I can't express how much Jill Valentine having the personality of a 60yo grizzled old washed-out detective recovering alcoholic with severe and unmedicated depression means to me. She reads news from real newspapers and grunts. She has a dart board she randomly throws darts at with perfect aim and a tired sigh. She uses old pizza boxes to store important and confidential paperwork. She feeds her leftovers to the alley cat outside her apartment. She has posters of scantily clad women on her wall. Her favourite band is a niche underground rock band based locally. She takes naps on her couch-bed with her work shoes on. She's perfect
This is just so lovely. It captures the true personality of jill so well. Her vulnerabilities, and human qualities. Her little stack of cds sheâs got placed on the dresser near her front door â showing that sheâs a music junkie, and (as I deem her out to be), she most likely enjoys some rock group from the 80âs. The dirty sneakers sheâs got sitting by her door â or the matching denim sheâs got hung up near her bed.
The adorable little coupons sheâs got taped to her fridge, which sheâs possibly saving for her next dreaded grocery trip. Sheâs just a woman, with simple pleasures, and a troubled past.
God. My heart soars for her. Sheâs so much more than we can understand.
WARNINGS: NSFW! (Death Island Jill), age gap relationship (not as specified as my previous fic), female described reader, dominant Jill Valentine, submissive reader, manhandling, rough intimacy, mentioned use of strap-on toy, words used to describe toy such as âdickâ - etc, hair tugging (ive tried my best not to specify hair texture), pinch of degrading, concept of power-play dynamic, jealousy & argumentative situations, use of âgaslightingâ. LIGHTLY PROOF-READ!
WORD COUNT: 6.4K+
DESCRIPTION: Jillâs jealousy is like spitting fire, just from one simple glance of a man speaking to you. Perhaps sheâll use her words against you. Force you on your knees to make you understand.
AUTHORâS NOTE: Sigh. Not my best work, but here we are my friends. I acknowledge this is lackluster, but I missed writing for Jill, and so I at least want to do something for her. My apologizes! I will edit later if there are any mistakes. And hopefully, my brain will be ready to write again.
Youâre invested thoroughly, thumbs bending into the hardened wheel, and your pink tongue wiggling in place, caught between your two front teeth, canines gnawing down amongst the moist muscle, all whilst you remain burrowed into a blanket of concentration.
So close, and nearly there. The banner sign is spread wide just up ahead, the crimson finish line taunting you, and the wheels of the vehicle skidded against the road, engine humming as the speed heightens. The countdown is in white bolded numbers in the upper right corner of the screen, approaching the last few seconds, thereâs only a few more feet left-
That is, until an all-too-familiar ringing soon began to vibrate beside you. Perhaps itâs been the fourth time that sheâs answered a phone call today. You couldnât exactly give an explicit or precise answer, you had lost count a few hours back. Nonetheless, it drew your attention away all the same, hands loosening against your wheel.
âGotta answer this, just give me a sec.â
A gruff response is heard from your right, and you watch from your peripheral vision as the other woman sits up from the false car seat. She trudges along the neon star-patterned carpet, her calloused thumb tapping with haste against the brightened screen of her phone as she sauntered over to the exit door. Clearly leaving no chance of objection from your side, too quick on her feet to even spare you a mere glance.
The car seat rumbles from below, the vibrations resembling a mini earthquake just against the flesh of your thighs, signaling your loss. Your softened eyes peer upwards and flicker toward the gamesâ screen. âLast placeâ taunts you in a pixelated format, the letters spinning around in repetitive loops. You had lost, and now the game was finished. The taste of triumph now blemished and dulled. An abhorrent sink of your heart weighs down in your rib cage, strong enough to plummet into your stomach.
Youâre almost beginning to question whether this was all worth it or not. The plans, the date, the broken promises she always manages to cultivate off the tip of her tongue. You hadnât forgotten the way the older womanâs rough hands circled your waist earlier this morning, pulling you close. Velvety lips tracing your cheekbone; leaving chaste kisses in its wake.
All about you, today. Thatâs what the middle-aged brunette had ensured. But ruined plans were practically habitual when it came to such a relationship with a woman of her degree. Ensnared in her work. Drowned in stacks of reports and hour long meetings. Body battered and aching by the time sheâs finished training. Itâs always âsaving civilizationâ and âeradicating bioterrorismâ firstâ and, of course â you came second. The way she has been so adamant on abandoning you today makes that point even more crystal clear, with each individual call sheâs making, more words exchanged about sudden work relations rather than her own girlfriend on a well planned date.
It takes all your willpower not to let it dilute your mirthful attitude. With a shrug of your purseâs strap over the arch of your shoulder, and the shimmying of your hips out of the vibrating car seat, you begin to stand. Make your way over to a different game across the expanse of the arcade room. The area is dimly lit, save for the intensely hued lights flashing from each individual game screen.
Whilst you stay immersed by mashing blue and red buttons inside, a grin over your youthful features, Jill Valentine is much on the contrary. Sheâs stood outside, a scowl cast over her pink lips as she speaks with her colleague about information she could, quite literally, give two shits less about. Her boot is kicked up against the wall of the building, an expression of irritation clouding over her already-hardened features, wrinkles of age twisted around the flesh of her waterline, smile lines curling downward against her frown.
âTomorrow, alright? Iâm busy today. No more calls, got it?â
She warns, swallowing down the hiss that nearly pounces out from between her lips. She wants to say something worse than that. Maybe even a good, âgo fuck yourself and stop calling my numberâ sounds more appealing, but she diverges from actually saying that venomous remark. Doesnât stop her from muttering a few curses under her breath once sheâs hung up the phone, though.
Thereâs two sides of the story here, but at the end of the day, both of you are unsatisfied with how today's events are being twisted. The older woman is aggravated that she's being interrupted from her time with you. The younger, you, becoming rather solemn over the fact that your girlfriend is constantly being taken away.
The short-haired brunette rubs a palm across the stretch of her forehead, long fingertips and wide knuckles bumping up against her pale skin, and she breathes in before exhaling a hefty amount of air.
âAlrightâ, she shrugs, saying this more to herself in reassurance than anything else, mentally preparing herself for that look of despair in your pretty eyes that sheâll soon be faced with. God, she felt terrible.
She shoved her phone back into the small pocket of her jeans and pivoted on the heel of her shoes, hand grasping for the door handle. She brought herself back inside the arcade. She almost smiles at the sight of you. All excited and giddy, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet. âLike a kid in a candy shopâ, sheâs chuckling to herself, boots shuffling along the soft trim of the patterned carpet.
Almost.
But seeing another form pressed up against your side sours something deep inside her. Large hands guiding yours to certain buttons on the machine, hip brushing up against hip, boisterous laughs echoing in the air, all whilst the cartoonish music and spirited sound effects synthesize in the background.
The woman can feel the pumping organ within her chest palpitate, itâs warm and uneasy, a maelstrom of heat broiling at the pit of her stomach and seeping into the pores of her skin. Her flesh is set aflame, fists clenched, and her jaw tensing; her teeth grit inside her mouth, white canines squeaking and clashing against each other in a slow grind.
Jealousy is the easiest way to describe the scorching sensation. Seeing whatâs rightfully hers â melt under the presence of another?
âI left her alone for one goddamn second.â
Jill Valentine scowls as she feels her blood singe. âThe hell does he think he is? What gives him the right to just fuckinâ walk right up and get into my girlfriends personal space?â
She tries to be bitter, tries to find a reason for her unreasonable irritation. Beaming brightly, the apples of your cheeks uplifted and shimmering, round eyes focused on some stupid fighting game that resembles Mortal Kombat. Jubilant and content, obsidian pupils dilated. This beautiful display, and yet, it wasnât for her to indulge in, was it? Itâs as if a hand had reached into her chest and squeezed her heart.
Her ego has deflated, and like a dejected child, she glumly sits herself down close nearby, slumped in her seat as she watches you chatter with the male stranger.
Her phone vibrates. Another message. She ignores it purposefully, thoroughly imprisoned into the wreck of her own insecure psychology.
The evening has improved, for the most part. At least, itâs more appealing for your half rather than the middle-aged woman. The two of you eat at a nice restaurant just downtown, settled into your seats at a wooden table, a view of the lively city; just outside the wide casement windows beside you, a serenic display.
Not even a nice meal can save the grimacing brunette's mood. Not when youâre rambling on and on about the new combos and tricks that youâve learned today, or about how much youâve improved on a specific fighting style game. It only seems to tamper with Jill the more sheâs listening to you.
You speak with tones of exultation and glee, fascinated and bewildered from the mere fact that something you once were intimidated by is now mastered by a smash of your finger against a button. So many clashing statements of âhe taught me this,â and âhe taught me thatâ had been eagerly pronounced amongst the opening of your lips and the click of your wet tongue.
Jill tightened her hold against her cutlery, her fork scraping along the edge of her porcelain plate. Watching your facialized jocundity does nothing but dampen the warmth she once envisioned for today.
âYeahâ, she hums in response, nodding her head, her discouragement concealed by a pleased facade, âIâm glad you had fun, baby.â
Veins bulge, and her body heats up. She can feel her blood grow scalding hot once more, that air of vexation and covetousness swirling around her head and mixing her brain into mush.
The car ride home is no different. Her skin has grown white around the bulbs of her knuckles, hands gripping firmly on the steering wheel. Itâs a silent drive, unpleasant. Even more-so when the two of you return to the comfort of your shared apartment.
Thatâs when everything unwinds. Now away from the curious eyes of the public, finally concealed underneath the roof of your own home. You make an attempt to speak again, but are silenced immediately.
The middle-aged woman kicks the door closed with the heel of her boot, sending it slamming behind her, the lock on the knob jittering as it connects into place. You had acknowledged that perhaps she was upset, but to this length of such physical force? She was damn mere seconds from breaking the door. You really couldnât read her as well as you always thought.
You had winced, crumbling into yourself at the sudden act of outrage. Shoulders hunched up so far that you felt them brush up against the outer shell of your earlobe. You cowered and trembled, bones threatening to just melt into jelly, and shrink away into a meek puddle of nothingness. An image of a mouse, so small and fragile, standing in the shadow of a warlike fiend.
âCanât shut your goddamn mouth for one second, can you?â
The seasoned agent scowls, her jaw tightening up and falling stiff. When in a moment of anger and fury, rationality seems so far from the field of vision, and right now? The blue-eyed older woman was blinded. Jaded from her own sense of possession and childish jealousy.
âDo you think I really give a shit about how much fun you had with some stranger? I leave you for one second-â, her pink lips are pruned and falling agape as she spits out words of poison, eyes widened and nearly bulging from her sockets, âone fucking second, and youâre letting some dickhead breathe down your ass? His hands all on you?â
Evocation crosses her, a vision of the man in the arcade. His eyes descend upon you just behind the gleam of his rimmed glasses, lanky fingers drawing against your wrist. Staying firm and still, his body just adjacent from yours. Both faces painted in frames of magenta and indigo, pearly whites showcased from behind the curve of his thin lips; admiring every crevice and curve of your physique and womanly structure.
Thatâs all that it took for the older woman. She gave it time to marinate in her past memory, but the inner ache had failed to dissipate. Her blood boiled.
âYou-â
An immediate expression of confusion unveils, drawing over your quivering features. Youâre intimidated by her sudden hostility, the tailbone of your spine colliding against the marble surface of the kitchen counter in a cowardice attempt to escape the situation.
âYou looked fine earlier- you said it was alright- I just-â, youâre trembling over each word, youâre beginning to ramble, âI donât understand why youâre so upset? I didnât mean to do anything wrong- me and him were just playing together, it wasnât anything like that. I didnât even know him, Jill.â
The brunette's lips curl into a cruel, and nearly incredulous smirk at your response, her head shaking whilst she draws her hand out in a physical gesture of her own exasperation. Her face, creased with age and experience, now flushed crimson. She looked crazed.
âOh, save the bullshit. You liked it, I saw you. Talked about how much fun you had with him all day. Should have just gone home with him.â
âYou should have told me!-â
You pipe out, voice drawn out squeaky and timid, your words drowned by the booming shouts sheâs hissing out, seething as she dares not face away from you. Determined to win this argument.
Having the audacity to convince you that youâre in the wrong here. As if your innocence and sweetness toward passersby meant that you were unfaithful rather than enjoying simple pleasures. Your one interaction with a man deemed nothing but cheating, and all because he versed you in a mortal kombat game.
âOh, what? Iâm supposed to tell you not to go out and fucking flirt with other people?â
Jill has never acted like this before. Had always bathed you, her beautiful and prized girl, in dollops of sugary sweet words and reassurances. Sheâs the older woman here. Shouldnât she be more understanding? But so stuck in her old-fashioned ways, brain clearly riddled with arrogance and self-righteousness.
An argument had never been formulated, emotions never stirred. Maybe a few huffed words were exchanged over which groceries to buy, or what dinner to eat â but such verbal abuse was nonexistent. Had never happened in your âtranquilâ relationship. Except for now, that is.
So much effort, all for the middle-aged womanâs tender facade to be burnt down into smithereens, and her jealousy is like spitting fire, making your eyes well up with liquified warmth. You harshly remind her of her mistakes prior. Your planned date with her, the arrangements and proposed ideas. All for her to be entwined in her cellular device, making calls and sending out texts for the whole day.
âWhat about earlier? When you ignored me, and were glued to your phone all day? Clearly your job is more important than me.â
The waterworks threaten to spill over the dam that is rightfully your rounded eyes, glistening tears mounting in transparent pearls along your rows of onyx shaded lashes. Something in Jillâs face twists at the sight, her stomach churning. Realization, but itâs blurred away quickly.
âYou couldnât care less about me, could you? You promised meâ promised youâd spoil me today and give me your undivided attention. I guess I donât matter?â
You swallow mid-sentence, heart thumping against the structure of your rib cage. Each word of yours is so weak and broken, resembling a sickly and puny hiccup. Your trembling palms are grasping for the counter behind you, nails clutching for the cool surface. You were tired of the accusations. Exhausted from being denied her love and affection, and instead being faced with taunts and insults. You deserved better than this.
âI donât understand why youâre so mad at me. Because he gave me a better time? Because he didnât toss me aside for hours and avoid me? Break promises?â
The way you bit back was unexpected, but the moment you let it sink it, regret soon molds over.
The air surrounding the two of you is thick and heated, so sweltering that it threatens the capability of breathing. Your words had struck Jill deeply, aiding the maddened concoction that bubbles in the blackened abyss of her belly. The acidity rising up the tube of her esophagus, bile trapped inside her throat.
âIâm done with this conversation, Jill. Youâre just- youâre not being fair. Iâm not going to argue with you over this.â
And when you turn to face away from her? Daring to flee, even in such a time like this â strict actions soon come after the exchange of harsh words.
Jill crosses the room, a large hand stretching to reach you. Her calloused hand circles around your wrist, clutching you firmly and with much purpose, thumb dipping toward the head of your ulna bone. She pulls you in a sharp and precise yank, not caring about how she manhandles you, even after the exaggerated yelp that is pushed from your plush lips.
The rough pads of her fingertips dip into your smooth flesh, her blunt and trimmed nails digging crescents along the velvety surface, forcing you to succumb to her forced authority. So many years sheâs spent using those fingers to wield weapons and train in combat, now abusing their force of power by bending you into a cage of submission.
âThe hell do you think youâre goinâ?â
Another tug, and your shoulder blades collide against her chest, your figure taut and almost held in a paralyzed state, not daring to move an inch. Nor a bare centimeter. Your face grows pallid, knees wobbling beneath you and nearly failing to stay balanced.
âDonât ever walk away from me when Iâm talking. Do you understand me? You listen when I speak to you.â
Moist heat fans over the stretch of your nape, and your neck hairs curl up in response. Goosebumps prickling up along your arms and legs the moment you are subjected to the humidity of her breath blowing out along your ear, her robust anatomy pressing rigidly against your own limbs.
You can hear the clack of spit draw atop her gums, echoing along the press of her tongue whenever sheâs vocal. Her voice is gruff and deep, yet feminine and rich all the same. Drawing out sentences of dominance and command that make strange waves of heat lap at your tummy, pooling in the center of your cotton panties. You mistake the sudden dampness for a burst of anxiety.
âDo you have any ideaâŚâ
She pauses, as if holding back from lashing out on you entirely. Sheâs being cruel. Scowling as she stands behind you. Her breasts flush along your back, and her firm hands trapping you down. Making sure you donât run away this time. Not that youâd even contemplate it.
âDo you have any idea how I felt? How I feel? The shit I do? Iâve got a job. Risk my life every fucking day. Iâve been in this mess probably longer than youâve been alive, you know that?â
A gulp resounds from your mouth, tastebuds along your wriggling pink muscle now wrought with parchedness, lacking any formulation of moisture. Valentine continues after taking a sharp breath, each syllable she pronounces is rough and gnarled.
âSo I can buy you stupid shit, like a ticket to the arcade. So you can sit around, and let some shithead drool over your head. And now youâre blaming me? Because I had some calls to make? Because you couldnât be patient for a split second?â
Her calloused digits release the grasp along your wrist, now shooting upward to thread through the roots of your hair, curling into the locks and giving a firm tug. Controlling the position of power so tortuously. She pulls so hard that a squeak is forcedly erupted from you, stars swimming in your vision.
âAnd the funniest thing?â, she grimaced, still scowling beside your ear, âyou havenât apologized once. You didnât even try.â
She yanks along the strands as if your tresses are some sort of personalized leash, nails scraping along the slope of your scalp, bringing you so far back that the arch of your throat is craned downward. The crown of your head pushed into her pronounced collarbone, doe-like eyes peering up at the older woman.
âDo I have to teach you how to apologize now, too? Have no goddamn manners for your age. Always want everything.â
Warmth floods your tummy once more. Something runs slick along the square of your gusset. You feel it whenever you wobble and shake, the sensation of stickiness webs elongated strands across the bridge of your puffy labia. Itâs not your self-proclaimed anxiety. Itâs your undeniable arousal.
âIâm sorryâ, you sputter out a hoarse response, your supposed apology that the older woman demanded. She doesnât seem to let up though, but of course she wouldnât. Jill Valentine has never been the type to easily succumb â or sugarcoat, either. And with the current events? Consider her praise and sugary sweetness gone for tonight.
âYouâre sorryâ, she grunts out mockingly, condemnation swirling in the depths of her obsidian pupils. âIâm sure you are.â
With your hair still firmly gripped between her fingers, she presses her hips into the softness of your rear, propelling you forward with a quick shove.
You stumble on your clumsy feet the moment she ushers you into the kitchen, steps unpurposefully misplaced, and soon enough â your right cheek is smushed along the crisp white marble countertop. You find yourself bent over the kitchenâs island, memories of dicing vegetables along cutting boards, and preparing supper for your lover have been eradicated. Replaced by an image of sheer wanton destruction.
Itâs filthy the way you writhe along the hardened surface, thighs spread apart and separated by Jillâs intruding knee. She wedges her toned leg in-between, the warmth of her kneecap placing cruel pressure against that specific swell that hides inside your undergarments. You have to bite back the urge to grind your hips downward; the temptation is so intense that it makes your brain fog.
âIf youâre so sorry, you know what you did wrong, I take it?â
Both of her slim and scarred hands abandon your hair and slide down the bend of your spine, digits rolling up your pretty little skirt in each palm, crumpling the cotton material into an irrelevant lump of creased fabric. Jill shrugs the hem of the garment to the top of your hips until itâs shriveled and stiff, baring your back-end to her hungry eyes.
âSoâ, she begins to speak, the trace of her hands along the suppleness of your right cheek was nice and simple, her voice devoid of any real emotion, âtell me
what youâre apologizing for.â She cups the soft flesh, her fingers dipping into your ass as if it were dough. âAnd what you did wrong.â
What you did wrong? The hilarity of it all was tremendous.
You canât find the words to speak, no reasonable way to reply to her command. You nearly huff from the audacity, but your words grow choked up, and your voice is drained due to the spreading ache that suddenly engulfs your rear. Sheâs spanked you, quick and sharp, the edge of her calloused palm dragging against your soft flesh like a whip, the texture like dry sandpaper as it strikes you.
A cry bursts from your lips, a wail so pitiable that Jill canât help but chuckle with dastardly amusement. Any other moment, and she would have soothingly brushed her fingers against the crimson welt that shapes into your ass, offering cherishing caresses in replacement of a verbal apology. But In her current belief? Your lack of response challenges her patience, nearly ready to land a firm hit against your flesh for a second time.
âIâm- Iâm sorry for talking back-â, words tumble out in a clustered mess, your speech impaired due to the throbbing ache that courses up along your hip. You grit your teeth once the same treatment spreads to the surface of your adjacent hip, Jillâs hardened blows lashing along the unmarred skin, leaving no patch of muscle unattended.
âAnd for speaking to him-â, three spanks sheâs planted, and yet youâre already a quivering mess, shrunken and beaten against the solid countertop. Thereâs no doubt in hell that sheâs not being easy with you, and the experience behind her proficient hits proves that.
