexual teasing, mild violence, very dubious consent on Walter's part, major spoilers. The rating is more for themes and sexuality combined than for outright explicitness.
Word Count: 519
Walter Sullivan holds a book with a deep red cover, a book with twenty-one pages. Nineteen of them are filled, and two forever empty, as empty as the place where the Mother dwells. He turns the pages, remembering blood, screams, pleas, and the flutter of a dying heart. Sometimes he thinks “So close,” and sometimes “Too late.”
Today is a dark subway tunnel, the smell of decay, the wetness of stone. As much as he hates it, he doesn’t hurt quite enough, not yet. Then he sees her, striding through the place as if she walks to music in sunlight. She is less earthly and more beautiful than the last time her saw her. He wants to hate her too, but he still can’t, not the way he needs to. His eyes are drawn to the sway of her hips, the long legs in those stockings, the bare shoulders tempting him. He has a picture just like this, on one of the pages he is reading, but he puts the book aside.
“Walter Sullivan,” she says.
“You remember…”
“I remember a thousand times now,” she says. She sits next to him and he doesn’t move away. “And do you know my name?” she asks.
“Cynthia,” he says. He tries for a tone of disgust but it only comes out like reverence.
She picks up Walter’s hand, uses his fingers to trace the numbers on her chest.
“Sixteen,” he breathes.
“Cynthia,” she insists, placing his hand on her breast. He feels her nipple through the satin that covers it. Walter feels aroused now despite everything, wants to grab her by the waist, push her down, dominate her. But there will be none of that… yet he still doesn’t move.
She kisses him, pushing her tongue into his mouth, placing his hand inside her bodice against her bare flesh. Cynthia smells like perfume, something with yesterday’s roses, and her long hair has the scent of the grave. His is so hard now that he his nearly sick. Her hand, cold and perfect, trails down his belly, runs over the front of his pants, stroking until he has to bite his lip, and she laughs again.
“Beg me for it, Walter,” she hisses. “Maybe this time I’ll say yes.”
Then she straddles him, right there on the bench, rocking against him but only enough to make him ache. She only laughs when he grips her breast harder, when his hand finds a knife wound. He strains his hips, trying to rub himself against her, needing to come almost as much as needs to kill her again. Now she digs her fingernails into his neck hard enough to draw blood as he says the names of gods that don’t exist.
“Don’t you want to be my last, Walter?”
Cynthia is still laughing, still hurting him, and he starts to pray for blackness and silence as she rips at his shirt, bites at his chest. And he still can’t come, and he still can’t hurt her.
Her breath is almost warm as she sighs into his ear. “I told you you’d be sorry.”
Day/Theme: January 24/I'll note you in my book of memory
Series: Silent Hill 4
Character/Pairing: Cynthia Velasquez/Walter Sullivan
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: dark themes, sexual teasing, mild violence, very dubious consent on Walter's part, major spoilers. The rating is more for themes and sexuality combined than for outright explicitness.
Word Count: 519
Walter Sullivan holds a book with a deep red cover, a book with twenty-one pages. Nineteen of them are filled, and two forever empty, as empty as the place where the Mother dwells. He turns the pages, remembering blood, screams, pleas, and the flutter of a dying heart. Sometimes he thinks “So close,” and sometimes “Too late.”
Today is a dark subway tunnel, the smell of decay, the wetness of stone. As much as he hates it, he doesn’t hurt quite enough, not yet. Then he sees her, striding through the place as if she walks to music in sunlight. She is less earthly and more beautiful than the last time her saw her. He wants to hate her too, but he still can’t, not the way he needs to. His eyes are drawn to the sway of her hips, the long legs in those stockings, the bare shoulders tempting him. He has a picture just like this, on one of the pages he is reading, but he puts the book aside.
“Walter Sullivan,” she says.
“You remember…”
“I remember a thousand times now,” she says. She sits next to him and he doesn’t move away. “And do you know my name?” she asks.
“Cynthia,” he says. He tries for a tone of disgust but it only comes out like reverence.
She picks up Walter’s hand, uses his fingers to trace the numbers on her chest.
“Sixteen,” he breathes.
“Cynthia,” she insists, placing his hand on her breast. He feels her nipple through the satin that covers it. Walter feels aroused now despite everything, wants to grab her by the waist, push her down, dominate her. But there will be none of that… yet he still doesn’t move.
She kisses him, pushing her tongue into his mouth, placing his hand inside her bodice against her bare flesh. Cynthia smells like perfume, something with yesterday’s roses, and her long hair has the scent of the grave. His is so hard now that he his nearly sick. Her hand, cold and perfect, trails down his belly, runs over the front of his pants, stroking until he has to bite his lip, and she laughs again.
“Beg me for it, Walter,” she hisses. “Maybe this time I’ll say yes.”
Then she straddles him, right there on the bench, rocking against him but only enough to make him ache. She only laughs when he grips her breast harder, when his hand finds a knife wound. He strains his hips, trying to rub himself against her, needing to come almost as much as needs to kill her again. Now she digs her fingernails into his neck hard enough to draw blood as he says the names of gods that don’t exist.
“Don’t you want to be my last, Walter?”
Cynthia is still laughing, still hurting him, and he starts to pray for blackness and silence as she rips at his shirt, bites at his chest. And he still can’t come, and he still can’t hurt her.
Her breath is almost warm as she sighs into his ear. “I told you you’d be sorry.”