Well

Title: Well

Pairings: Eileen/Henry, in that order.

Summary: Ever since Eileen picked up that riding crop, Henry's been acting strange.

A/N: Written for the Silent Hill Kink Meme, located at http://cheesecakery.livejournal.com/626.html (now with a shiny new archive at http://silentkink.livejournal.com/1844.html), for the prompt "Femdom, riding crop is involved." Which I posted myself. :P The title was meant to be "Well," reflecting the vague motif-type thing of wells in the story, but I typo'd it into "Wall" and anonymous posting is a cruel mistress.

*****************************************************************************************

“Riding crop, huh…?” Eileen mused. She twirled the new weapon awkwardly in her free hand. “Well, it’s not much, but it’s better than a purse. I guess.”



When Henry made no response, she turned. He was staring intently at the floor. “Henry?” she asked. “Are you okay?”



“Y-yeah,” he said quietly. He turned, fast enough that Eileen only glimpsed enough of his face to tell that it was slightly red. “Let’s go. We shouldn’t stay too long in one place.”



Eileen’s heart contracted. She knew she looked bad—but was it really so hard for Henry to face her? Knowing Henry, he probably felt guilty.



Poor guy.



****************************************

Eileen kind of liked the forest. True, it was dark and foggy and creepy, and God only knew what was wandering around just out of sight. But, then, that was true of everywhere they went, and it was nice to be somewhere with trees. At least a little life that wasn’t trying to kill them.



Henry was kneeling to examine what appeared to be an amputee doll in a wheelchair—some sort of puzzle, apparently. He’d asked her to stand guard, for all the good that would do. It wasn’t such a strange request; she’d kept lookout for him before. What was strange was that he’d never once looked straight at her when he’d asked. What was even stranger was that he hadn’t looked straight at her for more than two days.



Whatever was eating him, it was persistent. And, quite honestly, it was worrying the hell out of her. Was she deteriorating, in some way that only he could see?—not that there was anyone else around to ask. Was he about to flip out and lose it completely? Honestly, she wouldn’t have blamed him.



She tapped her riding crop idly against her thigh. Whatever the reason, it had to stop. If she was falling apart, or if Henry was falling apart, she wanted to know about it. She spoke quietly. “Hey, Henry?”



He didn’t move. “In the darkness…” he mumbled. “The hell does that mean?”



“Henry,” she said, a little louder. She prodded him on the shoulder with the crop.



Henry released a most undignified noise and jumped like something had bitten him.



Eileen jumped a little bit, too. “Oh, shit, Henry—didn’t mean to startle you…” She snorted, quickly controlled herself, and then was giggling before she knew it. There was something faintly hysterical in the sound of it that she chose to ignore. “Sorry…just…God, that was such a funny noise…are you blushing?” She bent down to see his face. In doing so, the riding crop slipped down to the middle of his back.



Henry jerked slightly. Sure enough, he was blushing, and blushing worse by the second. But why was he shivering—just a little, but all over? And why was his breathing so…?



Her giggles stopped. Oh.



Oh. Well. That’s interesting.



Eileen should have straightened up, resumed lookout, and pretended nothing had happened. But she didn’t. She wasn’t sure what possessed her—her mind shied automatically at that, at that P-word—but, instead, she moved the crop slowly down his back.



Henry bit his lip hard. “Ei…Eileen,” he began, attempting a tone of command. That failed completely when she drew the crop back a few inches and smacked him sharply on the ass.



The noise he made was somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. And there was something in it—some strange note of frantic want sliding headlong into need—that made her stomach clench, her body warm and shiver, so that she was suddenly, acutely aware of how bare her short purple dress really left her and how Henry was all but kneeling at her feet.



She blamed everything that happened next on that noise.

****************************************

She must have pushed him down, into the ash and dirt, because her left arm was braced and no doubt heavy against his chest. She must have pinned and straddled and forced him inside her. She must have spoken sometime, some words, because Henry was motionless except for one hand working furiously between her legs and a steady, desperate tremor in his muscles. She must have done all this.



But she could not remember. And so Eileen stroked the tails of the riding crop over his ribs, tickling his stomach, brushing his nipples, and watched Henry’s mouth open and his throat convulse in soundless pleas.



She wasn’t sure if she’d ordered that, too, or if it was his own pride. Or if it was fear—who knew what could be listening for their voices? A liquid warmth was building fast in the pit of her stomach, squeezing her muscles around him in waves; she rolled her hips forward, thoughtlessly, into those strong, shaky fingers. A noise that was almost a word escaped Henry’s mouth.



With barely a blur of movement, Eileen pressed the crop sternly into that weak throat. “What was that?”



“…please,” he muttered hoarsely. His eyes were wild; she could look all the way into them, as easily as she could look down a well. “Please…please, pl—” She lashed him across one nipple with a sharp crack and Henry choked.



She knew what was at the bottom of that well, even if she couldn’t see it.



Whatever else happened, she could control this. No matter how many times she woke up on her feet, blood from new wounds freshly caking her arms, jaw aching with gibberish, alien memories slithering their last awful inches out of her mind—no matter how much, no matter how long. Here and now, Henry (everything) was so willing to be under her, and it sent frissions of sweet, forgetful pleasure up her spine.



Henry’s free hand was gripping at nothing; his nails were drawing blood from his palm. Eileen fit his hand into hers alongside the crop and cleaned it with a long, quick swipe of her tongue.



There. There it was. That noise again, that whimpering gasp, pushed her over the edge. She finally slid atop him with a shuddering sigh and he thrust up immediately, crying out. It was loud and strangely flat in the foggy air and he quickly bit his lip to stifle himself. He abruptly tried to squirm out from under her, but Eileen held him down, still trembling with her own pleasure, and he stiffened and came hot inside her.



They didn’t move for a while, panting for breath. There was red glossing his teeth and Eileen realized he’d bitten through his lip. She bent down slightly—he gasped at the movement—and wiped at his lip with her thumb. Without prompting, Henry raised his head and took her bloody thumb into his mouth. He sucked and laved it with his tongue, eyes resolutely avoiding hers, lashes long on his flushed cheeks. She shivered.



Eileen would have liked to stay like that for a while longer. But the sound of a pistol shot from deep in the forest had them scrambling up like guilty teenagers. She smoothed down her dress hastily and picked up her weapon, ready to limp and run and fight. The black blood began to squirm over her legs again.



No kisses.



It was just as well.

 

*****************************************************************************************