âJesus Christ.â
The older woman mumbles out, and the way she hisses under her breath is akin to something of judgment and surprise. A blunt nail curls into the hem of your underwear, tugs it, and stretches the flimsy and sheer fabric upward.
Itâs only then that you realize what sheâs scrutinizing. Especially after you feel the drag of her thumb dipping toward your clit, rubbing slow circles against the cloth in a devilish tease. Your teeth clash and bump against each other, a pathetic whine almost escaping, and all due to the older womanâs perverted touch.
âYour panties,â a boisterous laugh bellows from the pits of her stomach, and you flush with embarrassment as you understand what she means, âyouâre soaked.â
Lo and behold, you indeed were âsoakedâ (as Jill had quoted). A patch of wetness soils the gusset of your undergarments, arousal seeping past the threads of fabric, darkening the material thatâs clung against the swell of your cunt. To make matters worse, youâre bare and vulnerable, right in front of the older womanâs eyes. She wonât live that down, you just know it. Not until the day you die.
A grunt resounds in the kitchen, her form separating from yours to stand upright, lengthy fingers lazily threading over the zipper of her pants, tugging it downward, hearing the sound rip its way loose.
âSo goddamn mad at you right nowâ, she mumbles under her breath, glowering at your crumpled figure. âCanât fucking believe you. First, youâre arguing with me â and now this?â, the scowling brunette's fingers finish plopping open the last few buttons of the jeans sheâs wearing, navy blue boxers snug underneath. Her pants slither down the hardened muscle of her thighs, undressing herself with impatience.
âGet to the room. Nowâ, she demands of you, and with that mere order, nothing else needs to be said. Thereâs no need to delay the inevitable. âAnd take off that skirt, while youâre at it.â
Your heart lurches in your chest, each thrum of the frenzied and wild organ so heavy that you feel the weight of it sink into the depths of your body. With every singular step, you risk stumbling against the wooden floor; your shoes barely touch the ground as you practically race and scramble just to reach the bedroom door. Like a delicate flower, you are â carried by the gusts of wind that are Jill's oppressive instructions.
With clammy palms and trembling fingers, you grasp for the steel knob and swing the door open, wasting no second to wobble forward and seat yourself off the edge of the mattress.
Metal collides and clinks together in warning, telling you sheâs coming. Undoing her shirt, and wrapping the belt around her hand. The processed leather screeching and creasing underneath the grind of the older womanâs digits. She follows your shadow in leisurely strides, turning the corner with measured composure and a solemn expression. As if she hadnât already planned on how she was going to fuck you dumb.
It only makes the thickened heat between your thighs dribble further into its cotton bed, as each crisp and rough stomp of her boots along the solid floorboards makes you warm with want. Eager. Anticipating. Thighs grind together once you manage to slither your heels off, toes curling into the carpeted material below the bed.
And when you finish unzipping the top of your skirt, allowing the fabric to lower from the dip of your waist, and pool around your ankles â a figure of dominance and control stands in the doorway, the hall devoured by darkness.
Over the course of time, love and intimacy came in their own, individual ways. Between the two of you, that is.
The middle-aged woman found herself to be consistently busy, her nose always pointed and buried into the stack of reports she needed to finish, wrists tight and strained from how long sheâs spent scrawling notes amongst the white sheets of torment.
Sex wasnât as common. Lovemaking being quick and rushed, soft words spoken, honeyed kisses exchanged between bated breaths and velvety lips that speak words of encouragement and devotion.
Nights spent wasting away by the creaking wood of Jillâs office desk. The one she has propped away in some messy room of the apartment. Cork-boards filled with maps and pinpoints, a few pictures of you propped up in irrelevant areas. Atop the cabinet â framed photos of your beaming face furnished along the white walls. Sheâs got you everywhere, along with her crumpled balls of paper that are strewn around the floor, obvious that she grew too tired or lazy to throw them into the trash bin. She loves you so much that itâs sick.
The brunette finds herself arching her spine into the back of her rolling chair, bony fingers threading through your tresses, curling into it as she grunts. Her head is thrown back as she huffs out sequences of sultry content, your tongue laving bundles of spit over her clit, dipping near her entrance and tasting the drip of her cunt, humming as you feel the press of her fingertips along your skull.
Another night youâve searched for her, desperate and deprived and begging on your knees. Another night she orgasms, groaning and gasping as she spasms against the lap of your tongue. It repeats like a record, over and over. Until the next day she goes back to work, and refuses to make time with you all over again.
Itâs different today. Where everything tumbled down the rabbit-hole.
The sight of her now is so rare, youâre sure youâll never forget such an image. Obsidian shaded silicone protruding from her pelvis, tilting toward the ceiling as if itâs some striking weapon, foreseeing a prophecy of impending doom. A toy she purchased months before, buried in the past. Clearly forgotten about, and never used â unfortunately kept tucked away into the bottom of her wardrobe. Sleek and shiny. Brand new, and ready for a good breaking in. Tonightâs the night, you suppose.
Her almond shaped eyes bore into yours, rich-colored cerulean swirling around dilated pupils, speaking words without volume. Sheâs as enchanting as she is daunting, threads of syrupy strands curling down the stretch of her sharpened cheekbones, hair falling as she keeps her gaze on you. The portrait is so beautiful and provocative, youâd never wish this memory to diminish.
âOpen your mouth.â
Jill drawls, low and raspy as she waits with her palms laying flat on her hips. Glancing down at your feeble figure which kneels before her, staying balanced whilst you clamp your hands against her thighs.
Poor thing you are, so cautious and wary when your mouth opens, your jawbone taut and rigid, feeling like weighted stone as your quivering lips press forward.
Youâre new to this, inexperienced to the bulbous head that is welcomed into the accommodated warmth of your mouth. The plastic has no taste, just the scent of its artificial realness drifting past your nose hairs and swirling around the dizziness in your head.
You clamp tighter around her thighs, swallowing waterfalls of anxious drool down the well of your esophagus, your timid tongue curling up and hiding beside the security of your tonsils. Too nervous to thoroughly take her in.
Like an infant against a pacifier, suckling the tip further into the wetness of your gums, keeping your eyes closed all-the-while the rubber like-plastic protruded from your right cheek. Terrified to be face-to-face with her snarling and haughty judgment.
âYou think thatâs good enough?â
A calloused hand soothes across the hairs of your nape, laid to curl and rest there as she draws you near. A reminder that sheâs in charge. The hardened press of her thumb into your neck confirms that.
âStick your fucking tongue out. Blow me like a big girl, yeah?â, her tongue runs over her enamel and she sucks, swallowing dryly against the glistening whites of her teeth. âDo it how I wantâ, and so you try.
With you kneeling, bare and naked, tits hanging below you, and your cunt squeezing around thin air between your legs â you comply. Your cheeks hollow out as you take half of the length into your waiting mouth, plopping the heavy silicone amongst your writhing tongue, allowing the pink muscle to curl around the mushroom-shaped tip. With the rough and warm hand guiding you, you bob your head to a steady rhythm, spit and gargles conjoined.
âYeah, thatâs it. Just keep quiet and put that pretty mouth to good use.â
Slick draws cold over the flesh of your lower lips, arousal potent and thick like molasses as it drips between each pulsating fold. A piteous mewl reverberated in your throat, sweet eyes flitting up to catch Jillâs gaze, and she swears to the heavens she could come from that innocent look alone. The salty tears brimming along the corners of your waterline, mere seconds from spilling â the flush of your skin. You take her so well, you always do. It almost makes her want to croon, and to apologize for being so filled with contempt.
Thatâs not to be easily given, though. Especially not with the way you gag when the rubberized cock dips past your tonsils and tickles along the slimy walls of your throat, reflexes causing you to choke. You're quick to gain composure, though, too cock-drunk to allow the show to end. Youâre back to bobbing your head, nails digging crescents into Jillâs thighs as you clamp tighter and tighter.
You want this. Itâs a fact that aids in inflating Jillâs ego.
The bedroom mirror captures the image just across from the both of you, and the older nearly groans at the vision. Watching your pebbled nipples fatten and swell within the reflective glass, breasts swinging as you brought your mouth down with every push. Imitating the way Jill ruts her hips carelessly into your mouth, matching your rhythm. Jesus, it was a sight.
A hand fists into your hair, halting your desperate movements and dragging your mouth off her spit-lathered dick. A sheen of drool pearls along the plastic veins that wrap around the black shaft, glimmering and glistening under the wax and wane of the yellowed lighting. Leaving with an obnoxious pop â you gasp for breath after the separation, spittle soiling your pretty face and coating your lower chin in patches of saliva â all in which had gushed out when you were too busy blowing Jillâs length.
âThatâs enoughâ, the brunette says, respiring heavily, âlay on the bed.â The harness strapped to her hips rattles, the toned muscles in her abdomen rippling with every sharp inhale she takes. She directs you with the point of her chin. âOn your back, legs up.â
Spots of black speckle your vision for a second, your sight blurred from the liquid pooling in your eyes, and pearls of sweat lining in columns within the pores of your forehead. Itâs hard to almost process what she says, but you understand after a moment of catching your breath, your palms separating from her thighs.
Your knees wobble once you physically begin to stand on your feet, and you internally chastise yourself for not being quicker and more precise. You totter over a couple of feet, crawling atop the silky sheets without much complaint, and sheâs in your peripheral, right behind you.
The comfort of the bedsheets surround you, cushioning your form and laying you like a princess amongst her throne. Itâs necessary, of course, due to the older womanâs authoritative press of her hand into your chest, sinking your naked body further into the comforter. Might as well get snug before your brain is fried from sex, which leaves you as nothing but a pile of sizzled, meaty mush.
âAtta girlâ, Jill coos with a salacious glint in her eyes, her hips meeting the backs of your thighs the moment she grasps onto your legs and keeps you held upright.
She slants her head to the side, brunette strands falling astray as she examines your pussy, calloused hands kept firm around your ankles. A few seconds of examination, and then a shit-eating grin becomes pronounced over her features. Thoroughly complacent after acknowledging that youâve grown so wet that she doesnât even need to prepare you.
âDonât even move an inchâ, she warns, âJust like that.â A hand slithering down from your ankle to her pelvis, taking a moment to stroke her silicone dick for a moment, a palm wrapped firmly around the thickened shaft; making haste to rub the head up against your cunt. She lubricates herself in your juices by rocking her hips to a steady rhythm, the toy dipping back and forth beneath the cushion of your lower lips, watching the moisture disperse. A generous coat of your sloppy spit and arousal scillinates over the deeply shaded rubber.
A whine escapes your lips, head thrown back as she teasingly stimulates your clit just from the gentle prod of her cock slotted up against your pussy, and you sob, hands clamping down on the sheets with desperation. The friction is delicious and brutish equally.
But nothing in this universe compares to the euphoria of when she fills you. Guiding the toy with one hand, watching the girth fill you with ease. Itâs a tight fit, your cunt swallows her up within mere seconds, squelching cervix walls wrapping around her length. As if never wanting to let go, mirthful at her forceful entry. Youâve never felt so stretched before, itâs almost indescribable how big Jill Valentine is.
âJillâŚ.â, you cry, but itâs with bliss rather than pain. The sound of your high-pitched squeaks are enough to make her rasp out a moan, scarred hands pressing your legs up to your chest, basking in the submissive portrait youâve painted. The brunette feels her own heat build up beneath the restriction of her strap harness, salivating whilst she watches your adorable little bud grow erect. No longer thinking about the guy from earlier, now, are you? Neither is she.
The older woman drives her dick further within you, in and out, in and out â all with a precise rock of her hips, her muscles relaxed. Beads of salty sweat slip down in rivulets, the lines of liquid traveling past her neck and in between the supple dip of her cleavage. Consumed by the ample swell of her tits hiding beneath the gray fabric of her sports bra.
She fucks you until you orgasm too many times to count â and what else is there to do? With you, so weak and whorish beneath her, always bent from her instruction. Sheâll continue until youâve learned your place.
WARNINGS: Pure NSFW (descriptive smut), Age gap centered!! (Death Island! Jill), Female described reader, Dom!Jill, Sub!reader, mentions of alcohol consumption, reader described as more inexperienced than Jill (nothing too specified), innocence kink, fingering, finger sucking, tribbing, panty play, dirty talk, jill just loves to praise, teasing on Jillâs behalf, a lil bit of manhandling. LIGHTLY PROOF-READ!
WORD COUNT: 7.4K+
DESCRIPTION: The whole department and crew is out for celebration at a restaurant. As Jill sits amongst the table, she spots the new girl, young and timid, giving shy glimpses from across the table.
AUTHORS NOTE: SUPERR rusty after lack of writing for a couple of months now, really hoping this satisfies because Jilly bean doesnât get enough fics written about her. Let me know if thereâs any mistakes, please and thank you! (Iâm so normal for her, i promise). Took me too long to finish, and i got lazy toward the end.
The last thing you wanted was to deal with any of the men sitting around you, feeling forced to pry out fake enjoyment and formulate fraudulent smiles at any of their cheesy comments.
They were all grown and lax, after all, middle-aged and experienced, their worries about leaving bad impressions left long ago after years of regulating bioterrorism. They just simply didnt care, and tonight was meant to be jubilant, after all. It was a way to congratulate the team for arriving back home in one piece. Clank glasses of iced bourbon and smile after the weeks of prolonged misery and uncertainty.
It had only been a few minutes that you sat, waiting at this table, the celebratory event making you feel like the black sheep.
A timid, young stranger, her shoulders hunched in discontent, and her expression nonchalant as she sat alongside the chairs of older individuals, ones who laughed and cheered, shook hands and grinned with their cheeks shaded crimson, wrinkles creasing around the shape of their eyes.
It was people who worked drastically to make the trip to Alcatraz bearable, and handled more experience within this field. Something you felt you lacked. Something you saw yourself unequal to, off putting. In other words, even undeserving.
Employment under âThe Bioterrorism Security Assessment Allianceâ was nearing a few months now for you, but your line of work strayed far from any defensive units, due to your familiarity with the information management department. You organized required files and handled technological tasks under supervisors order, you werenât genuinely handling firearms and terminating undead like the others were within the BSAA. You were simple, and did your part, participation with higher-ups was foreign.
The invitation to come here was optional, of course, but your ripe desire to see a certain woman was hard to swallow. After several days of trying to deny yourself this opportunity, the denial became fruitless, and you finally succumbed; which leads you to sitting at this lengthy dining room table, shuffling in discomfort and trying best to bite back any resurfacing regret.
Itâs a restaurant, aromas conjoining in the air, certain scents collecting that it perplexes you. The whisks of alcohol burn through your nostril hairsâyour lip twitches in discontent, jaw soon slacking as fragrances of broth and caramelized delicacies fog around you. You scrunch your face and twist your cute nose, huffing in the perfumes of delight.
It was all so overwhelming, and yet you had barely done anything yet sit and spend a few minutes skimming the menuâfiddling with your hands on the table when you yearned for a distraction. And yet; another server hurries past your seat, wide platters in hand, a trail of aromatics left in his wake. Drool draws upon your impatient tongue, you wondered how much longer it would take.
âJill, didnât think youâd make itâ, a male voice chimes, you're able to single it out amongst the banter of the public place, trying best to listen as other residents at the table mumble out tipsy-tainted sentences, snortling and getting themselves comfortable as they slosh down fancy cocktails.
The timid position in which you kept yourself in the moment you sat down at this table seems to have been disoriented, a stiffness residing down the arch of your neck as you lift your head and adjust your eyes to your surroundings.
Dimly lit, and silken curtains are drawn over windows for the evening, you blink a few times to observe across the table, eyes stretching past messy cutlery, and halfway bubbling glasses. You blink again, throat moving slowly as you swallow dryly.
Under tinted yellow light, she sits. Sheâs shaking her head, exaggerating a huff of exhaustion as she edges her seat closer to the table. Brunette hair is silken and syrupy brown, a few strands askew from where she let the hair descend down her face and tickle the middle of her neck, the vision filling you with exhilaration.
âJill Valentineâ, you suddenly think, watching as sheâs easing herself more comfortably into the seat, shaded heels of her boots sliding forward as she pushes her legs apart, elbows jutting against the hickory surface that you oh-so-admired for several minutes straight. Sheâs hunched over improperly, wrapped up in a gray woolen cardigan, not caring much for table manners. A heat brewed low in the pit of your stomach.
âHad to finish my report, it was a pain in the assâ, her adjacent partner seems to love this reactionâbeing that he chuckles shortly afterward, âwould prefer if you took it off my shoulders next timeâ.
âYour responsibilityâ, he replies nonchalantly, Chris Redfield from what you remember, a known operator within the BSAA. He was respected largely by his peers, a man with his time spent sacrificing and protecting, all for the benefit of âgreater goodâ. You couldnât say much about him, you couldnât say much about anyone to be quite frank, except for one person. His partner in crime.
Needless to say, you scrounged through your closet for hours one night to pull out piles of clothes in desperate search to find something presentable for this woman. Bouncing your eyes back and forth over different varieties of garments, torturing yourself over the delusional manifestation that youâll attract Jill Valentine tonight.
Intimidating. Most would plaster that description over her if it was all for first impressions. A 41 year old military woman who can carry her guns just as wonderfully as she can carry her foul language. Sheâs blunt, and by no means patient due to certain circumstances, but with the small moments sheâs managed to pass alongside you, the tiny things donât go unnoticed.
Coincidentally, you bump into her in the lobby; sheâd chuckle jovially, waving one hand toward you dismissively as you ramble out apologetic gibberish. Reassuringly telling you âitâs not a problem, donât worry about itâ.
Youâre heading toward a file room? Sheâll catch you in the halls, velvet lips upturned into a gentle grin as she greets you with your name slipping off her tongue, blue eyes narrowed down at you in an observant manner. She remembers the little details, remembers you.
To say it was innocent appreciation was incorrect. It was an attraction, and the more your female superior managed to cross paths with you, the more you felt the warmth in your stomach churn and twist. It embarrassed you, to say the least. Jill Valentine was probably an individual with her priorities straight, and here you were, grinding your thighs together as you squirm uncomfortably in your seat, front teeth gnawing on the swell flesh of your bottom lip. You looked ridiculous, you were ridiculous. Ogling an older woman as if she were some high school crush. Where were your priorities?
Heaps of chestnut hair suddenly color your vision, blocking your delicate view as a head leans forward to inch closer to the woman you admire, âHere Jill, saved your drink until you got hereâ, her voice is flowery and feminine, a tinge of nasal sweetness at the end of her chirping sentences. âGlad to see youâ. You almost envy her in this moment.
âThanks, Claireâ, a pale palm wraps around the transparent glass, pearls of condensation glistening on Jillâs lengthy fingertips, her nails clumsily trimmed, and beaten hands calloused from her work. You feel your breath hitch at the sight, cotton mouthed as you watch.
Tonight was going to be long. Too long, if this was all you were going to think about.
Claire retreats to her original position in the chair, her conversation with the brunette ephemeral as she focuses her attention on another, leaving Jill solemn in her thoughts, curtly nodding to every general word Chris might possibly say. Sheâs taciturn, and trained on the voice of her adjacent companion.
Without the veil of ember strands shrouding over the womanâs face, you melted in your seat, lethargic and ditzy as you bored your beady eyes into the vision that was just blissfully her.
One sip, then another. Her lips curl around the lip of the glass, swallowing measured amounts of golden whiskey that smell like smoke and peaty.
âWe should all get together and go on vacation after all this, think we deserve that muchâ, Chris suggests this as he wedges his fork into the collops of filet spread along his plate, in which the other hums, her eyes flickering from the pit of her glass and then forward, peering across the table.
Rings of cerulean catch your nosiness, and you feel the organ within your rib cage falter, and then within seconds accelerate, heart racing like a jack rabbit inside your chest. She caught you staring.
She keeps the contact for a few seconds; youâre the one who widens your eyes and cowers into yourself, suddenly pretending that the entree platter of pillowy bread rolls is of much more interest.
You think youâve gone crazy, due to the slanted, open mouthed smirk she summons on her face, mumbling a few words in reply to the male beside her (which you donât catch due to how much blood is rushing to your face, head swarmed with internal comments of how utterly humiliated you feel). Nevertheless, the intrigue she displays is clearly prevalent, more so in the way your young face ducked to hide yourself other than the subtle conversation Chris clearly tried to create.
Just as you had foreseen, the night was indeed long and mundane, and your quick glances at the nonchalant beauty sitting opposite of you was practically dangerous, due to how cautious she seemed of her surroundings and every object that crossed her. A habit she carried in her occupation, you supposed. She was by no means incognizant. (It would be a lie if you didnât at least give one glimpse, though. Maybe twoâŚmaybe three).
You canât recall if it had been an hour or more, but the facade of enjoyment seemed to lose its potency, and perhaps for others as well.
Little by little, the crew took their leave, furred winter coats slung over the slope of their shoulders as they waved and headed out for the night, giving you some trivial excuse to join alongside them. With the bill paid generously in reward for everyone, the crowd migrated out through the exit doors and into the parking lot, the wisps of frosty air breezing past in copious amounts.
You trembled, nails dipped into the lower fabric of your mini dress, trying best to ease it further down your thighs as you cursed yourself for wearing such attire.
âAll that work just to stare at her like a fucking idiotâ, and now here you were, with gritted teeth and trembling flesh as you shuffled down the sidewalk in shame, purse hung over your shoulder whilst you made your way home. That is, until the crackling of gravel wound up behind you, tires rolling over cement and bright beams flashing over you as if you were a deer in the headlights. An unfamiliar car slowly approaches beside you, and you stumble in your heels as you halt.
âYou waitinâ on someone or something?â, the subdued hum of the engine had synthesized with the husky chuckle that was rightfully Jillâs, âdonât tell me you were actually gonna walk home in that? No jacket?â
An arm is laid firm across the surface of her car door, her head peering out through the window as she leans forward, her expression is practically incredulous. As if she was disappointed in your choice-making, and your lack of self-awareness for the weather and time of night. She thrums her fingers across the door impatiently, other hand gripping her steering wheel as she expects an answer.
âI was just-â, and hereâs the flaring heat of humiliation rising once more. Your lips are molded into a solemn line, her glare of ridicule made you feel guilty for not asking for her aid in the first place. âIâm not too far from here- I wouldnât want to be a botherâ. Youâre lying through your teeth, and the brunette scoffs as if she already knows.
âFucking hell, you were actually going to do it? Youâre too young to be doing stuff like thatâ, she jests in a low manner, muttering more so to herself than to you. Her arm slithers back inside the vehicle, head motioning to the empty passenger seat with a quick nod. âLike hell Iâm letting you walk home, itâs not safe. Iâll give you a ride. Get inâ.
The authority of her tone makes your knees wobbly, and the way she sits back in her seat with her neck craned against the headrest commands urgency. Sheâs waiting. You feel a lump harden in your throat. Sheâs waiting for you.
You hasten your little steps, sheepishly opening the car door and sliding inside, whispering with pruned lips how thankful you are for the ride. Youâre stiff in the seat next to her, hands folded in the center of your lap; they were numbed from the cold, goosebumps embroidered along your delicate flesh.
âDonât mention itâ, she brushes off the innocent gratitude with a witty shake of her head, vehicle rolling through the asphalt, leaving the parking lot with just a planate flick of the wrist, elongated fingers dipping into the rubberized padding of the steering wheel. You watch from your peripheral, nostrils flaring as you shakily inhale, splashes of soap and freshly cleaned laundry breeze over you, and you relish in it, stomach all filled with butterflies over something as simple as the older womanâs scent.
âWhere to, then?â, she inquires with a throaty hum, vision focused on the road ahead of her. She sighs in frustration when you tell her, though she grins in utter amusement, laughing when you deluge her with stuttering apologies over a mere lie.
âChrist. Thought you said you were close?â. She makes a turn, dirt crackling under the wheels as she pulls onto another street.
âI know, Iâm sorryâ, you mumble in shame, hands folding tighter and tighter until your knuckles jut against your skin, your face all flushed. Lower lining of the dress you wore was hiked up your thighs, you felt so exposed and scrutinized alongside her, in her car.
âItâs alright, donât take me too seriously. New girl, right? I remember. Explains why youâre always so quietâ, Jill continues with the conversation, glimpsing over just for a second to study you before sheâs focused again. âYou enjoy the place? They had some nice drinks, donât you think? It wasnât all too badâ, you frown at her words, a heaviness nested in your chest. You hadnât really done much tonight at the celebration. Nothing other than ogle at her, eat some bread rolls, and then ogle at her some more.
âI didnât drink anything really, unfortunatelyâ, admitting this was rather awkward, due to how much desire you held to impress her. Now you just felt inadequate, lackluster. âToo many people I didnât know, if that makes any sense. I must sound boring, donât I?â.
âNot even one drink?â, she questions, lips curved up into an open-mouthed grimace as she flutters her eyelashes in teasing surprise. âFree to get whatever you want, and youâre telling me you were too shy to even drink anything?â, and she sneers when you nod, biting down laughter in hopes she could keep you comfortable in her presence. Smile lines deepen around the shape of her mouth, silky lips blessed with a tint of coral, apples of her cheeks glowing with every beguilement grin.
âIt doesnât hurt to celebrate, you know. You work hard, Iâve noticedâ, she pauses, considering her next words carefully, not wanting to tread any risky lines, âIâm not that far from my apartment anyway, want to have a drink or two? Think Iâve got some lying around, wouldnât hurt to get emâ used upâ.
Green light hanging up ahead switches rapidly from yellow to red, crimson hue painted over the dashboard and along the height of your body. Youâve sunken a little in the passenger seat, all wide-eyed and panicked when she offers. You open your mouth to answer, but she cuts you off before you could turn the opportunity down.
âJust the two of us, okay? I donât bite, I promiseâ, and you swear youâre melting, too convinced. You nod in response, a simple âsureâ is all you can hiccup.
âMaybe all that time ripping apart my wardrobe was worth it?â
Maybe so, because Jill fucking Valentine is moving her lengthy index finger to the left of her steering wheel, flicking on her turn signal without a single ounce of hesitation, and then making a u-turn that can only promise one thing.
The ride to her apartment.
Agreeing was most definitely easier than doing, that was for certain. With the door opening, and her leading the way inside, not only then does it really solidify into reality. One of your leading superiorsâa trained operations agentâhas driven you back to her apartment to âshare drinksâ and âcelebrate without all the other chatterâ. At least thatâs what she bargained for in the car.
Youâve politely found purchase on the faux leather cushion of her couch, material beige and smoothened, and you curl into it as you keenly gape around the place.
The condo is fresh, and crisp, organized and minimalistic, but still with a trace thatâs so understandably miss valentine.
After hearing about rumors of Jillâs horror in raccoon city, you can almost bet sheâs much more at ease now, with her new place, and her new position. Eager to distance from her solemn past.
Sheâs a workaholic, thatâs for sure, multiple rooms in her living space and sheâs dedicated one for her research; the door slightly agape, and you canât help but satiate your curiosity as you squint your eyes and look past the doorknob.
With what little you can see through the crevice, thereâs a desk inside with files strewn along the top, corkboard furnished along the wall and vital information pinned to it with colored thumbtacks. Not able to help yourself, a tender smile cracks on your lips as you notice irrelevant stickers plastered along the granulated cork, designs of cats and succulents the older woman has happily put everywhere. Your heart pangs at the innocent gesture, imagining such a stern individual indulging herself with such small and adorable items.
âDo you have a preference? Want anything in particular?â, said woman calls from the kitchen, face astern and a hand pushing the fridge door open. Hastily, you retreat your beady eyes, suddenly feeling impertinent for your sense of wonder. She lists off what she has, but itâs all foreign to you, not making much sense from your lack of alcohol expertise.
âIâm not sureâ, you shrug sheepishly, a bashful grin displayed, âanything is fine, reallyâ. âAnything that you pick, Iâll drinkâ, sounds more correct, but you digress.
She reads you like youâre an open book, your naivety and youth all too transparent and sat right on her couch, eyebrows furrowed and hands respectfully folded in your lap. A position sheâs noticed you in ever since you were rigid and unsettled in her vehicle. When were you ever going to relax? It filled her with incomprehensible mirth, the way you were.
âYouâre quite young, arenât you?â, Jill teases a little, poking at the spots that make you internally weak as she flashes a knowing smirk, âdonât drink a lot I take it? Thatâs alrightâ.
She retrieves two glasses from her cupboard and fills them with her pick as you so kindly advocated, closing the fridge and then sauntering over. She takes her place beside you, the leather sinking from the weight of two, her thigh resting along the couch and the shape of her kneecap brushing against you.
âAll yours. Bottoms upâ, a throaty chuckle resounds in her throat as she offers the drink, ushering for you to take it into your small hands, in which you oblige with unreadable panic. âCheersâ, she clinks her glass with yours, before sheâs reclining into the cushion and swallowing, throat muscles contracting up and down.
You only manage to gulp down a small portion of the beverage, soured reaction shriveling your lips. It wasnât the most enjoyable, but it was Jillâs, and you found it as well sought after as any nobel prize. This drink, this couch, this moment. This moment with her, even if every lick of the bitter whiskey was deathly, you would still sacrifice every lumpy taste bud just for a second with the woman.
Slowly, she sets the drink down on the coffee table, and you watch her movements carefully. Those hands of hers guide the cardigan off her shoulder blades, shrugging the gray fabric down and onto an armrest with a composed exhale.
What torture it is, your foolish reverence for her. Dirty incalescence ferments between the swell of your thighs, burning and burning once you catch sight of the dip between her chest, cleavage freckled with age and brown moles dotted along her sharpened collarbone. Her tight little blue tank top hiding underneath that damned cardigan this whole time. The fabric is stressed across the seaming of her bust, creased and curled until it dips down and hugs around the frame of her waist. Thereâs no fucking way youâll be able to make it through tonight without slipping up.
âYouâre brave for working under the organization, no matter what you do. Reminds me of when I first started training, I was around your age too. Itâs risky, but Iâm sure you already know thatâ, she bends downward to unlace her coal-shaded boots, tugging the zipper down without an ounce of patience in her.
âYou gettinâ along with everybody? How is everything, with the new position and all? I mean, the way you were acting earlier, it makes me worried. If anyoneâs screwing with you-â.
âNo no no, itâs not like that, I promiseâ, you cut her off, shaking your head quickly in hopes you could help her understand your viewpoint, in which she glances at you and sits upright. She got you to talk, and if she wasnât absolutely smug about it.
âEverything is fine, and the department is kind to me. Youâve been very generous too, and Iâm thankful. Iâm justâŚstill trying to get used to everythingâ, she bobs her head with acumen, digesting every syllable and stumble of your words, listening maturely. She finds flattery in your compliment toward her, doing best not to grin.
âHow is it with, umâŚyou and Chris?â, you ask, and the moment the question slips past your lips, youâre filled with utter regret. What kind of question was that? Valentine raises her eyebrow in bewilderment, shocked by the sudden change in subject. She draws her arm along the head of the couch, manspreading whilst she sits as she pleases, eyes still narrowed with pique and pointed in your general direction.
âMe and Chris?â, the laughter she bellows out is vocal, giggling deeply without much restraint, âweâre partners, is all. Weâve been in this field for a while now.â
The way she carries herself around you is as if sheâs known you for years, like this is just some humorous conversation that fills her with interest. She wasnât this excited to speak at the restaurant, youâve noted, and itâs heartwarming. You, of all people, have made her soft.
Despite all the liquor sheâs consumed tonight, she is still impressively sober, quick to catch on to all your soft spoken words, and averting eyes. Although, her high tolerance, of all things, is not a particular trait of hers that surprises you. It only aids the turmoil that rumbles in your chest; it makes you feel weighed down and heavy, the scent of luxurious usquebaugh lingering on her tongue after every breath she releases.
âI seeâ, you mumble, âIâm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, I shouldnât have asked.â
Jill rolls her blue eyes, âyouâre always apologizing, you have nothing to be sorry aboutâ, the room falls silent, clock thatâs hung on her wall ticking as seconds prolong into minutes. That is, until she speaks again.
âWhat about you? Got a boyfriend? Lay it on meâ, and the room feels like itâs suddenly enclosing, the words strangely suffocating, and you refuse to admit your sheer infatuation you bore for her. You shake your head with silence, finding that your speechlessness was a better reply rather than your jumbled words of anxious gibberish. One slip up, and you knew it would be over.
Your fingers tease the constricting dress again, eyes exerting to the way your thighs expand and lay flat on her sofa. The way the material fits you like a glove was sweltering, especially with her obsidian pupils beating down on you, drinking up your every tentative counter.
âSo thatâs a noâ, she snorts at your lack of volume, feeling filled with confidence. âYou stare a lot, you know that? I noticed you looking at me all night. I donât scare you, do I?.â
You shoot your attention toward her now, irises apprehensively rounded and wide, and you feel the world absolutely crumble as you're struck with distress over her admittance. She did notice, after all. How pathetic you must have looked the whole time, peering from the fucking entree platter to her every couple of minutes, so visibly envious whenever anyone uttered a single word to her.
âNo, Iâ-
Your pale lips tremble as they open, an absinthal taste wrought over your tongue and depleting any moisture from your mouth. You try to answer, meek and destroyed from your own clumsy dilemma. How different this could have been, if only you werenât so gullible when it came to your yearning, now leading yourself into chagrin as you couldnât keep your eyes away earlier.
âIâm sorryâ, you pipe out, âI didnât mean toâ-, and sheâs engulfing you, brain all smothered into mush and your body liquidizing to putty under the embrace she ensnares you in. Countless nights youâve spent imagining how every curve of her lips feels pressed along yours, how they move, how they taste, but absolutely nothing can put into words how beautiful they feel as they swallow up your squeaks of dismay.
Sheâs crawling forward until sheâs got you all laid out underneath her, squirming in your position as you submit to the palm she lays on your chest, a firm push she gives until youâve gone flat amongst the leather cushion. With her legs now entangled with yours, sheâs content, humming into the kiss sheâs so rightfully initiated, sharp nose dipping into the velvet skin of your face, and skimming along your cheek with every tilt of her head.
Challenged by inexperience, you try best to keep up with the opening and closing of her mouth sheâs laying upon you, her eyes sealed as her lips seemingly canât control themselves, a hunger youâve never expected from Jill. Flavors of malt she's got melting from her tongue, intoxicated saliva thatâs mixed with yours and creating a slippery concoction between your lips with every thirsting lick she provokes.
âNeed some attention? Am I right?â, the brunette separates from the bliss she had solicited, lips detaching with a wet smack so she can inhale sharply. âIâm much older than you, muchâ-, she huffs, airily snickering at the sight behold just right beneath her, âmuch fucking older.â She drags the wriggling muscle out from between her teeth and over her lips, collecting the moisture and spit you had so generously lathered over her. To die like this, it would be divine.
You lay dormant and vulnerable to her control, but she had warned you. Her words were not to be taken lightly, but rather, considered. To give up your innocence for such a filthy, wretched moment like this, Jill knew better. But those eyes of yours had begged, pleaded, were filled with desperation. Whatever she had done, or would do, you wouldnât lament over itâbut ratherâsavor it.
âI knowâ, you speak up, balancing the shakiness that wracks you. Youâve wanted a moment like this with her, and you refused to let it slip away from the cracks of your fingers when she was so, so close to granting you everything youâve wished. âI know you are.â
âYeah, I bet you do. Explains all the staring, that goddamn dress during winter for Christâs sake, all on purpose, I take it, tryna get my attentionâ, the silver pendant of her necklace dangles above you, circling as if itâs meant to entrance you. âThe hell am I going to do with you?.â
The authority that oozes off her foul tongue is like morphine, an opiate youâve swallowed, itâs addictive and ruins your common sense completely. Innocent eyes flicker back and forth, your jaw now slack as you canât focus between the heat swirling in her pupils, or the way her lips taunt you for another taste.
The delicate curve of her nose, like a deity the way she so naturally is, sculpted from the stars as you examine the dorsal bump that sits near the bridge between her eyes, and then arches down to her cupid's bow. You want to pepper kisses all over her, take a risk into her world, trace the fine lines that are embedded into her pale complexion. God, you wanted it, no matter how foolish you would become.
Not able to withstand another teasing comment, you bring your lips to hers with vehemence, your shaky hands drawn over the stretch of her back, nails bundling up fistfuls of blue cotton fervently and with lack of restraint.
âEasy, babyâ, the older woman rasps out a discordant laugh as she eases apart from you, âI got it, sweetheart. Letâs take our time, no need to rush anything.â
But the way your fingers are threading up her spine, carding through the syrupy strands of her hair and burying the pads of your fingers into her darkened roots tell her everything. âPleaseâ, you whisper, a whine of desire prolonging from your throat, âtake me to bed.â
And who is she to deny such a request? Fallen at your feet from square one.
With groping hands and ragged breaths, Jill has led you to her room and shoved her calloused hands onto the square of your chest, watching you stumble your way backward until your knees wobble, feet losing balance and you surrender your footing. Now draped along her mattress, youâre sprawled amidst her disheveled sheets, unintentionally alluring at the edge of her bed. A present that needed to be unwrapped and reveled in. Undressed and ravaged.
Undoubtedly, the attraction was mutual. Too reticent to meet her eye, fledgling and modest you were, a stark contrast to the indecent and repugnant men that stuck around and partnered alongside Jill in multiple missions. She was abnormally engrossed in you, freshly employed, seeing a sliver of compassion in every beam you presented, how much you were blossoming compared to the others who groaned and wailed.
Of course, your age had been worrisome, and Jill felt guilt course within her at such salacious contemplations. But to have you laid out in this moment, so youthful, so precious, she knew it was alright. She was going to take such good care of you, that was certain, cherish you like no other. And from the way you propped your weight up onto your elbows to wait for her, in her bedâshe knew you had waited a while for this too. The glimmering twinkle in your glossy eyes, an unspoken plea from the depths of your soul.
Jill pried your heels off your feet and threw the irrelevant shoes to the floor, long fingertips prodding along the protruding talus bone and further down to the curve of your calf, pulling your leg upward so she could chastely peck along the skin. Give you softness before she fucked you clueless, solicited vulnerable cries from that sweet mouth.
âGod, youâre so perfect, sweet thing. Need you to be good and spread your legs for meâ, she mumbles amongst unarticulated nibbles to your calf, two strong hands guiding your limbs apart with your permission. You comply, breath hitched in your throat, craning your neck back once she lowers a palm between your two thighs, index and middle finger circling into your sticky panties, meddling with the sodden gusset.
She grunts, your wet cunt fueling her ego. She knew it was worth examining how ruined you already were, but this quick? How precious.
âFucking hell, youâre needyâ, you flush viciously at her jesting observation, squirming so sensitively at the swirls and caresses of sensual friction, every plunge of her trimmed nails into the flimsy fabric were torturous. Panties are humid and tainted from your own very need, and you feel your body is just an ocean of desire, body overflowing with lecherous want.
You wantonly gripe and huff, dress now creased and hiked up to your navel as Jill holds you still and anchored, one hand clamped around your knee securely as the other is buried between your thighs, toying with you. Coaxing those gentle gasps out of you that make her heart swell, fill her with greedy pride.
âJust a couple of kisses, and your panties are already ruinedâ, she curls a finger into the band and drags the elastic up, the soiled undergarment loose and freed from your glistening labia, before Jill releases, the material slapping back down within mere seconds. Jolting and whimpering, youâre appalled from the igniting slap amongst your sensitive warmth, hips jittering and Jill flashes you a playful smile.
âHalf my goddamn age and gettinâ all wetâ, she tugs the panties up now, watching the cotton sink into the slick of your pussy, lips curled around the laced seam and cutely puffed out, glistening with your own pronounced arousal. âPretty girlâ, she muses, dark eyebrows creased and wrinkles of concentration forming along her forehead as she gawks at you coming apart, beseeching for mercy with little squeaks and airy sighs. She wonders when youâll demand pleasure, but such a sweetheart you are, letting Jill have her way with you.
Sheâs too impatient for this little game, having enough of prolonging your reward of indescribable pleasure and ecstasy. She pushes the damp gusset to the side, a bridge of transparent slick breaking apart from the undergarment once she bares your cunt to her hungry eyes, lengthy fingers spreading your velvety lips apart, her mouth formulating into an impressed âoâ at the vision.
âJillâ-, you pipe up with uncertainty, but she hushes you, another kiss she smothers to your calf. âI knowâ, she hums, âI knowâ. You feel all warm inside, sickened with endearment by the way she looks at you, clenching around thin air as you imagine how well sheâll fill you. Youâre all hers tonight, she knows this.
A veil of brown tresses conceal half her face as she lowers her head to a calculated angle, sharp collarbone and shoulder blades pronounced once she bends closer to your clit. She collects tepid drool off the tip of her pink tongue, and hurls it down onto your turgescent pearl, watching her bubbling saliva sully your pretty little pussy and drip down to your pulsating hole, entrance begging to be split open as you clench onceâŚthen twice, and a third time. You shiver at the contrast of temperature, cool slick now warmed by the draw of her thermal spittle, and you attempt to keep your head up to watch with half-lidded eyes, desperate to see the woman you loved.
Despite her foul-mouthed tendency, and inclination for dirty talk, she was slow, and tender. Her hands were rough, marred from training and littered with blemishes and scarring. Though, she was so considerate the way she plopped her thumb along the swell of your clit, textured fingertips rubbing upward against the flesh, flicking the small, and hardened bud with precision that had you moaning brokenly into her pillows. Your nostrils flare, inhaling her musk thatâs adorned the sheets, the scent enveloping you, in which you only moan louder.
âYeah, feeling good, arenât you. Like my fingers?â
âMhm!â, you had no words to speak, clasping onto the bedding as she steadily draws circles of pleasure over your enlarging bud. She tests the waters, pointer finger nudging at your dripping entrance, and when you make no sound of denial, she buries herself inside, curling one finger into your cunt. She laughs flippantly as your body instinctively swallows her in, fleshy walls tightening and frenzied, clenching sporadically around her, and she adds another finger slowly, trying best to be careful with you; her precious girl.
âJill- oh my godâ, the sudden stretch of her fingers is surreal, sticky taint gushing from your weeping hole and defiling the pale, boney fingers that split you apart so remarkably, obscene sonorities that climb up the walls and ring into your ears. You were already soaked earlier after the push of her tongue along your teeth, a saturated flower between your shaking legs, luminous and gleaming after a rainfall of dominance the older woman harbored.
But the way she bullies her knuckles inside you, her spit sloven hands smearing her slobber all over your vulvaâyou've been undeniably ruined, sopping mess thatâs smeared to the flesh of your inner thighs and down to the shape of your rear, and you sob.
âCanât- canât do itâ, your body says otherwise, pleading for more, blood rich and adrenaline coursing through bluish veins like wildfire. Thrust after thrust, and push after push; transforming your mortal chassis into molten nothingness. Youâve surrendered willingly, fallen victim to a certain euphoria that wounds around you, ensnares you into a blanket of submission.
âYou canâ, Valentine coaxes, more of a demand than suggestion, inspecting you past her webbed eyelashes, âand you will.â Her two fingers are tight against one another, pummeling toward the spongy muscle inside you with a pump of her wrist, arm flexing as she opens you wide to her advantage, folds spread apart to her liking, flapping limply atop the tarnished knuckles that gets forced into your noisy pussy. Youâre writhing desperately, an arm flailing down the arch of your stomach to catch her, and youâre teary eyed; two crystals gleaming and threatening fat tears.
Youâve begun to blubber riddles of nonsense, incoherent gasps that can only direct Jill toward one conclusion, and once your hips grind upward to meet the dry surface of her palm, sheâs sucking her teeth. Youâre close, she smirks in understanding.
âHm!â, you shake your head, and what else can you say? Disheveled and torn away, once innocent and pure, now fragmented into a vision of a filth from the way you moan symphonies. Dress slithered up just below the cave of your ribs, and a trembling hand clamping down on the wrist thatâs trapped between your lifted thighs, youâre the image of a prostitute.
Nonchalant from your intrusive hand desperate to stop her, Jill swats you away and flashes you an expression that reads âdonât do that againâ, before sheâs plunging once more, and your stomach lurches, hitched breath trapped within your esophagus.
âListen to yourselfâ, she tantalizes, sultry remarks hissing from the gaps of her pearly whites, and you whimper delicately as you begin to lose yourself in the bliss. Itâs only in that moment of fragility that you recognize what she finds so amusing, the squelching of your cunt, juices lewd and sloppy as they flow, and youâre clenching around the older womanâs joints within. Further and further, until the rope breaks, and youâre crumbling into oblivion, battered fingers ushering you into an orgasm of pristine heaven.
Her thumb lulls you from your sequencing spasms, rubbing your used little clit in tender circles as she marvels over such magnificence with blown pupils, still standing at the edge of the bed whilst she listens to the howls of elation that tumble from your cute lips. Sheâs got to stop herself from hounding you right now, control the erotic sparks that are boiling underneath the constriction of her pants. She did this, and if she didnât feel so full of herself because of it. Thoroughly smitten with you.
âThere you goâ, she hushes you with rasping care, observing with worry as your soft hips remain twitching, âyou okay?.â
She abandons the mess she made the moment she joins alongside you, crawling to fill the cold space amongst the bed, suckling marks of woo under the slant of your jaw once sheâs beside you. Slender, protective arms are snared around your heaving figure, and youâre humming to reassure her, reaching to grasp onto the meat of her biceps for a sense of imploring comfort.
âYou did goodâ, a husky murmur that rumbles from her, reverberates through you as she douses nurturing pecks along the crown of your swarming head, your brain filled with static and fuzz from such an experience. She thinks youâre finished for the night, wasted and frayedâthe humble woman she wasâfiguring sheâll get you cleaned up and call it a night.
The conclusion is omitted, fortunately, from the moment your mouth falls agape, needy muscle thrashing inside and your libido pulsates. You lever her hand that was once caressing your waist, and bring it upon the seat of your bottom lip, peering past your nose at the wrinkled fingertips; pruned and soiled from the liquid you've drenched them in. Your release, glued and preserved amidst the pores of the brunette's skin.
A low sigh of approval erupts from Jillâs chest as you clean the cracks and crevices youâve dirtied, your beady eyes now sealed tightly as you slurp on the digits hungrily.
âCanât babyâ, she drawls, cunt throbbing and irritated as it stays purchased amongst the seaming of her ripped jeans. âMight be too much for tonight.â
As if youâre adamant on her docility and compliance, you swirl your tongue over her nail beds, the addictive brewery of your cum, globs of spit, and her flesh had all become dewy and sloshed down the walls of your throat. You moan, bobbing your head until you sputter around her, and the two digits sit upon their tongue-like throne beside the swell of your tonsils, leaving you gagging stupidly by the sensations.
Fucks sake, she wants to pummel that honeyed mound into the sheets until youâre ripping her off, tear streaks racing down your cheekbones. You fucking asked for it? Youâre gonna get it.
âWant you to feel goodâ, you gargle, batting your eyelashes, âplease?â
Denial dawns heavily upon her for the second time tonight, the fear of mauling your bodyâher temple of worshipâweighing heavy on her racing heart. But the stench of sex disarms her restraint, the prodding canines and writhing tongue deepthroating her fingers merely convincing her. âWanna feel youâ, you whimper, âwannaâ- and thereâs no more words that need to be said.
Constricting fabric and other layers of clothes are shredded apart within a matter of seconds, now askew and in disorganized piles amongst the older womanâs bedroom floor. She couldnât care less, peeling off everything she, or you possibly owned, a chest of ample breasts swinging and soft, chocolate moles dotted from her collarbone to the curve of her rising tits. You feel them perk against your own, nipples coupled and stimulating one another. Her robust figure straddles your hips, strengthened thighs not allowing an escape as she wrestles her lips against yours, groaning in low carnality.
The night is crude, bawdy, and daring. Jill Valentineâs apartment molding into a pornographic masterpiece, with licentious kisses exchanged with swollen lips, and entwined legs that brush against one another. Sheâs slotted herself so perfectly against your cunt, raising her hips so she can grind her clit against yours, and itâs everything sheâs wanted. Everything you've wanted. Hymns of pleasure conjoin, and sheâs clamping your thighs as she meets you in the center, a sultry look through her hooded eyes. With nails digging crescents into your skin, she huffs out a hissing moan, string of curse words descending before she can communicate properly.
âSo close babe, so fucking closeâ, Jillâs pelvis pushes upward, folds kissing one another and she connects with you like youâre both two puzzle pieces meant for one another. âGotta wait for me baby, wait for me, okay?â. Sheâs already said that many times tonight, stilling her scissoring once she spots even a measly scrunch of enjoyment building up on your youthful features. Egging you on just to shatter any shroud of pleasure.
âWanna fuck this sweet pussy all nightâ, she grunts, chuckling in mirth at your whines for release, beads of sweat drawn over her temples. âBe patient with me baby, be patientâ. And sheâs tugging the ropes again, leg drawn over yours as she rubs against you, over and fucking over again, until youâre a ruptured woman, humbled from your own begging.
If you're feeling up to it, I was just wondering if you'd consider writing something short and sweet about Vergil and reader where the reader sees him with his hair down for the first time and absolutely adores his hair? I saw a mod recently where Vergil's got his hair down, almost like Dante's and it just looks so soft and fluffy!!
CAFUNĂ â ďžâž
PAIRINGS: Vergil Sparda x GN!Reader
WARNINGS: Not exactly proof-read (lightly scanned). Overall fluff. :) Simple talk about Vergil's personal troubles, and his emotions.
DESCRIPTION: Wherein the reader finally sees Vergil with his hair down.
A/N: Thank you for your request love. Hope you're doing well too.đ¤đ¤
There's something cool and restrained about Vergil whenever you're around him.
A sway of your body near his, and suddenly, he is distancing himself. The flesh of your finger tickles against his, he brushes you off. A flickering of your lashes in his presence, he casts his eyes away, avoiding the tenderness in your gaze.
He never shows you disdain, just uncertainty, maybe, fear. Insecurity. Hesitance.
It's not until he finds you that you're certain. His once pale, porcelain skin, silky and smooth, now battered and pores brandishing purple and blue. Cuts and welts that have now tainted his complexion.
He stands at the center of the doorway, tall and broad, clothes matted with mud and slick with blood. The smell of copper and grime desecrates his body. He takes thoughtful breaths of air, smooth and calculated.
This feels like the first time he's ever looked upon you, asked for guidance with just a flickering plea in his blue eyes. The first time he does not shy away.
Maybe, he's not disgusted. He's just afraid, unsure of what he wants.
"Vergil?" you call out for him, voice wavering, your palm shaking as you still grasp the doorknob. "Come inside". You speak softly, worried.
Thoughts flood your head as he doesn't utter even a single word. Just a gentle hum-you took it as thanks-and a gentle push inside through the door. The buckles on his boots rattling as he takes cautious steps inside.
He's been here before. Inside the comfort of your home, yet he acts cautious, awkward.
He is your lover. But even he, a powerful demon, has yet to learn everything that love can offer. What a home can feel like.
You don't attempt to ask what happened, nor place your hands all over him in hopes it will reassure him. You know it won't, and if anything, it would only irritate him, inflict pain on his pride.
"Vergil..." he doesn't look at you as you speak, head still tilted to the floor, his plush lips parted as he breathes, strands of white hair crusted and slick against his temple, crimson dying his scalp.
Only a shutter in his lengthy fingers as he grips his Yamato by his side, he's listening intently to your words, taking them in. Appraising your sweet tone within himself. Grateful to finally have someone.
"Let's get you cleaned up, hm?".
Just like any other moment with the tall, brooding half-demon, the walk to the bathroom is quiet. You lead him toward the tub, your gaze quickly switching to focus on him. Only soft care is present in the way you look at him, your face asking for permission just with a notion of your silken smile.
"I'm going to get your wounds taken care of, and your clothes clean, is that alright with you?" you ask, catching a glimpse of the way his pupils dilate just at the sight of you standing before him.
"Yes..." the tone he speaks is low and grave, his voice hoarse and almost wounded, as if he had been too choked up to speak anything else.
You're content with his compliance, he wants to be comfortable around you, to let you take care of him.
You bend to fix a tub of warm water for him, filling it with crystalline liquid, your fingers pruning at the tips as you swash aromas around in the tub, filling it with rosemary soap and watching lavender salts melt away beyond the suds. The pooling water is now becoming opaque, mountains of bubbles building.
As you turn, you catch the timorous expression he wears as he peers at himself through the mirrors reflection, white eyebrows furrowed, a line building in-between them. Insecure. Unsure. Doubting. Mouth twitching with condemnation.
"Come", you say with sodden palms open, and he obeys, allowing you to strip him of the pungent clothes he wears, your smile of tenderness never dissipating as you toss the dirty assortment into the hamper and guide his tall form into the steaming water.
He sinks into the floral water, a groan hitched in the back of his throat as his back eases with the scorching heat beating into his muscles.
"Feels better already, doesn't it?" your voice is airy, reassuring. He doesn't respond, you didn't expect him to.
You topple amounts of shampoo between your delicate fingertips, bringing it to the roots of his hair and lathering the product along his snowy scalp.
You scrub until the red and black become foamy, you scrub until Vergil purrs in delight.
It's with this, that you realize, he is nothing short of ethereal. Your first time he is so vulnerable enough to present himself to you.
With the water rinsing away the foam, his hair is like a glistening pearl, his natural glossy white untainted, cleansed from your devotion.
Unlike his brother, Vergil preferred to keep himself refined and tidy. It was rare when you saw Vergil showing skin, or speaking too hysterically. Or letting his hair fall loose the way it did now. Cascading over his white eyelashes, his lips relaxed and his expression tranquil. Pleased with you. Jubilant with your very existence.
"You are beautiful..." you speak with a grin, your nails curving into his hair, curious fingertips feeling the soft and silky thickness. You didn't lie. It was no hoax. This, was true. He was an art piece.
Long, once slicked back strands now stick against his face, straight and shiny along the structure of his cheekbones.
"This is my first time seeing your hair like this" a gentle whisper of admiration is heard from your lips. "Would it be selfish of me to wish to see it more often?".
Your demon lover grunts in response, blue eyes opening to stare you down. "Don't get your hopes up", his voice is lax, smooth and nonchalant, his large palm reaches up to press lightly into your wrist, dragging your palm until it rests on his cheek. "It is not guaranteed to happen". Your thumb rubs caresses of worship there, soft eyes filled to the brim with adoration, soaking in this image.
"Thank you", he speaks afterwards, nuzzling into your touch. This time, he will allow it.
"Thank you", he repeats, over and over, until every wound and laceration is treated. "Thank you", until every bruise is kissed.
It's not later on into the night that he joins you for rest, he had insisted on a moment of peace, a moment of privacy. You had no problem obliging.
When you wake the next morning with a tickling sensation crossing your temples, you open your once sealed eyes, corners crusted with sleep. Eyes now adjusting to the light, you take in your sleeping lover before you. His arms are wrapped comfortably around you, ensuring that you are pressed against the broadness of his chest.
Hair is still free, soft and puffy, cascading wonderfully down the structure of his glowing face. Strands caught between the plushness of his pink lips. He hadn't slicked it back yet.
Nights pass, and it remains. Long hair is kept as a special gift for you, neverending.
WARNING: Sexual content, thigh-riding kink, overall smut, pet names, Dom!Jill, Sub!Reader.
DESCRIPTION: Overall- descriptive headcannons that tell how Jill will let you ride her thigh.
A/N: We need more Jill content :(
JILLS THIGHS ;
Miss Valentine is by no means a woman with free time on her hands, so sexual intimacy is something that must be fought for.
She doesn't mind when you clamber your way onto her though. Straddling her lap, letting your thighs expand over hers. To fit against her body like a puzzle piece.
The best time to sit in Jill's lap is when she's working late at night, an expression of aggravation etched into her face as she works hours beyond hours at her desk.
She's spent the whole day researching, and you've watched clumsily from the bed in her apartment, your legs tangled in her sheets, her scent molded into the mattress.
As she sits, the more frustrated she gets, lifting herself up from her chair to pin another picture to her work-board, and you watch with a certain hunger glimmering in your eyes.
Jill is attractive when she's moody, and she has a clever, dirty tongue.
"This is bullshit".
Swears upon swears tie on her tongue as she goes to sit, manspreading to hopefully ease herself into a comfortable position. You can tell she's obviously done with her work, wanting nothing more than to be rid of it all.
When she spreads, her body stretches, and contorts in such a way that makes her body shape in certain areas. Her breasts tight against the seaming of her white tank-top, stressing the fabric. Stressing you.
Her thighs are hot against the edges of her dark blue jeans, and you gulp, wanting nothing more than to sit on them, like she's your throne.
Jill is lean, and fit, and her thighs are perfect. Soft, warm, inviting, and strong enough to hold you.
When you seize the moment, she's a bit shocked, easing into an airy chuckle as you sit atop of her.
"Can I help you?"
She'll joke, and you can only snort.
Yes, miss Valentine...yes you can help, indeed.
She will probably let you kiss her for a few minutes, your lips moving against hers until you're impatient, and the kiss transforms into a smacking thirst.
That's when she'll pat your back, a few huffs of breath passing by her lips.
"Just give me a few minutes, 'kay? I'll get back to you when I'm finished with this"
Secretly, Jill is just as impatient as you are, and if you tease her with a couple more nips on her neck, and tugs from your fingers, then she'll succumb to sex.
When making out, Jill is sloppy by all means. Saliva-slick kisses, moans in-between gasps of air, her filthy hands groping your ass, easing your hips further onto her thigh so you're seated to her liking.
"Feel good, babe?"
Jill will laugh as you start to grind against her thigh, panties sopping and slathering your essence all over the material of her jeans.
She fucking loves it. Jill will definitely tease you about the wet spot you left later.
Valentine loves to grope in these salacious moments, her lengthy fingers pulling your ass against her thigh, fastening your speed. Tugging your shirt and bra down, not even caring to take it off properly.
She'll let your breasts sit on top of your bra, nipples dipping in closer to her face as you roll your hips. You're a mess, not caring about your shirt pooling around your stomach.
God bless her boldness, she'll lick a stripe across your tit with a sense of desire, and you'll shiver above her, mewling her name as her jeans build blissful friction on your clit.
"You close, pretty baby?"
Jill is the type to chuckle with mirth at your sounds, only there to aid you to your orgasm, her caresses and hisses of filth making you spiral.
She loves this position, getting to see your eyes roll into your head, your mouth agape, neck tossed back as your movement grows jittery, and you roll your hips sloppily as you finish.
Her hands will reach up to clasp onto your neck, pushing you down so she can capture your lips again, her tongue consuming your every whimper, and cry of her name.
Jill is all for praise, and princess treatment is everything you'll receive.
Good luck, because after a night on her thighs, she'll be pushing the clutter off her desk so she can lay you on it. Peeling your drenched panties off, your cunt glistening up, bubbling with your release.
You can do it, can't you? Of course you can, especially after the tip of her tongue laps away at your sticky heat, humming in approval at your musky scent and organic taste.
WARNINGS: Not proof-read, angst, mentions of readers death, depression, loss, loneliness, a relationship that is crumbling.
WC: 1,650
DESCRIPTION: Vergil wonders what exactly he did that made him lose you. He breaks as he realizes his mistakes, and that he will never be able to hold you again.
A/N: This work was rushed!!!!!!!!!! I literally just had a vomit post of all my sad little ideas. Currently hyper-fixated on Vergil! Probably will write more for him. I imagined this concept last night, and I kid you not, I cried.
Marriage was a concept created for foolish beings who wished to bind themselves to one another. When Vergil lived through his life, blinded by a pursuit of power, such things like marriage were nothing but a stupid scheme.
Why would he wish to be controlled by someone? Tied down to them? Love was nothing. Love was idiocy. That is what he thought, after all.
Then you came.
A human, young and kind. You placed your hand in his, pressed your silken lips along his bruised knuckles, and kissed his ruined skin. You promised him love. You showed him peace. You introduced him to light and laughter and mirth.
It was then, after the many days of holding you and growing to love you, that he realized why people did such âfoolishâ traditions. He grew weak with you. Became sensitive. Was not embarrassed to be genuine with you. He had finally decided.
He would propose.
You had tears swelling up along your waterline, slipping down your upturned cheeks as you smiled, you sobbed the words âOf course I will marry youâ.
He married you.
The marriage was simple, no one but you two to promise yourselves to each other. He had found an old church to hold the ceremony, the ceilings tall and pointing to the sky. The tinted glass waned bright colors over your bashful face, your eyes glittering with devotion before you leaned in to kiss him. A kiss to ensure eternity.
Your fingers trembled against his as he slipped the wedding band on, he had not realized his cool façade has cracked along with yours. He was crying with you, so ecstatic to finally have someone who can understand him.
Someone who wonât judge him, someone who will tell him it will be okay. To hold him close in the night when he had nightmares. To lay their head in his lap as he read out his favorite poems.
âVergil, stand over by the tree! I want to take a picture of you!â you giggled happily, face contorting into an expression that can only be described as glee. You held up your camera, adjusting the device to be suited for the brightened, summer day.
âAnd what for?â your husband seemed annoyed, looking at you with a nonchalant grimace. âBecause I want to capture memories, now go, go!â. You shooed him away, begging him to find purchase near the weeping willow tree. Itâs arms swaying in the gentle breeze, faded green leaves swooping overhead, tangled moss falling to the soil.
He obeys, acting as if this was something pointless, but internally, he was blissful, full of pride at the acknowledgement of your adoration. He stands, watching as you snap the picture, and then returns to your side gracefully.
âWell? Was that to your liking?â he asks, leaning down to see the picture, and you nod with a grin, telling him âthank youâ.
This was something that became quite frequent. You had recently started to indulge in art, and had brought up to him that you would paint his portraits.
And paint you did.
Your works were wonderful. Your art room his secret sanctuary. A gallery of only him, painted with oils and acrylics, colors that portray him to be a god amongst this tiny Earth.
Inspired by a simple, small photo of him. A photo that is always captured by you.
You enjoyed comparing his white hair to the color of a rich magnolia. Consistently painting him alongside the elegant flowers. You had told him once that they reminded you of him. They were sensitive to the human touch, turning brown from the oils of a selfish finger caressing it. They were independent, and were beautiful while they kept to themselves.
Just like him.
Relationships are hard. He understands this. He knows that if he does not give enough, the ones he finds dear will crumble away. Loyalty, honesty, generosity, quality time, devotionâŚ.. so much he must do to keep you satisfied.
He tries, heâs a perfectionist, but when you two wander in public, see the other couples mold into one another, he feels ashamed. He does not like to hold your hand in public, and he feels tense when you initiate certain intimacy. You would get bored of him, wouldnât you?
He admires how easy you make it look, how you strip him of his clothes, settle him in the tub, speak reassuring words of praise as you scrub the grime off his beaten skin. He relaxes under your touch, wonders why of all people, you chose to be with him. How you donât hesitate to bend to his will, run miles to retrieve whatever he wants. Speak honeyed words, just enough to make him melt.
Youâve helped rid his nightmares, youâve made him feel alive. He only dreams of bliss, of divine moments shared with you.
Moments like you and him, taking pictures under the willow tree.
But yet, he cannot even find the courage to move forward. To give you the smallest things you desire.
He grows sour. For once, he feels powerless. Inferior.
He can never give you what you want.
Recently he has grown colder to your touch. Shallow and incoherent with any simple notion.
You will try to reach for him, your pinkie grazing the side of his firm hand. He only tugs away, resisting your affection. You will plead to bathe him, massage the ache in his shoulder blades. He only denies your wishes to care for him.
Your paintings become more erratic than before, a sense of gloom in their glistening wake. A sheen of desolation hidden amongst the thick lines of paint. You have lost inspiration. His divinity and blue aura that was once captured by the bristles of your paintbrush are now fading into a melancholic art piece.
You are afraid you have lost him.
You two seem to get in an argument one night. It is after an awkward vent of your feelings to him in the library.
âI miss when you loved meâ, is what you confess.
Vergil shouts selfish comments, says he prefers to be alone. Says you bother him too much. Says that maybe marriage was the wrong decision. He does not mean these things. But you have taken them to heart.
You start to cry, the whites of your eyes now bloodshot. Hiccups erupting from your lips. Sobs that beg him to take all his words back.
He doesnât.
âFineâ you sniff, âI will let you be â.
A sickening feeling blooms in him when you leave, your bag tossed over your shoulder.
When you pass it is like no other.
He felt it burn through him. Regret. Guilt. Loneliness. He knew something had went wrong.
Your body had been found on the streets, bloodied, bones shattered, arms disfigured. You had tried to put up a fight, that was for sure. It made him sick. He felt numb. Practically in denial of your death. Of your murder.
He could have saved youâŚ..he promised you. You have given him everything he wanted, and yet thisâŚhe couldnât even prevent this from happening.
Your face, swollen and bruised. Eyes blackened and cheeks cut open. Your soft lips, never to kiss his again.
If only he hadnât been selfish, you wouldnât have went out that night. You could have been here, with him, embracing him. Telling him that you loved him for all eternity.
The wedding band was still firm on your finger, your blood thick over Vergilâs name engraved on the ring.
Vergil kisses you one last time before your body is sealed in itâs coffin, a wooden box that shall keep your remains concealed forever. Your lips are so cold now, lifeless and chapped. Lacking itâs warmth and tenderness that you usually carried.
A part of him regrets kissing you. Your frozen face and your icy touch will now haunt him for the rest of his life. Terrorize his dreams.
Just a couple of months ago you two had stood in the old Victorian chapel, the stained glass casting an array of colors over your gentle smile. The beginning.
The last image of you is an image of death. They are lowering you into the Earth, shovels tossing dirt over the wooden case. An end.
Dante has offered that Vergil should stay with him, get away from the home that he once shared with you. His brother figured it would be best, a solution to rid him of his sorrow. The elder refuses every time.
Your presenceâŚyour glow. It still is fresh, and alive in the walls of the home. He must stay. He must stay for you. Sometimes he swears he hears your voice in the halls, your sweet tone making him panic and get up, just to realize he is only imagining it. He is only imagining that you are not gone. That you are still here with him.
He still visits your grave, as often as he possibly can. In the meantime, he tends to the tree he has planted in your garden, a magnolia tree that is fresh and desperately trying to grow. He wished he could show you.
There had been one night where he had a nightmare, images of you screaming and crying his name, pleading for help as you died, crimson leaking from your lips as you sputter blood.
âVergil! Help me!â.
He wakes in a cold sweat, so terrified that it genuinely shakes him. This vision had stayed clinging in his dreams ever since your death, never sparing him mercy.
On nights like this, he rushes to enter your art room, sitting amongst your wooden work chair, now too restless and shaken to attempt to sleep again. He knew if he tried, he would only be met with the image of your lifeless form again.
He sits there, your painting of him underneath the willow tree sitting proudly amongst your art desk. You had told him it was your most prized possession. Your best work. He thought so too.
He cries your name under the glum luminescence of the moon.
He decides this time, he will paint you. No matter how bad he does it, your beauty will always bleed through.
WARNINGS: NOT PROOF-READ, alcohol consumption, stalking, obsession (obsessive behavior on vergil's part), possessiveness, acts of ownership, mentally unwell reader, submissive reader, sensual themes, smut (lightly written), murder, violence, small blood-play.
WC: 7,481
DESCRIPTION: To save yourself, you make a deal with a demon.
11:35 PM ; DECEMBER 31st â THE DEAL.
Eyes are watching you, sparing simple glimpses through each passing second. Irises and pupils that become distorted and ugly as they peek through wine glasses, the color glossing over with a crimson hue. The vision feels judgmental, full of ridicule. Too many people huddled close, speaking in hiccupping boasts. Everybody here wishes you gone. They're all watching, smiling. Smiling at your failure.
The air is pungent, reeking of sweat, and of rotten musk. People are slicked over, kneeling over the bar's countertop, sloppy lips molding over one another while with a lazy smile. You swear you feel the graze of an unwanted hand across your back, but you had mistaken it for a waft of air coming from the entrance doors. The breeze comes just as quick as it goes, you wish you could have drifted with it.
How embarrassing of you to slouch forward on the marble countertop, and draw nervous breaths of panic, thinking that someone had fancied you of all people tonight. How wrong you were. Thatâs how you had always been, for no one cared for your presence. Just another breath that got lost amongst the others. Another squeak that was overpowered by a shriek.
You want to scream, want to shout, âstop it all!â, but then you catch yourself with a quick breath, and it all comes crashing back down on you. The eyes are looking, yes. But at you? Never. Maybe it was the thick atmosphere, the bustling bodies, the cheers of the new year arriving upon the hour. Maybe it was this that made you feel so anxious, so afraid. So alone. No one by your side.
No one was holding you at this hour, kissing you happily until you saw the clock strike 12. Is that what this is about? You couldnât understand. You were not blissfully drunk, rather pitifully intoxicated, your mind foggy and your conscious drawing blanks. Your senses were locked, your emotions deepened from the shots of vodka.
Is that what you wish for? For someone to long for you? Arrive right at this location, this exact bar, in hopes to see you?
Why did you come here? How pathetic you were, standing here isolated, swallowing glasses of alcoholic beverages that you found rather disgusting, and all for the hopes it would ease some cracking that formulated inside you. To dull the sharp edges of your ache, your sorrow. It did rather the opposite, only tended to the embers that now rose to flames deep within your soul.
âI must goâ, you whispered solemnly, but you did not know who you were whispering it to. Mostly yourself. A woman gives you a strange glance as she hears you mumble to yourself, thinking you're completely hysterical.
I must go, I must go, I must go. You did not need to leave, you only wanted to. Maybe it would have been better if you hadn't, but stubbornness is a passion, and you were quite stubborn.
Your movement is quick, unnoticed when you escape away from the public and into the darkness. The atmosphere is light now, fresh, natural as you embrace the cool night. The air is still damp from the rain that soaked the Earth a few minutes ago, but you donât mind the puddles that soak into your pants as you hustle through them. You would rather thank the chilling water that grows slick upon your calves, the sensation of it easing your heated skin. You prayed it would sober you up, save you from this spinning world of madness.
It's much better to feel this, you think as your drunken state leads you stumbling into an alleyway. Much better to be away, in the darkness, where you belong. Sheltered, and untouched.
You stumble once more and swallow up a whimper as you feel a twist in your ankle, your shaking hands reaching forward to grip sturdily on the brick wall. Your nails flick against the rough surface, growing tarnished with every daring step forward. You were shocked you hadn't fallen yet, but the sprain in your ankle only mocks you, tells you âjust waitâ.
This night, right now, you were to go home.
Had you known any better, you would have prevented a thickening curse that looped into your life just brief moments from now. But instead of caring about your future, you carelessly dawned on the past. Letting a drunken wail tumble down your lips and echo amongst the abyss of the alleyway, not a shroud of light in the distance.
Where do I go? Do I go home? Who will take me home?
Another stumble. You sniffle.
Where are my keys? I canât see, my eyes hurt. My head aches.
Thereâs still no light to be seen. Snot bubbles in the blacks of your nostrils, pooling forward.
I shouldnât have drank. I'm so stupid. Please help, someone help me.
There is a sound of hissing.
âYesâ, you sigh, voice hoarse and groggy. You presume it must be the sound of a car, albeit the sound of a rattling engine that has just been powered to life. To you, it must be a sign you're near a street. You will ask someone to give you a ride, take you away from this area of mental wreckage, and bring you home. Home? You shake yourself for a moment, brushing the confusion away as you keep pushing your legs, turning a sharp corner and searching the best you can for a gateway of exit.
What you find though, is not a chance of escape. It is a street, indeed, but there is no one in sight, no voices to be found, not even the guttural hiss that you swore was an engine. Nothing. Only the copper scent that permeates the air. It is too dark, and too close to midnight for you to make out any colors or hues, only shades and glimmering objects underneath the moonlight.
There, laying upon the gravel, a puddle is slick amongst the road, soaking into the indents of the asphalt. Just like the other rain puddles, you thought the same as this, but as you near it, one thing only becomes clear. The scent. The puddle. The moonlight. The darkness. The hissing. The street.
It is clear now, it is clear. It is the scent of death. Slick upon the road in front of you lay a fresh pool of blood, not yet yielding the hue of brown, rather, crimson. It was new. A new murder. The body is limp, a man that had streamers once grasped firmly in his palm, you could tell as you knelt to examine him. He was most likely late to a new year's party, but now he will be late to any other event in life. His life was cut- taken by the grasp of death.
Your mouth felt dry, your tongue tasted nothing but sour.
Across his bloodied shirt, skin is parted, flesh jarred open like cutting a piece of paper apart with scissors. His laceration is deep, and his organs are no longer holding, being that someone- something has slashed him so thoroughly. His face is colorless, pale, solemn. He was young, he could have had a purpose.
Your heart- you think it has stopped. You take one last look at his lifeless palm, streamers still spread across it, before rising and daringly twisting on your heel, heaving a dry lump down your throat with a solid gulp.
It is only then that you understand, you should have been home. Shouldnât have gone out. Shouldnât have been here.
You knew you had done wrong by turning on this street, but the audacity you had to try and run. No one, especially the drunken likes of you, can escape an inhumanly being. But you are stubborn, and you are pitiable. You are by no means an athlete. You are by no means an agile contortionist. You are by no means an intelligent and stable specimen. Only fragile, and weak. Ready to be shattered, like glass.
You are limping with your sprained ankle, and your breaths are erratic as you hear it snarling from the skies above, the hissing- the ecstatic and primal bloodthirst in its howls becoming known as it leaps from the rooftops, crawling down the brick of the buildings and knocking down street signs in its treacherous wake.
You do not last; you had expected this much.
You are taken down by one powerful blow from its elongated arm, sharp like a blade, and as red as the blood you had seen on the street. The creature bounces thematically, so quick to pounce whenever it wishes, its speed and agility making you tremble. Its skin is like armor, rough and built like a shield, you are no match, you are just a human.
âOh godâ, you squeal, its blow not landing on a fatal position on your body, but rather, an area that makes the experience more tortuous, and grueling. Its blade-like hand has swooped through the air and slashed across your arm. You are quick to start bleeding, the wound so deep your body caves in, but you attempt to put pressure on the gushing area with your shaking palm, the salty sweat you leak only makes the ache worse. Your tarnished nails are now drowned with red.
âOh! Ohâ, you cry and cry, not capable of formulating words, but it's not like anyone would hear you now. The creature smells you, draws your scent in. It seems to play with you, revel in the way you squirm and sputter whimpers amongst the concrete. Smells your purity, your innocence. You smell amazing, and delicious, and delectable, and so much better than the man it had originally planned to feast upon. It has decided to play with its food.
You have stopped your attempts to scramble away, you are too weak. Still intoxicated, slightly sobered from the adrenaline that has pulsed within you. Your ankle is still sprained, and your feet are blistered beyond repair. Now, you leak your bloody essence from your arm, and you sob desperate tears, the whites of your eyes now a shade of pink.
Who am I, anyway?
You blink, the demon draws closer.
I shall die here, won't I?
It swipes its blade across your leg, the unharmed one. You scream dryly.
No one will save me...I am doomed.
The monster licks away at its weapon, hissing in glee at your taste.
No one. I have no one. No purpose. I will die here. Yes, I will die.
It brings its arm in the air for the final blow, and you watch without fear, seeing the glint it beholds underneath the moon's luminescence. You are ready. Even through sorrowful tears. You are ready to die here, so beautifully, under the moonlight.
But the blow never reaches you, and the sound of its howl echoes through the air, up and down the street, reaching every space, every crack, every pit of darkness. Its shrill is a sign of its defeat, and you watch in horror as a sword has pierced through its body of armor, tinted with red and black. With much haste, the weapon is sheathed, its slice sounding slick as it pulls out from the demon's flesh, letting the villainous thing fall flat on the street, fallen victim to the same act it made on the young man it killed prior.
You had been so ready, but now here you sit, staring ahead with a curiousness come about your dampened eyes, pupils dilating at the sight of a man. You make out his figure, his face, his weapon, even all through your blurred vision. You had made him out to be aged, his precision with his sword showing experience, but the smoothened, porcelain-like skin he had made him appear youthful. He is beautiful, stunning beyond reason. His majesty standing before you. âHow old may he have been?â you found yourself wondering, just as much as he found yourself to be ignorantly staring. A glint about his sharpened, light blue eyes. So light and mysterious that they could resemble gems.
âHow ungratefulâ the man speaks, his voice is so proper, and yet you make out a scowl from his words, his lips curving to produce a grimace. His jaw is solid, and sharp when he speaks, full lips soft and plump when they frown at the sight of you. You must have looked foolish, for he eyes you with judgement.
âNot even appreciative for the saving of your pitiful human lifeâ he speaks once more, airy, and soft, but it still pierces your soul. âWhat have you to give?â. His appearance is comparative to his speaking. Monotonous, and yet striking. Dressed in a blackened leather vest, blending into the sheen of his leather pants clad on him, sculpting him out like a shadow of the night. If it wasnât for his whitened hair, he would be unnoticed, one with the abyss.
You shift for a moment, stained fingers dismantling from your tainted flesh, letting the blood feel cool amongst your skin. You do not move as much as you wished, as once you move your feet to shuffle upward, you wince and pipe out a squeak of agony. You had forgotten the demon tore up your leg, too. You glance upward to catch his eye, to look at him properly, and catch a slight flare of his nostrils, like he had been smelling the air. His adamâs apple bobs in his throat, and you watch with a distrusting expression. He must have been disgusted by your injury, because the glint in his eye becomes something different. Something you cannot describe. You had mistaken it for being censorious.
âWhat-what can I give?â you stutter with your words, your speech impaired and jumbled from your prevalent fear, âI...I have nothing to give you. I do not know if I even have a homeâ you shiver under his predatory gaze, his entirety nothing short of intimidating. âBut I have called...I have no one, but I still called. I thought no one would come. But you came. You saved me-you...you-you saved my life. Thank you-â you cut yourself short, your cheeks flush and your breathing growing unstable from your rush of words.
You cannot tell now if you are still intoxicated, still swayed by the alcohol, you do not think you are. You think your emotions have just been bubbled up inside you for so long, that now when you speak to this mysterious savior, you only speak with earnest desire. The desire that has been trapped and hidden.
âI cannot give you anything but myself, I want a place to belong, please, please do not think me foolish. Please take me away, please, I beg of you- I have nowhere to go- no one-â
âCorrect- you are a fool. I save you, and you cannot give anything, but yourself. I will kill you now, strike you down, and what purpose will you have?â He tampers with you, watches the rise and fall of your chest, the quiver in your failing body. He has not tucked his sword away safely, for it stays sheathed, and pointed at you. He ushers it forward, letting the weapons tip just barely graze your breast, right above where your heart lay beating wildly in your chest.
âYou misunderstandâ, he moves a little closer, his coat ruffling along with the passing wind, âI do not save souls, I take them. What has your human life have, that will be of any importance to me?â.
âThat is why he must look so youngâ, your thoughts are so disorganized, âhe is a demon himself. Come here, to fight amongst the other demons for his prize as the winner. The kingâ.
He watches you so closely that all you wish for is to cower away, but how can you? You have no choice but to swallow and look up at him. The same desire in your eyes burning. The same glint in his eyes unreadable. You have yet to know his name as you speak so confidently:
âThen take mine! Take my soul! You have saved me. I will be yours, I swear it. Just take me-won't you? Please, it hurts so muchâ.
He does not smile, doesnât even scowl. He only stares, and stares, and stares, his nostrils flaring once more, and his adamâs apple shifting with his intake of a gulp.
You feel a sudden burning sensation rise amongst your arm, and you close your eyes amidst a wince, but when you open them again, he is gone. He hadnât agreed to your deal. He hadn't even expressed his distaste about it. The strange, and hauntingly gorgeous man became one with the night again, dissipating into the darkness.
There is a sound of sirens arriving in the distance. It is barely distinctive from the blaring pops and explosions that erupt in the sky, the colorful fireworks looming over the city, signaling the new year has arrived.
âWhat has your human life have, that will have any importance to me?â, his voice still echoes in your head.
You hadn't even learned his name.
You haven't even learned how important promises may be.
11:35 PM ; DECEMBER 31ST â DREAM OF A DEAL
To be a troubled man is one thing.
A man who has had too many tragic events to corrupt him. Make his sanity crumble into dust, to be nothing more than an unrecognizable memory. A man who witnesses everything he loves disintegrate into nothingness, fall past the webs of his fingers, even though he made sure to clench his gnarled hands into fists, to desperately keep close what little he had. He would take in everything as a young boy, see faults to be his own, taking in the blame and guilt, swallowing in the darkness.
To be a demon is another.
A demon who does not care for the strangled screams of the innocent, but rather, takes pleasure from their blood-curdling pleads of mercy. A demon who tastes the life it ends, tearing apart flesh by flesh, skin by skin, bone by bone. Consumes the soul, relishes in their utter terror, growls in pleasure.
Vergil awakes suddenly, sitting himself up on his bed, feeling the blankets crease and bundle into piles beside him as he pushes them off. He sighs and then grumbles, a wave of disappointment reaching him.
To be a demon, Vergil slaughters. To be a human, Vergil dreams. And on this particular night, Vergil has dreamt, and dreamt wonderfully.
The dream felt so real, so lucid, it swept over him like a sacred prophecy, like a vision that would soon come to him if he manifested it enough.
In it, he sat at a table brandished with a red satin cloth placed neatly on the surface, lavish items decorated in the center. The room heâs sitting in is too dim, too blurry and discreet from the low candlelight, but he knows, he knows there is someone sitting with him at the very end of the table.
Heâs drinking rich wine, and strangely, he is human in the moment. Smiling from the foggy words that the stranger speaks from the end of the table, his dimples deepening with every bashful grin. The only thing recognizable is how sweet their voice is. How pure. How loving.
âI shall........
I am........
Devoted.....
I am yours.....
take me......
my soul......
is yoursâ.
They keep chanting and chanting, certain words only memorable. He is so content with this dream, feeling so bound to the pleasant ownership of the mystery person he sits with, but suddenly the candles sway in their low light, and are wiped out within seconds, the sound of the strangers' screams echoing around him. The dream had advanced into a nightmare.
This, is when he wakes. Sweat is sticky against his temples, his heart is thumping hard against his ribcage. He usually does not let his composure slip over something so trivial, but dreams are different. Dreams can control you, paralyze you, show you your deepest fears. And Vergil's fear is to grow sensitive, grow close to something again, all to watch it die. And fall away from his hands over and over again.
The troubled half-demon slips away into the night, far from devil may cry. He roams the streets, gawks in misery at bustling restaurants filled with jubilant voices. He curses whatever presence to make him feel so weak, to make him feel so unnerved that he must find a way to escape his emotions.
He is miserable as much as he is restless, clutching his precious Yamato in his firm palm, turning corner by corner, slaying creature by creature to occupy his time, and smelling scent by scent. The scent of sweat from the cooped-up bars, smelling the soil after it ripened from the fresh rain, smelling chemicals after another civilian sets off fireworks in honor of the upcoming new year. Oh, how he despised such human holidays.
He turns yet another corner, and something piques his interest. Yet another smell to devour, and not from the aroma of fresh bread, or a floral plant, but the richness of blood. It is so powerful that he cannot contain himself, the demon within him begging him to get just a taste. It is nothing heâs ever come across. He gets closer and closer, and then he hears it.
âOh! Oh!â
It is a mere mistake for his arrival in this area. He only intended to brush some weights off his shoulders, help his thumping heart soften until he felt numb and devoid of human sensation.
Although, the voice he hears, the voice that is crying. It is pure. It is sweet. It is so familiar. It is the voice from his dream. It is you.
It is a mere mistake for him to be here, and yet, when he sees you wince and squirm, to see you crawl and bleed along the street, so frail and abused, he feels infuriated.
He draws out his Yamato, lurches it forward until it has made good use, its blade piercing the âFuryâ in front of him. The demon that dares to touch the stranger of his dream cries and crashes. He is finally able to see you properly.
Your weak eyes tremble so softly, glistening and wet with human tears. His heart thumps faster.
âWhat have you to give?â . He only meant to tease you. He doesnât understand why he hasnât left yet.
Your blood smells divine. Your tears, he yearns to lick away with his warm tongue. He drinks it in, trying to deny urges.
âThen take me! Take my soul!â. He only meant to tease you. He doesnât understand why he didnât take you away that night, claim you, make his dream become reality.
Your voice. Your blood. Your soul.
He hadn't even learned your name.
He hadn't even learned that an interest can blossom into obsession.
9:30 PM ; MARCH 31ST â A REUNION
Months are brushed by with time, events going faster than it usually does. That incident, that specific night, it stayed with you, lingering in your memories. It was just until recently that you finally healed, your thick lacerations that once bled and bled, and lifted your skin with an unpleasant swell, have finally softened. The skin has finally connected, now a lighter shade and smoother compared to the rest of your body. Inches of imperfection that mock you.
Sometimes it all came back to you, the bar, the people, the alley, the shadows, the street, the monster, the man. When you thought back to it, it was practically unbelievable, you had almost considered it a part of your drunken imagination, until your eyes connected with your abused skin. It was real, that was true. Everything you saidâthat was true as well.
EverythingâŚ.you wished it had not been true. Maybe it would have been better if the man had ended you. Point his sword a little further into your chest, impale you so gracefully like he had the other creature.
The blue, crystalline eyes that glimmered like water, but held such a roguish stare. He had been a demon himself, you knew that much. A demon disguised as a beautiful god.
You would go out on certain days, the once chilly air molding into a choking humidity, one that is heavy and warm in the spring. The crowds would soon get thicker than before in the streets, people hand in hand, side by side. You would ignore them, walk to destinations with a purposeful stride, all until you caught a glimmer hidden amongst the sweaty crowds.
That blue shade. That white hair. That blackened vest. That unblemished skin. That stare. It was only until you blinked your eyes in confusion, just to notice it was gone. He was gone.
âDo not worry so muchâ you would speak to yourself, into the depths of your head, âyou are only anxious. He is gone now. He is gone foreverâ. You were still innocent till this point, still youthful and naĂŻve. You would soon learn that your consciousness is a powerful thing, but only through a life of corruption. Through lessons of toil.
Your shoes drag up the weathered steps, its beaten surface feeling so dull under your body. You remember walking up these apartment stairs that night, seeing how something can be so challenged over time. To become so walked over, and used, all until it is nothing but dirt and dust.
You cried as you sat on them, as you finally came to recognize where you belong. What your âhomeâ seemed to be. A place that is sorrowful, empty, and cruel, cast away into the pitiful parts of the city.
Your feet push up the final step, your fingers fumbling over uncertain objects in your bag, your eyebrows creasing and wrinkles molding onto your face as a frustrated expression is shown.
You mumble words of impatience, âfuckâ, and âwhere is itâ tumbling past your lips with a huff, all until you finally catch hold of the thing youâve been desperately searching for, lifting the jingling keys to connect into the slot on your apartment door.
When it is opened, you shuffle yourself inside, feeling worn and tattered from hours of work, tossing your bag aside until it collides with the wooden floorboards.
A glow is spread across the room, presumably from your oil lamp, which you took much caution in making sure was never lit when you were out. You creep on your feet, staying nimble on your toes as you turn a corner, your vision taking hold of what waits in the living room.
The oil lamp is heated, its light flickering playfully, dancing inside the glass. You feel yourself melting, as it feels so warm in here, you swear the room will just enclose any second, swallow your existence. You are right about one thing, but oblivious to the other. Oblivious to the lounge chair that sits adjacent to the golden light, a figure sitting coolly upon it. Leather-clad legs, that are long and graceful, sit neatly crossed. Like a king sitting on his rightful throne. His weapon placed along the expanse of his lean thighs, his gloved hands gripping over it so hard you saw his knuckles turn white.
âTook you quite a while, donât you think?â, his tone is soft, smooth and devoid of emotion, as if him being here was perfectly normal. âWhy donât you sit?â, the way he says it does not sound like a suggestion, but rather, a demand.
The man does not turn an inch to face you, no movement in his posture, or disfigurement in his poise. He is regal, he is dominant, and he is waiting. Waiting for you to seat yourself beside him, in which, you do not spare a second to do so. His grip on his sword becomes tighter, and his lips purse as you pass him.
You do not ask him why he is here, and why would you need to? He is much more powerful than anyone else is. You watch him carefully as you lower yourself down amongst the other chair, your hands clasping into an anxious fist, your palms suddenly growing clammy. You would have never expected to meet him again.
âThe dealâ he starts off, his eyes now meeting yours, pupils blown enough to show you your own tormented reflection, âI have agreed to it. Your soul-â
âI did not mean itâ, you are quick to interrupt him, trying to make your tone assertive and brave. You are only the opposite, as your voice sounds meek and hoarse the moment it slips off your quivering tongue. That is your first mistake. To try him. To deny a half-demon.
âWhat I said was a mistake....â you are lying through your teeth, âI am sorry for troubling you, but Iâve decided that my life is much better-â
You yelp suddenly as his hand shifts off his weapon and to the arm of your chair, dragging it forward so that you're closer, his lengthy fingers gripping so roughly on the material you think it will break the seams.
âYour life was never yours the moment you promised yourself to meâ he speaks with a snarl, words coming out in an aggravated hiss, almost seeming offended. âYou dare deny me, after I saved your life?â. He leans in, his lips folding into his teeth so he can growl at you, to come off as threatening, to tell you there is no other choice.
âYou had told me that my life was not important to youâ you whispered in a feeble voice, glancing at him through the webs of your eyelashes, fingers still molded into one another and shaking with such a capacity you thought you would shatter. âI do not even know your nameâ.
He gazes at you for a few mere seconds, seconds that feel impossibly long under the authority of his still eyes. He sits up, adjusting himself away from you, the palm that was clutched on your chair now nimbly easing itself off and back to his body. He now settles his interest on the wall of the room, you take it that he doesnât wish to see your pathetic face trembling under him.
âIt is Vergil. My nameâ, he states, matter-of-factly, his form still glistening under the light as it waxes and wanes, casting indistinguishable shadows along the walls. He holds his composure well, head held high with determination, and lack of regret.
âVergilâ. You repeat his name, over and over in your head, as if itâs a mantra. âVergil...â, you say it aloud this time, curiosity tinted in your sweet voice. You watch him, waiting for a sudden sneer, but he only shudders from your silken tone, as if he hungered to hear you say it. âMy name is-â
âI know who you are, more than I care to admitâ, he quite enjoyed interrupting your sentences, you dared not to bark back. You feared he would kill you if you did so.
âI have known you for a very long timeâ he huffs, voice thick now and heated âyou have nowhere to run. You foolish thing. It is better just to listenâ.
And what did you have that could possibly make you say no? A future, filled with endless experiences? A career, one that pays well and never puts a single callous along your frail hands? A family, something you can hold on to, rely on when you need it? Happiness, tranquility, security in yourself? These things did not exist. You had nothing, truly, and that is why you had offered yourself to him that night.
If not anything, your soul had no purpose. If not anything, it wouldnât hurt to try with him.
âO-okayâ you are suddenly stuttering on your own words; mouth unsteady with every syllable spoken, throat dry. You had not realized you were crying. Vergil finally turned to watch you; his emotions unreadable.
âThe deal, letâs do itâ.
You have learned his name.
You have learned how powerful promises can be.
The deal had been made, stamped by your own, sobbing words.
MONTH OF JANUARY â A STALKING PRESENCE
Vergil takes your words harder than the blow of any weapon. Your scent, your quivers, your voice, your promise. It visits him in his dreams, so much that he refuses even a second to close his eyes. It is all familiar, every night, any occurrence. The moment he drifts away, he is met with the red satin laid on the wooden table, the candelabra in the center, a dim light glowing on the apples of your cheeks. The pure smile that creases up on your lips. Then, your words of devotion.
You? Of all people? How dare you. You have ruined him.
He spends weeks in a fit of utter rage, in denial of the lust he feels for you. The want, no, the need to have you by his side.
Then, he gives in, deciding it will all just stop if he listens, and do what needs to be done to restore his sanity. Now he must have you. Make his dream come true.
You are naĂŻve, and innocent. So stupid to not even catch him standing beside your bed, in your own home. His large, calloused hands would reach to rub gentle caresses into your resting face at night, watching your lips part to let out breathless sighs as you swayed toward him. Drool would draw slick against the corners of your mouth, bubbling on your pruned bottom lip, and Vergil would conceitedly swipe over it with his thumb, popping it in his mouth delicately to taste you. His tongue was greedy as it lapped over his thumb, he had to chain himself down, force himself not to kiss you.
âHush, little oneâ, he would coo softly in your ear whenever you would whine from a nightmare, âit won't be long before I take youâ.
He did this for months, watched you carefully, crept beside you like he was your own shadow. Made sure to fade into the crowds when you grew too close. He did well to figure you out, to deny his obvious feelings until he could not contain himself anymore.
Your neighborhood had been notorious for demon cases, a dangerous residence. He could not let this be. To imagine your life taken by some measly creature? To bury their teeth in your flesh? His flesh. Your body? His body. Your soul? His soul.
He had obliterated every object of evil that could possibly even lay a finger on you, even went out of his way to grab stalking humans that eyed you for too long, dragging them into alleys, his hands locking onto their neck and twisting just enough to hear a snap.
He has lived this cruel, tormenting life for too long. If this is the way he must have something, he will not spare any moment to have it. How sweetly you gave yourself up to him. Now, he will visit you. Take you. Own you, and never let you go. You would comply, wouldnât you? You had told him yourself, you had nothing.
Your weakness made him tremble, made him thirst just as he did when he was young, 19 all over again.
He is selfish, he knows this. He does not care. Power is the only thing he knows, and power will get you to succumb to his touch, let him take you over and over, just as he did in all his wicked dreams.
You need him.
You need him.
You need him
You...need him?
5:00 PM ; APRIL 10TH â THE CLAIMING
He has taken you far away from the public, through wooded forests, and up into the billowing mountains, a manor he has promised you. A life that will no longer battle with you, only a future that is peaceful, as long as you promise to be his.
You have figured out that he only is kind when you obey his orders, and speak to him in a submissive, soft manner. It would be best not to challenge him, for your own good.
He does not speak to you when you travel to the manor, and you make no attempt to ask him anything, being that your jaw is locked, and your head is sweltering with panicked assumptions whenever you are near him.
He is tall, and looms over you like a giant when he stands. His legs are long, and he takes elegant, yet long strides. Tells you âmake haste!â whenever you fall behind as he guides you through your new home, in which you rush up beside him shyly, gazing up at his face for guidance. He takes great notice of this, and grips his Yamato a little tighter, just as he always does whenever you grow too close. Maybe he found you annoying? Wanted to rip you to shreds with his beloved sword?
You did not know he was only simply holding himself back.
âComeâ he beckons you over to him with his hand spread open, waiting patiently for you to take it. âI feel rather hungry, let us eatâ, he suggests, and you oblige like the obedient soul that you must be for him. You place your smaller hand in his, watching as his fingers wrap over your knuckles greedily, his hand interlocking yours into his. Like a butterfly that has been trapped in the silken web of a black spider.
He only smiles as you shake in his possessive grip. âFeeling shy?â, he teases, but you shake your head in denial, which makes him only grin further, the dimples on his cheeks becoming pronounced. âGood, you mustn't be. Not with meâ.
He takes you through the doors of the one room you have not seen yet, which is the dining room, and is wide and spacious just as much as the other parts of the house are. This is much more lavish than your apartment back in the desolate city.
The floors are wooden, and the walls are colored with a beautiful crimson red, which is a wonderful comparison to the red silk that is spread along the oaken table that sits strangely in the center, small candles sitting along the edge of the top, leaving the center depressingly empty. There are no chairs in sight, and you turn to question Vergil, only to catch him boldly staring back, his pupils enlarged and full just the same as the night he came to confess to you.
âWonât you...â he licks his lips as he keeps his eyes trained on you, hand still squeezing onto yours firmly, âtake a seat?â.
âBut there is nowhere to sitâ, you interject, batting your eyelashes in worry, gulping down a lump of uneasiness. He chuckles lowly in response, his reaction being so irregular that it terrified you.
âWell then, shall I help you?â he spoke to you, leaning down to murmur in your ear, biting gently down on the flesh of your earlobe. âYesâ, you squeak, and he guides you toward the table, pushing you down until you lay sprawled on top of the red satin, his gripping palm letting go of yours finally so he could peel off his long black coat. His arms now remain bare, muscles protruding as he grips your ankles and yanks you closer to him, casting your leg over his shoulder, your toes crazing over his leather vest.
âYou understand, donât you?â he has ripped your clothes off, one by one, impatient and selfish, a salacious side you have never seen from him before. âI like to claim what is mineâ.
And claim he does, as he kisses marks into your precious skin, his teeth grazing over your body until his softness blends into primal, and the kisses transform into passionate bites. There are bruises along your neck, thick along your collarbone, sucked into your breasts, placed sloppily along the stretch of your stomach, and swollen along the flesh of your thighs. His saliva so slick against you, seeping into your pores, becoming one with your body.
âPleaseâ you cry out a plead, fingers shaking and reaching out to grab him, you do not know what you are begging for. He just licks away your tears, tastes the saltiness of your sweat, swallows your lips into his, his nose brushing along your cheek as he finally gets to feel you against him, to taste your consent.
âVergilâ you whine breathlessly when he parts, his spit slobbered all over your bottom lip and down to your chin, his consuming kiss making your lips bright and puffy, all from his desire. He is gawking at you, eyes drinking you in, making sure he will ingrain this image of you in his head. It is that expression that you could never understand. Now you know, it is the expression of lust, of yearning desire.
âTell meâ his voice is akin to a growl, like a wolf that is ready to swallow its prey, âtell me that you are mine. That you belong to me. That your soul is mine to keep foreverâ.
The wax of the white candles dribble from the wick, become dry and hard along the oak of the table, they dance and shake in a ritualistic essence, wickedly excited when Vergil takes you, fills you up, chuckles when you grip shyly on his forearms with your shaking hands.
âTell meâ he coaxes out a throaty groan, rocking his hips into you, hip bones colliding with the flesh of your thighs. A sickening heat rushes to your face, makes you dizzy and apprehensive. You shelter your flustering face, whimpering from sudden pleasure.
âDo not hide your face from meâ, he leans down, connecting his chest with yours, perfectly bottoming out within you, like two puzzle pieces that needed each other. He grabs the hand that you hide your face with between his pearly white teeth, canines biting down hard enough to draw blood in the center of your soft palm, your red liquid pooling on his lips, he only fucks you harder.
âI shall only be yours!â you cry out, palm feeling heavy under his tongue, the warm muscle lapping away at you as if your taste is divine.
âI am devoted to you!â he grunts at your words like a madman.
âI am yours, you can take meâ he takes your fingers into his mouth, thrusts perfectly articulated, breath heavy. Candles still dancing with pride.
âMy soul, is yoursâ.
He finishes, staking his claim.
MONTHS LATER â FINAL CONFESSION
Forks and knives collide and clash against porcelain plates, the light is dim, the dining room a sacred place for you and your husband. It is the evening that you two sit for dinner, Vergil keeping himself trained on you with a possessive glare.
You are tipsy from the wine he has served you, hiccupping from the heat that bubbles up inside your esophagus. A tingling aftertaste sweet on your tongue, you swallow, it only enhances. Your hands find themselves under the table, an index finger tracing the scar he impeded on your palm. A scar formulated from a rough love-making months ago, it is stunning compared to the ones on your arm and leg.
âDo you rememberâŚâ you start, soft-spoken, vision hazy and the surroundings seeming opaque, âdo you remember when you saved me that night?â.
He smirks, seeing your question more as a challenge. His nails trace over the condensation on his glass, feeling the water topple along his skin and down to the leather of his glove.
âIn our garden? Stopping you from falling in the rose bushes?â
You shake your head. He slicks back his white hair with an intrigued look on his face.
âThe library, when I cast you aside before those books fell on you?â
You try to interject, he doesnât let you. Rather, he smiles nonchalantly, a hint of jubilance in his tone.
âOn our walk in the forest, when I slayed those wild animals who attempted to bite you?â
âThat night Vergil, when we first metâ.
He has stopped his glass mid air, lets it fall back on the table slowly, his attention still steady on you. You stop just the same, refusing to set a finger on your cutlery as you desperately await his answer.
âHow could I forget?â he seems confused, and almost irritated. He stands from his chair, stalks over to you, his elegance dignified beside the luminescence of the candlelight.
âI had promised you my soul. My everything. You have given me much more than I had ever expectedâ
âOnly what you deserveâ he whispers, fingers tracing over your shoulders. Tracing âmineâ over and over again.
âBut why?â you choke, biting away at your swollen lips as you fluster at his lips pressing chaste pecks along your nape.
âWhy?â he repeats your question, breath ghosting against your skin, yet another kiss is placed, and you gasp as he bites down.
I have no idea if your requests are open, but if they are, could you do a smut fic of dom!ellie x fem! Reader. Where the reader left ellie in Jackson to go join the wolves, so now they're exs. At some point, they meet up again as ellie is out on patrol, and she kidnaps the reader and interrogates her on where baby's where abouts are? It would be great if it could be kinky as hell and maybe a threat of her gun on the reader, but whatever you are comfterble with, really! I love your work, you write ellie so well!.
DESCRIPTION: You leave a mark on Ellie after you leave Jackson to join the wolves. With her heart freshly broken, and her head full of rage, she makes a plan to search for you, and this time, she would get some answers.
A/N: I do take requests so no worries love! Your request is one of the best I've ever gotten omg, thank you so much for letting me write it. đ¤ I love writing darker Ellie fics, this is such a perfect concept. Hope you enjoy it, thank you again for your wonderful idea, and sorry for being so late! <3
It had all happened so fast. Too fast for you or the group you traveled with to comprehend. A massacre that had been displayed right before your eyes. The blaring sounds of pistols and other weaponry had echoed through the air, still ringing freshly in your ears. Ringing with the chime of demise.
You couldnât comprehend much, only utter fear and the rich course of adrenaline that had struck you. With a quick dash of your feet, you stumbled and fell underneath the coverage of a pile of rubbish, the towers of cardboard boxes and boards of wood had hidden you.
âThereâs a girl! Donât let her escape!â you can remember them yelling at you, their eyes so full of life and strive just moments before their tragic end.
You kneeled in the wet mud, your lips drawn in a thin line, and your eyebrows creased as you processed the situation. They were all dead. Every last one of them. Their bodies were limp amongst the wet ground, the rain downpouring from the sky had sloshed away the grime and thickening blood that coated their still figures. It was petrifying to see. Even more petrifying knowing you had been the last. You trembled at that brutal thought.
The last life to be taken.
âI know youâre out thereâ, the voice of a women draws closer, initiating a terrible fate for you. âCome out, you fucking coward!â, she sounds like a bloodthirsty fiend, waiting to brutally attack. Her voice held a wicked similarity, and it gave you gooseflesh. You didnât understand why.
Her steps are near as you stay crouched against thin patches of grass, your shaking eyes searching around you in hopes to find an escape plan. There had been multiple areas with a possible gateway to safety, but there were chances she would catch you before you reached them. Your feet would be too loud, and you would be in line of sight if you even thought of sneaking across the road.
So, with best interest, you eyed the deteriorating house to your left, examining the windows. The ones on the lower floor had been broken, glass shattered and littered across the desolate lawn.
Maybe, you could sneak through the wrecked windows and slip through the house toward the backyard. There was no guarantee in this matter though, and chances of the homicidal maniac catching you was high, but it was better than nothing. You would do what the rest of the WLF hadnât done. Run. Run for your life.
With a racing heart and a jagged breath arising from your throat, you positioned your feet. You gave it a couple of seconds, listening closely to the way your enemy pattered around in the wet street, trying best to predict when you should really make a run for it. You readied yourself, repeating prayers of hope in your brain.
Another step closer, and then another, and thenâŚyou bolted, the soles of your shoes becoming slick against the brackish mud-water, almost causing you to slip from your recklessness, but you caught yourself just in time. You were dashing toward the open windows, your feet accelerating you from a velocity you never imagined you could reach before, but it all made sense from your reaction, as you soon heard another pair of feet charging up from behind you. Pure panic had carried you.
âGet back here! Donât you fucking run!â, she curses for what feels like the hundredth time, showing sheâs finally caught you after desperately searching for you. Fortunately for you, youâve already taken grip of the rotting window ledge, jumping through the gap, and falling to your knees as you land inside. You brace yourself as you scramble to your feet, expecting the malicious women to jump inside with you, but instead, everything is quiet.
There is no cursing, no pistols blazing, and not even the slightest sound of feet shuffling. It was all too good to be true to think you had lost the girl, but you still credited yourself for successfully making it inside. It was almost comedic to assume you duped the one who annihilated every wolf on your patrol.
It all didnât matter anymore though. Here you were, and you were alive. What was important was finding a way out now, and far away from this battlefield of bloodshed.
Cautiously, you snuck through the collapsing house, your soft palms holding tightly onto the splintering walls as you watched your every corner, just waiting for something to grab you. Every creak and wail of the wooden floorboards sent a rupture of horror through you, and you paused in-between steps, swallowing your paranoia just for it to repeat once more.
âWhere did she go?â is what you were thinking with utter vexation. âDid she really just let me escape?â.
Every turn was another hall of swallowing darkness, and a putrid smell had lingered in the house, almost as if it was aged from all the water bubbling up in the ceiling. The house was a maze of terrors, and mother nature had taken its course with it. Vines were crawling against every crevice or surface, ripping apart the wallpaper. The once velvety couch that sat in the living room was now torn and tattered, its cushions soiled and veiled with dust.
It is sad to imagine what this house used to hold, what caused such a comforting place to become such a horrific landscape for you.
Light pooled into a room as you entered it, yet another broken window to crawl through. This time, it was one that could lead you to the back. Just the thought alone made your heart race, mostly from accomplishment. You crept closer, all your intimidating theories dissipating into nothingness as your eyes took view of the outside again.
But, freedom came just as quick as it left, being that two hands lurched from the darkness and scooped you up into its haunting embrace, whispering "Found you".
âQuietâ she mumbled into your ear; her breath hot against your skin. You shook like a leaf against her tight hold, feeling her draw bruises into your forearm as she made sure you had no chance to escape. âEasy,â you managed to squeak, wondering why she hadnât slit your throat yet.
âI told you to be quietâ she snarled once more, and just like that, a pulsing sensation rippled through you and to your neck, aching terribly until it became numb there. The light from the window cascaded into a hazy image, and the world around you soon faded to pitch black.
The sound of faint muttering is what wakes you, and your once sealed eyes flutter open, soaking in the atmosphere that lies around you. It is a bleak room, a couple of toolboxes flipped over in a corner, its supplies spilling out and rusting against the concrete ground. Itâs so grey and depressing, and youâve come to realize that this grim room is indeed a basement. The basement?
You search around desperately to find an answer as to why you were in here, or as to what happened. All you can fathom is the fact that you tried to escape, and you quickly got caught. But what else? You canât remember what happened after that. Only the deep ache that has swelled up on your nape remains, reminding you that someone else was here with you. Watching you.
You attempt to move, but to no avail. Gnarly knots of itching rope were bound around your frail wrists, as well as your ankles, and with every twist and squirm you initiated, the pain only became worse. You had been tied, and forced to sit upon an old, decrepit chair. You were practically trapped.
âYou awake?â a voice calls out to you questioningly, knocking you from your cocoon of shock. Your eyes turn to look in front of you, the once burning fury ignited in them faltered as the girl in front of you settled in your vision. A lump formed in your throat as you saw her standing there, the glint in her green eyes being oh-so-familiar.
She was a sight you had never imagined seeing again, but as you rationalize the situation, you think about your small observations prior. Her guttural shouts of fury, and her curses that rung through the air. How could you have not noticed sooner? You were ashamed for being so slow, or for not even catching a glimpse of who had slaughtered the whole WLF squad quicker.
âEllie? What the hell is going on?â you whimpered with much confusion, locking eyes with her sharp ones. In her right hand she clutched the grip of her hunting pistol, the sound of the steel rattling in her tightening palms.
It was questionable as to why your ex-lover was here, but even more questionable knowing she was responsible for tying you in this demented basement, making you vulnerable to any of her wicked plans she brewed. It was a few weeks back that you left her, and it was understandable for her rage, but you never could predict a situation like this.
She used to be so sweet and nurturing, with her gentle smile and her mellow words, but now she resembled everything but that. All the memories of her affection and tenderness were washed away as she stalked towards you, a prevalent frown on her face.
âWhat the hell is going on with me?â the auburn-haired girl scoffed, now right upon you with her knees flush against yours âyou gonna tell me what the hell is going on with you?â. She towered over your jittering form, watching you wiggle against the bound ropes with sneering amusement. Mostly from the acknowledgement that she held the power here.
Just minutes ago, you swore you had outdone her, but now here you sat, wrapped up and ensnared in her game of questionnaire. You understood it all now. She was here to seek answers as to why you left Jackson, and why you decided to join the wolves.
You are silent for mere seconds, feeling an unwelcoming mixture of stress and pain from the material that was turning your wrists raw. You opened your mouth before hesitantly closing it, not knowing how to tell Ellie the truth.
It was only until the cold barrel of a firearm pressed against the center of your forehead, causing you to start mumbling gibberish to your impatient ex-girlfriend. She only pressed further, the pressure of her gun slightly tilting your face back.
âI had no choice Ellie, they threatened meâ you gasped, almost incoherently, âI didnât have time to come back for you, it would cost my lifeâ. The gun doesnât leave your skin as the aggravated woman leans down to level her face with yours, her eyes slightly ajar and her eyebrows furrowed.
âBullshitâ she seems to not believe a word you say. âI swearâ you fight back, insisting with a guilty quiver on your lips. She twists the pistol against you, grounding it into your precious flesh and watching your pores leak sweat with every push. One wrong word, and you swore she would pull the trigger, no matter what significance you had.
âYouâre coming back with meâ you gulp at her words, shrinking underneath her alluring stare, âletâs just forget this ever fucking happened. You belong back at Jackson-â. She pauses briefly, finally removing the weapon from your temple. There is an aggravated patch of skin marked there, the lining of the barrel engraved into your face.
âYou belong with me, not those assholesâ she finally continues, her tone stern and speaking those last words with offense. She stands there in front of you, awaiting another response. You soak in her last words, your body flush and sore from your futile attempts to escape.
âI donât think I canâ you shake your head at her in disbelief, âI could get killed-â
âShut itâ the way her octave lowers fills you with apprehension, her expression molding into something you can only deem to be malevolent. Unsatisfied by your answer, she paces back and forth, her sight still locked on you. Her converse scrape against the concrete with every step, the sound of the rubber permeates through the dank room with each glide of friction.
âI-fuckâ her index finger is curling around the slope of the trigger, her tone proving how sheâs not taking your reaction well, âdonât you love me?â.
Why was she doing this? Standing here, asking you this? Hadnât she just provoked you with a firearm pressing into your head?
Youâre silent for yet another time, the ridiculousness of her question seeming too foolish to even respond to. Of course, you had loved her. The many nights you lay with the soldiers, you would think back to Jackson. The simple nights spent with her. It was shattering knowing innocent moments like that were eradicated and left in the past.
This is the issue though.
You would try to move on, but Ellie? Her measly act of being casual and composed was easy to break, especially when it came to things like this. She refused to forget, to move on. What a vengeful mindset she had.
âFuck itâ with a huff from her chest, she thrusted her leg forward, her shoe colliding with the rotten leg of the chair you sat on and kicking it off without issue. For a second, only a creak was heard, and then, you felt wind brush along your back as you toppled downward and onto the dirty ground. The wooden leg was dismantled and split in two as it lay beside your head.
You bellowed out a cry of agony from the sudden action, the swelling ache centered on your nape only enrichening. You took too long to answer, and this was your punishment. God forbid what she does next.
âWhy are you doing this? Just- please, just untie meâ she circles you as you sob, listening intently to every syllable you speak as she lowers on her knees next to your glistening face. The whites of your eyes now red and irritated, and your pupils blown.
She almost felt bad for interrogating you. To see your face so full of fear is heartbreaking, but she was infuriated. She was devout to you, loved you with everything she had. To wake up and see you gone was everything but merry, and it continued. For weeks. You deserved this.
âYour last chanceâ she mutters, a perk in her lips after she says it. You swallow hardly, âlast chance before what?â, and she shows you.
She arises from her crouched position to stand over your powerless form, her foot moving to shove in-between your sealed thighs.
âTell me the truthâ her shoe dips down provocatively, grinding circles into the seam where your cunt stays clothed. âYou missed me, didnât you? I bet you thought about me a lot, huh?â the lip of her converse is firm against your heat, pushing into you just enough for everything to burn into a teasing pleasure.
âI can make this easier for you if you just tell me-â
âJesus- fuck Ellie! Yes, yes. I missed you a lot-stop itâ your hands manage to squirm again as you whine, your raw flesh dissipating into numbness. Her prurient movements made you sensitive, and with every grind of friction her shoe gave, you felt your core vibrate a piercing pulse.
âAnd you regret going with those fucking wolves, right?â her voice is low as she talks, dragging a tongue across her lower lip as she taunts you. âI regret it!â you scream, thighs trembling as you tried best to squeeze against the unconsented torture Ellie was putting you through. âI regret leaving!â you repeat your words over and over, sighing shamelessly as you clench around nothing but burning heat for what feels like the hundredth time.
Forget the sense of rationality or composure now-Ellie had no problem in making you unravel from sensual acts, and how pretty you lay, thighs wrapped around her calve as you swallow her in.
It all became so embarrassingly arousing, the fear that seeped off you as your captor stands tall and concentrated, tempting you. Invigorating you. So wickedly close to grounding perfect circles into you all until she pulled away, a disgusted expression molding on her features.
Your head is lulled on the ground, grime smeared over the softness of your cheeks from your tossing and turning, and your chest heaving from your previous predicament. Was this truly her intention for capturing you? To weasel her way inside, make you melt like putty from her touch? A touch that you had been deprived of for a very long time? How agonizingly clever of her.
You canât observe much from your position, but you can sense her monitoring eyes, feeling how they rake over your weakened state. You hear a faint sound of shuffling in the corner, and of fabric colliding with the ground.
âYouâre gonna have to prove it to meâ Ellie mumbles, lowering herself down onto your lap, her two thighs straddling your motionless hips. Freshly discarded of her pants, she wiggles herself further up the curve of your chest, her inner thighs purchasing themselves just above your shoulders.
Youâve given up with your fighting, your ankles and wrists too beaten and bruised to endure yet another twist of your muscles. You were sore everywhere, and heated with desire.
âIf you donât mess this up, Iâll let you goâ. Her fingers move underneath her, slipping past the flesh of her inner thighs and toward the material of her beige-colored panties, hooking her index into it just enough for her to push the undergarment aside.
You can smell the sweat that is lingering on her skin, all from todayâs events. Her arousal rich in your senses as sheâs positioning herself over your lips, forcing you to submit to her.
âBut, if you doâ her voice is practically a groan as your lips brush against the silkiness of her clit, her juices already slick against your nose, âIâll have to fuck you upâ.
WARNINGS: NSFW, sexual themes(smut-with some story teehee), depictions of obsessive behavior, etc.
WC: 4k (sorry đ)
DESCRIPTION: After a long day of Ellie being hot on your back, you can't find it in you to sleep properly at night. Unfortunately, your quick "breath of fresh air" doesn't last, as she has you bent over the kitchen counter with salacious intention.
A/N: Thank you guys for taking the time to read my writing!!!!!! c: đ¤ Somebody had asked for more Obsessive Ellie so I figured I would try to whip something else up. I have a pet peeve for not adding any context/storyline, so it does take a little reading before anything happens. Also, I hope this smut is decent, I haven't wrote a thorough smut fic in a whileee so I hope this suffices. Anyways, much love, sorry for the long note. <3.
It had been such a beautiful day, one that was worth encapsulating. One that could be painted a million times over and over again, and its vision would never get old. The sky was a canvas right in front of you, splashed with its earthly tones of purple and pink, and its low horizon spilled right into it with orange and yellow. You had been sitting in the field of wheat as you watched it, ogling at clusters of clouds dancing in the center of the troposphere. You were sprawled out against the dampened soil, your legs and your arms tickled by the soft straws of wheat, it was nothing but perfect. Everything was perfect. You wanted to drink up every last second of it. The rich smell of the fields, the beautiful view, and the sound of serenity. All of it.
âHey! You okay out there?â, a sudden shout is heard from your house in the distance, and you peek your head up in response. Ellie is standing on the front porch, her arms crossed and her firm stance telling you that sheâs feeling impatient. You chuckle to yourself lightly at the view, your hand lurching forward to grip the handle of your flower basket. âYeah! Just a moment, Iâm heading back inside!â you yell back as you stand up from the Earth, quickly dusting the crumbs of dirt and muck off the material of your jeans. Ellie stands there silently as she observes your approaching presence, a wave of relief casting over her worried features
âOkay, wellâŚbe quick, I miss youâ, she then replies, and you almost want to laugh at her last demand, watching her fade away as she disappears back in the house. âMiss me? All I did was walk outside for a couple of minutesâ is what you wanted to say back, a defeated smile placed on your lips. Ellie was infamous for saying that to you anyways. âI miss youâ. A repeated phrase she took much pride in telling you. âI miss you. I miss you. I miss youâ, ever since you had moved onto this farm with Ellie. It seemed like she became more needy for your presence, and this was the one thing that confirmed it.
You follow after your lover inside, the old wooden door squeaking on its hinges as it shuts behind your form. The record player is spinning a selected vinyl in the back faintly, and you sway in amusement as you shuffle toward the dining room table, a grin plastered on your face. âYouâre playing my favorite albumâ, you say contently, placing your basket in the center of the table. You reach inside to bundle up a litter of brown stems, examining your collection.
Purple Lupine wildflowers. You had freshly picked them from the forest, their aroma resembling something delicate and floral, and their small petals smooth and harmless against the curve of your fingertips. You had once read somewhere that they were a symbolization of imagination, and happiness. In a way, they reminded you of Ellie. They were beautiful and full of life, and so was she.
âI knowâ your beloved hums in response, your peripheral catching sight of her standing in the kitchen. âWhatâd you get?â she asks as she watches you group together the array of purple in your gentle palms, a curious glint forming in the black of her pupils. âLupine flowers, they reminded me of youâ, you grab the empty vase that is sitting on the table and slip your wild âbouquetâ into it, not noticing the smug grin that forms onto Ellies face.
âWhyâs that?â another question is formulated from her lips, and you giggle to yourself, your hands cautiously lifting your glass of flowers before you turn to approach your girlfriend-who is now staring at you from the sink, her hands tightly gripping the edge of the marble. âItâs a secretâ, you tease as you place the vase amongst the cool surface of the countertop, your eyes shifting to connect with hers. Her eyebrows are furrowed, and her lips are curved upward enough to be considered a smirk. You love when sheâs like this. Lovingly irritated.
You reach forward to press your lips against her cheek, your arms snaring around her neck and resting atop her white t-shirt, feeling the strands of auburn hair that naturally sat along the slope of her nape. A new track on the vinyl is being spun, one thatâs romantic and swell, and you canât help but recognize the adoration that seeps off the woman in your arms. How she melts into your touch, or how sheâs too shy to admit she wants more than just a peck on her cheek.
Her smile is rich, and her eyes are squinted as the apples of her cheeks are lifted and tinted such a pretty rose. âYou took so longâ she breathes, and itâs just now that you notice her hands found themselves purchased atop the lining of your jeans, âI really did miss youâ. She squeezes the skin on your waist, her touch feeling more suggestive than it usually did. Her tone thick and wisped with desire.
âEllie, I was only gone for like- what? Thirty minutes?â, you giggle as you shake your head at her, trying to brush away the sensation of her fingers kneading into the flesh of your lower back, just above the swell of your rear. âMore like an hourâ, she corrects you, and you find yourself slipping out of Ellies hold before she tempts you with her hands more than she already had. Not now, you tell yourself. Not right now.
âI didnât realize, Iâm sorry, loveâ, your hands intertwine with hers, fingers interlocking into each other, âit wonât happen next time, okay?â.
With a roll of her eyes, all she does is nod sweetly, and with a tug of her hands against yours, she reels you back into the warmth of her body. You two sway to the music, laughs boisterous and sweet as your bodies cling to one another. Desire obvious but forcibly concealed as the dusk slips into darkness.
The night is tranquil as you slip away, shrugging Ellieâs hands off your figure with gentle nudges. Her face lay peacefully amongst her pillow, her slow inhales of air proving sheâs fallen asleep, and her nose scrunching slightly, initiating her blissful state. The clock on your nightstand reads â3:24 amâ, and you sigh as you sit against the edge of the bed, taking a few moments to think before you trail out of the room and into the dining room. You shiver while passing every open window, watching the wind disarray the cotton curtains, their sheets rising and falling with every blow.
Itâs practically intimidating as you move alongside the walls covered in memoirs of you and Ellie, her portraits of only you plastered against the white walls and- what you imagine- stay forever staring at you. You swallow it all in, remembering her sitting upon her wooden stool, a palette set in her hand as she paints you on a canvas for what feels like the millionth time. It was a good memory, but it was also one that distressed you.
âI missed youâ. Her words of desperation are flooding you as you enter the kitchen, and you reinvent the scene of you two dancing earlier in the evening. Her nails digging into the curve of your waistâŚher teeth just barely grazing against your neck. The way you both had just pretended to revel in the music, and most definitely not in the touch of one another.
Youâre trying to piece the puzzle together. The way she refuses to admire anything else but you. The way she gets whiny when you distance yourself for too long. The way she caresses your skin with a burning touch, like she wants to devour you any chance she gets. Its embarrassingly comedic, because at the end of it all, she acts humorous. A simple grin that sits on her features, acting cocky, as if sheâs nonchalant and none of it ever happened. As if she hasnât been hot on your back all day, and now you canât find it in you to sleep properly.
You take a quick breath before deeply exhaling, realizing this just might be your first moment in months where your lover is not wrapping around you. Might. It was silent, too silent. You had not recognized the sneaking footsteps that trailed behind yours.
âHeyâ, you hear Ellie speak up just behind you, her voice thick and groggy, âwhatâs wrong?â. You turn in a panic, watching her take slow steps toward you, her eyes squinted, and her lips pruned from her rest. Moonlight is cast through the glass of the windows, speckles of dust just barely noticeable within it as they float diligently in the air. The light is falling upon Ellie, like sheâs a star in the middle of a darkened night sky, and you find yourself more shocked from her angelic aura than her sudden presence.
âIâm sorryâŚdid I wake you?â you watch as she adjusts the sleeves of her shirt, rolling the white cuffs up the length of her arm, the inken design of ferns apparent on her fair skin. You want to admire her right now, her glow untouched even under the dim light of your shared home.
The way her reddish hair was disheveled and drawn over her face, her eyes resembling gems as they follow your every move with a glimmer. Her legs are bare, silken grey shorts clad against her lean thighs, and you swallow the lump in your throat to conceal the wanton urges you have, to feel her muscles contract against you. She is a flower. Appearing innocent while she draws closer to you-who is leaning tiredly against the kitchen counter. What a remarkable hoax.
âYeah, I noticed you left, everything alright?â, her arms are now crossed, and her head is tilted as she inquires you, a wondrous look imbedded on her face. You canât deny your selfish thoughts, the urge to shake her and tell her sheâs the primary reason you cannot rest. That youâre worried about her, and not just for the subtle hints earlier today. Instead, for her attachment to you every day, her hyper fixation on your every dotting thought or simple step. At the same time, why is it you who feels this way? Your selfish desire to feel her desecrate your skin. To completely ruin you.
Youâre breathless, wordless, speechless, and wrecked with lewd wishes. You stand there in front of her, mouth agape, and no words spoken, and she just stares, confused as to why you wonât respond.
âBabe-â
âRight nowâŚâ, you cut her sentence off short, having the audacity to finally utter a word, âEllie, I need you right now, pleaseâ. Your plea is everything but confident, your voice meek and shy while you beg, and almost immediately after saying it you begin to regret it. But there she stands, arms still crossed and her features still appearing shocked. Only this time, sheâs taken aback from your undeniable want, sexual urgency just dripping off you. Then there it is, a cocky chuckle sounding from her grinning lips.
âI thought you said you werenât in the mood earlierâ, she snickers at you, obviously smug and acting full of herself, her gaze peeling the clothes off your body by each passing second. âI know, but-â, you start, goosebumps imprinting themselves on your skin, âI just-â. You keep your mouth open to initiate a reasoning, barely processing what to say next before two hands clutch themselves onto your waist, pushing you back roughly until your back bumps against the counter.
She silences your silly panic as her lips seal around yours, molding into your face until her nose is bending into the flesh of your cheek. Sheâs kissing you like sheâs been starved, tongue whirling across your lips until her spit is mixed into yours, creating a lewd concoction off the tips of your tastebuds. Itâs delicious, and itâs absolutely vulgar the way she is ravaging your mouth, her canine snagging your bottom lip in between every moist smack, and then sheâs licking you up again, her lips not giving you any chance to escape.
âEllieâ you gasp, a dribble of translucent spittle webbing onto your lower chin. You had almost forgotten to breathe. She wantonly groans against you, shutting your pleading mouth once more as she moves her face against yours, catching angles where she can explore you the deepest. Her hands waste no time defiling you, rolling across your hips until they greet the skin of your ass, clutching you through the silk of your nightgown and holding the flesh there with a tenacious grip.
âEllie!â you pry your lips away from hers, but she chases after you again. âFuck, waitâ, your chest is heaving with every gasp of breath, âtoo muchâ. The tension is so thick that you think it will destroy you. Correction- you think Ellie will destroy you. Especially with the way her nails sank into you, fingers rolling circles into your rear, feeling her hands tease your nightgownâs hem. Sheâs so close to your ache, so close to feeling you.
âToo much?â, she bites her lip with a smile, reveling in the way your mouth quivers with every nearing touch to your panties, âyou said you needed meâ. What a mocking statement, one that was too true to deny. You had asked exactly that. âDo you not want this?â. She draws out the question, trying to act like she didnât know every miniscule detail. Trying to act confused as to what you wanted, but it was all to tease you. She knew if she had asked this, you would plead once more. And oh, you did. Shaking your head with glossed over eyes, so full of desperation and submission, no longer embarrassed to admit just how badly you yearned for the woman in front of you.
Now thoroughly bold and acting haughty, she goes for what sheâs been edging, bundling up the satin of your nightgown into the palms of her hands and lifting it upward until its drooping down onto the floor. Youâre braless and feeling bare in front of her keen fixation, your tits feeling cool against the sudden lack of coverage. You didnât know if you should feel blessed for the lack of the undergarment, or judged from the way Ellie was drinking you in.
âYouâre so beautifulâ she mumbles before her lips delve into the crook of your neck, teeth hooking into a chunk of skin just enough to suckle on it. Sheâs hasty as she feels you up, her nails pinching into your two nipples and twisting them in circular motions, admiring the way they began to swell underneath her tenderization. Now perked and stiff under the pads of her fingers, sheâs got you entranced in a spell of pleasure, one thatâs brutal and pinching as she encourages your sensitive skin to succumb to her tortuous will. You whimper with every drag of her tongue along your skin, purple and pink ovals blending into your skin as she leaves her possessive mark over your jawline, shoulders, and collarbone. A colorful trail of her obvious infatuation.
âTurn aroundâ, she demands, still kneading into the swell of your breasts, relishing in the way they sat perfectly in her palms. It was like your body was a temple created solely for her to worship. âBend over the counter. Nowâ. You waste no time, slightly scatterbrained from even something as simple as her touch tracing circles over your areola. Your head is spinning from all the blood that is rushing to your face, heat deluding your intelligence and leaving you ditzy. Ellie has cast a spell on you. She has made you deeply, and utterly intoxicated with her intimacy.
Your breasts expand onto the cool, marble surface, your burning skin striking a rich comparison in temperature, and you ever so slightly shiver. Ellie is quiet behind you, being slow and mysterious as she lowers to her knees. The muscles in her forearms enhancing as she holds onto your calves gingerly, moving upward toward your heat in such a tantalizing way that it seemed more punishing than pleasurable. She leaves damp, and salacious kisses along the skin of your inner thighs, her pecks echoing tones of lust, and with every nip, you feel yourself clench around thin air.
âSuch a teaseâ, you huff out, growing impatient to her little game of edging. Her hands are now looped around your legs and sinking into the front flesh of your thighs, stilling you with a squeeze. Veins protruding with every erotic grasp. âIâm a tease?â, you feel the way her face upturns against your skin, signaling her absolute enjoyment out of this. âYouâre the one whoâs been avoiding me all week, barely letting me touch youâ, suddenly, you feel her cup your sweltering mound, a soft gasp of shock heard from you. She only snorts as she observes the sticky heat that taints her hand. âWow, look at youâ, another firm pinch through the satin of your panties, confirming that you indeed had already been slick from her within minutes of kissing and teasing. You bite your lip from embarrassment, already predicting how sheâll use this against you later.
âLetâs take a better look at you, huh?â Ellie whispers, her pitch so low as she hooks her fingers around the hem of your underwear, letting them grow loose against your hips, just enough for her to peel it off your sopping cunt. Your lips delicately curved and throbbing as you daringly clench for what feels like the hundredth time, sucking in nothingness that you wish was her fingers. She kneads into your ass, clamping down and bringing the skin upward to really see you in full glory, the moonlight casting through the windows, enhancing the shine of your arousal.
âPretty girlâ she praises, barreling up a bubble of spit upon her tongue before she lets it descend onto the flesh of your labia. She watches it streak through the flaps, her DNA pooling downward and whirling around your weeping hole. âI want you to say sorryâ your lover requests, and you- who is anxiously anticipating the stretch of her fingers- donât seem to comprehend her orders too much. âHm?â, you mewl, ass wiggling against her iron-like grasp.
Suddenly, a stream of pain aches through you, running up your spine and burning into your sex. Ellie has slapped you, her hand whipping against your innocent clit. You let out a cry of agony, eyes watering from her harsh abuse on the area you find most sensitive. She repeats her words, this time, slower, and full of ridicule.
âTell me youâre sorry about earlierâ
âI-Iâm sorry- I didnât mean to avoid youâ, you sob out, elongated sniffles and pleads bouncing against the walls of the kitchen. Your eyes are blurred as you look across the counter, catching sight of a hazy purple. The Lupine wildflowers sitting so diligently inside the glass vase. Their symbolization meaning imagination. You could only imagine what Ellie could possibly do to you now. Who would have thought she would have you bent over at such an hour, begging continuously for her to please you into spirals of bliss?
âAtta girlâ, she replies, seeming satisfied whilst she props her thumb against the heap of your clit, drawing circles along it and smothering her spit against the velvety bud. You twist your hips from the attention, soft sighs lulling from your lips. Yes, you think to yourself. Yes.
She halts your rocking with a clamp on your thigh, but you could care less about the bruises she might leave, feeling absolutely intrigued as her middle and ring finger dance against your entrance. âYes- pleaseâ you coo as you feel her thumb flick against the thick flesh of your clit, drool swarming in the corners of your mouth as she finally eases her two lengthy fingers inside.
Everything else in this world holds no meaning. Its just you and Ellie right now, bodies finding ways to connect in the most sensual ways, and you never want it to end. She has you so prettily sprawled out against the countertop, eyes sealed shut as you swallow her fingers in, deeper and deeper, your dripping amusement happily slicking against her, all the way to the top of her knuckles.
Sheâs an expert at this, especially after her many nights seducing you. Her fingers search around within you, finding the swell amongst your fleshy warmth, and then curling her fingers upward so she hits the bumpy tissue. She fucks you divinely, her two fingers easing out just to greet that spot again with a quick thrust, repeating the action as she keeps her thumb sending sparks of friction along your abused clit.
The sounds are just so tastefully dirty, your soaking wet mess squelching with every pump of Ellies fingers inside you, and your angelic moans and breathy whines accommodating it. What a scene this was. Ellie fucking your sloppy cunt as your ass stays perked in the air for her, legs trembling with every blissful pump, and your hands desperately searching for something to hold on to as your loving girlfriend draws you closer and closer. Her loving praises are everlasting as you take her so obediently.
âOh-oh Ellieâ, you wish to tell her youâre close, that her curled fingers are doing a number on you, but all that slips past your lips is gibberish and sweet sounds of pleasure, your eyes rolled far back into your sockets. So much that all you can see is black and splashes of white with every clench around her.
Abruptly, you feel the warmth of her lips suction against your sex, her tongue drawing a long stripe through your lips and up to your bud, kissing your ache away as her momentum picks up, fingers going faster with eagerness to see you crumble.
You feel abused, so much that it feels like her pleasure is too much, and you canât find any humanity in you as everything is growing hazy and unclear. Your body feels like jelly with every lick of her tongue, so numb and lifeless as she does it over and over again, all until youâre heaving tremendously, stomach rising and falling with every sound you make.
Youâre coming undone just from her fingers, not noticing her laughing in utter amusement behind you. Not only did you soak her, but your orgasm spurted out and was coated all over the floor. Youâre dripping, release easing down the slope of your inner thighs as Ellie slips her fingers away from you.
Ellie Williams made you squirt. She really wouldnât let you forget about this, not when you gave her such a show.
âFuck, youâre messyâ, she teases, her clamping hold on your thigh releasing. She stands from her kneeling position swiftly, her arms going to wrap around you to keep your stance straightened. Her face is soiled, smeared with your essence, and her temples are glued down with beads of sweat. But yet, she is satisfied with your taste lingering on her tongue.
You still canât focus properly after that ripping state of euphoria that took over you, your naked body feeling cold and limp from your belovedâs torture. You only hum in annoyance, letting her cling to you like this, forgetting all about your worries that had corrupted you prior.
You focus your eyesight, vision still foggy from exhaustion. The sight of purple illuminated in front of you. The Lupine wildflowers. They remind you of her. It's always the same.
âLetâs go get you cleaned upâ, the auburn-haired girl whispers, lifting you from the counter, sweat from your torso slick over the top. She guides you toward the bathroom, passing all the memoirs of you two for a second time.
The portraits of you still plastered on the walls the same way they had been before. Watching Ellie hold on to you the way she had always wanted to. Staring.
PAIRING(S): Ellie Williams x Reader, Abby Anderson x Reader.
WARNINGS: Mentions injury(cuts), blood, and other wounded descriptions. Slight angst?- (Possibly). Do not read if these are sensitive topics for you!
DESCRIPTION: How they react to your injury/take care of your wounds.
ELLIE WILLIAMS ;
The more loving, and attentive in this situation.
She sees you standing in front of her with a bleeding arm and she's immediately panicking.
After her trauma with Riley and all her other friends dying from infection, the last thing she wishes to see is her lover in pain.
But, she is extremely attentive. Remember when she was taking care of Joel? She will be on her hands and knees for you during times like these.
She rushes to go grab some supplies, not really having an idea in mind, just the goal of getting you healed.
She's full of anxiety and almost forgets to breathe.
"Shit! Where the fuck is it?". She quite literally rummages through everything and makes a mess.
Nothing else matters but you in this situation.
She comes back out with some antibiotics to clean you up, and some sutures to stitch your injury.
"I found some stuff...it might not be the best but it'll get you stitched up".
Her hands are shaking, you have to reassure her that you're okay.
"I got you, I got you", she'll whisper as she cleans you up.
Truth is, Ellie is a little insecure.
When she takes care of her own cuts, she does them messily and doesn't care enough to fix them.
But for you? Oh no. She has to make sure she does this right for her angel. She's just a little anxious she can't do it, is all.
When she's finished doing the best she can, she bends down to softly kiss your bandaged skin.
"There ya go. All better babe".
She's whispering sweet nothings to you all night.
She's hot on you ALL WEEK. Will not stop glancing at you and feeling guilty, even though it wasn't her fault.
"Hey babe, you feeling better?".
She needs a lot of reassurance that you're recovering fine. She doesn't want to lose you after all. It's one of her biggest fears. Even if it's over one trivial cut.
Waits for you to fall asleep at the end of every night to make sure you're not in any pain or form of discomfort.
She's the type of girlfriend to trace her fingers over your scarred skin lovingly once it's healed.
"I think I stitched it pretty good, didn't I?". A cocky act for someone who was scared shitless about you being hurt.
She's an extremely caring girlfriend even though she likes to pretend she's not. With Ellie, you'll feel loved and worshipped every moment.
YOU'RE sitting on the couch with Ellie, the faint sound of the record player playing music in background. A faint sigh is heard from below you, one that sounds defeated and downcast.
"You okay?", you run your hands through Ellie's hair as she lays her head down softly in your lap, her face turned toward your stomach. She responds by reaching up and softly tracing her fingers along your wounded arm, feeling the texture of the cotton wrapped around your skin.
"I hate seeing you hurt like this", she grumbles, and you try your best to hold back a chuckle. She's been like this all week, clinging to you with a woeful tone. "I know", is all you can say, your fingers gingerly massaging her scalp, "and I love you".
You watch her melt into your touch, her lips curving into a soft smile. You can tell she tries to hide it. "I love you too babe". Only you can make her smile like this.
ABBY ANDERSON ;
The more experienced and intelligent in this situation.
Abby is definitely more knowledgeable when it comes to issues like this, she knows exactly what to do because of her father being a doctor.
The moment you're showing her your laceration, she's immediately seating you down someplace safe, telling you to wait a second while she grabs the medkit.
She's extremely calm, her face showing patience, but her eyes prevailing concern.
She doesn't panic you in this situation, quite the opposite. She holds her mature composure.
She soothes you and tells you everything is going to be okay, that she'll take care of you.
Her hands are large and soft against you as she's examining your body. Your face becomes flush as her warm palms caress your aching skin.
"Does this area hurt babe?" , Her keen attention does things to you.
She smiles up at you in-between stitching the cut, trying her best to ease you.
"Hey, hey, hey. Focus on me okay? I know it hurts baby, I'm almost done".
She cleans your wounds thoroughly and makes sure everything is disinfected and wrapped up professionally.
She questions you after everything is done, acting annoyed with her grumpy expression. She wants to know every miniscule detail.
Truth is, she's just extremely anxious as to how you even became hurt in the first place. She wants to find a way to prevent it happening again.
"Just...please be safe next time or else I'll have to go with you. Okay baby?".
She gives you that intimidating glare, one that warns you to be more cautious of your surroundings.
You promise it won't happen again.......but your answer doesn't suffice. Abby sticks to you like glue.
She checks up on you every day and helps aid you when it comes to changing the bandages.
"Stop it, give that to me", she quickly takes the bandages from your hand, "let me do that for you".
She's an experienced girlfriend and is set on a routine of taking care of you. When you're dating Abby, you'll feel like a spoiled princess.
YOU'RE currently in the bathroom, examining all the medical tools Abby has. Truth is, you're searching for something to replace your old bandages with since they became soiled and bloody. "Where are they?-" you ask yourself, but are soon stopped as your girlfriend enters.
"What are you doing?", Abby is propped up against the frame of the door, looking at you with a questioning expression. "I thought I told you to come to me when you needed help changing those. Here, let me handle it", she sits you down on the toilet seat as she goes to unwrap your gauze.
"Looks better already. It's healing quick sweetheart, I'm proud of you". Her smile is so sweet and warm as she looks down at you.
She bends down to kiss your forehead, and you're smiling like an idiot as you feel her soft lips press against your temple.
DESCRIPTION: After you disappear from Jackson due to a traumatizing event, you return back. Ellie's waiting for you just as she always is, but this time, it's different.
A/N: I apologize if it seems rushed! I think I went a little too fast at the end. Much love đ¤
âYou could have been killed, you understand?â, your breaths are shallow and thick as you heed the older manâs words, every syllable passing his lips unsettling you. All you did was nod, hoping it would lessen the heat of his lecture. Hoping he saw how much it all wracked you. âYouâre lucky to even be aliveâ.
You knew Joel was right, you did. He hadnât stood here to say these things for foolish intention, he did it because he cared, and because he was rightfully correct. It was a fault on your part anyway. You had been gone for a day, and a fog of discomfort lingered over the citizens of Jackson in acknowledgement of your disappearance. The moment you returned; you had only imagined the heaping amounts of distrust people would build with you. Or the bountiful lectures, explaining to you the many problems you had caused. It was all to be expected.
So, you let him bicker about trivial things for what felt like hours, observing his tone wax and wane as he paced around the empty quarters, fists clenched so tight his fingers molded into his palm. His temples creased with much frustration and his eyes were narrowed down whilst he spoke to you.
It wasnât until you finally withdrew from the building that you realized how exhausted you were from it all. From his words and his expressions. From your mistakes too. Or from your aching limbs and from your sudden anxieties warping around you. You knew this tense atmosphere would stick for a couple of days or so, possibly even weeks. The panic was so close to swallowing you whole, running under your skin and desecrating your peace.
Youâre too defeated to let your brain feed upon it anymore though as youâre entering your tenebrous home and shutting the creaking door closed. Too defeated to think about the events of tomorrow. You let it all dissipate into the night as you sluggishly creep across the dining area and to your room, wanting nothing more than to rest instead of letting the cool night air lick away all your warmth a second longer. It was all so cold and suffocating, and the wood of the walls left a dank scent, one that strangely comforted you amid all this mess.
The knob of your door was turned, and you found yourself weakly pushing it open. The room was dark for the most part, every light was out and the only way to tell apart objects was the looming shadows of your furniture, but strangely, even with the lack of luminescence, you saw the foot of your bed. A figure sitting upon the disheveled covers. They were hunched over, hands hanging over their knees, mysterious and glum.
âEllie?â you whispered; you didnât know why. You could barely see, and yet, the presence of your lover was strong. Your fingers trace against the crevices of the wall, searching for the light switch. With a flip its on, and the room is illuminated properly, allowing you to finally see, your eyes taking seconds to adjust. Sheâs there, and god if she wasnât the most heartwarming sight to see.
âWhy are you here?â, your voice is meek, and somewhat coarse, possibly from your overbearing exhaustion. It was not expected that she be here, you couldnât understand if you felt ecstatic or scared to face her at such a time.
You watch her turn to face you, her green eyes no longer round and full of softness like they usually had been. Instead, they were downturned, and creased, like she had been perturbed by something. Her eyes told stories, and here in front of you they lay. She was upset. Upset with you. No more nonchalant conversations. No more honey spoken words. This was a moment of recognition.
âI heard from Jessie that you got lost on patrol, couldnât find you anywhereâ, she says as she sits upright, her voice stern and thick with a rasp, almost as if she had been dehydrated. Perhaps loss of sleep too. You felt your heart sink at that- like you had been guilty of the tremble on her lips, and for the dull glimmer in her eyes. âWhat happened?â.
Youâre still standing by the door as you process her words, your heart ready to leap from your chest. âI- wellâ, her stare is hot on you, and you feel your words become shaky and uncertain, âItâs all so hard to explain Ellieâ. Truly, you had no words to say, and what was to become of you if you did? To be robbed of your passion for patrols, and now, the happiness of your girlfriend? âIâm sorryâ, is all you can say before the room quickly fades back into silence.
She nods briefly as she tucks a few strands of her auburn hair behind her ear, it falls loose against her neck and your heart suddenly aches- because you know it wont stay out of her face for too long. She tucks her hair back when sheâs nervous, concentrated even, and its in moments like these where it all unfolds. Sheâs not taking your response lightly. She wants to know more.
âYou look bruisedâ, she sighs, âlike someone hurt you. Is that true?â. You hum softly in response, one thatâs bittersweet and unfortunately truthful. Your body was tainted with swollen punctures, colored in brown and blue, it was useless to lie now. She saw right through you. She loved you more than anyone else ever has. Ellie was impossible to lie to.
She frowns at the whine you draw out, arms lifting from her lap to motion you closer, âCâmere baby, I got you. I got youâ, and you swear thatâs all it takes. Youâre already there, face buried into her neck and soaking it all in. Her scent, her skin, her touch. Her voice was so nurturing and so sweet as she spoke reassurance into your ear, her hand patting softly against the center of your back. âI was so scared I lost youâ, her breath was ghosting over your nape, lifting the hairs there and sending a spiral of chills down your spine. Her lips now touching your neck, placing chaste kisses there and you cried faintly, unravelling upon her touch and the press of her silken lips. âI couldnât sleep- couldnât eat either. Sat here waiting for you and it felt like foreverâ, you nod your head regretfully at her words, drawing out phrases like âIâm sorryâ and âits my faultâ, in which she hushes you, and squeezes your waist tighter.
Another kiss is placed, this time she plants it delicately along the skin of your shoulder. âWhat happened?â, she asks again, knowing her touch will coax you out of your shell. âTell me everythingâ.
You rest your head close to her chest to collect your breath, and to hear her heartbeat. You have to feel her warmth, to make sure this is all real and not some delirious dream. Your arms are hooked underneath hers in an attempt to keep her close and locked into your embrace, but it seems she feels the same. That she doesnât wish to let you go either.
âI was attacked. Had stuff taken from me. I donât know who they were Ellie, but I was terrified. I was only trying to search for suppliesâ, you sounded like a wreck, chest heaving and your nose digging into your loverâs chest as you try to conceal your pitiful sobs. She rubs circles in your back to soothe your ache, and it lulls you.
âWho did this to you? Do you remember what they look like?â
âNoâŚno I donât think soâ
âTryâ, she is serious when she talks, you know that this conversation is crucial to her, but yet it feels strange to tell her such things. Wouldnât it be best to just forget what happened? You try to make sense of it, find a more logical reason for the situation. âIt doesnât matter now-â
âPlease babe. For meâ, she insists with utter vexation, and you sigh in compliance, examining the freckles littered on her shoulder through your lashes. You tell her the best of your memory, at least, the best you could comprehend before you knew you were knocked out from the group that jumped you. Only four men you could pull apart, one was significantly more memorable than the rest. A crooked nose, mussed brown hair that fell to his shoulders, and the thick brown mole that sat above his eyebrow. Yes, that was the bastard who violated you. He was the one who held you down as he ordered the others to clean out your bag and steal your weapons. That stupid smirk that sat on his roguish face.
You donât question Ellie any longer for her strange questions, you just lay there, molded against her body as everything seems to fade away and peel apart, like bark stripping from a tree. Your worries seem to grow thinner with her. Makes you feel peaceful and tranquil once she pushes you down onto the round plushness of your pillow, and she lifts the blankets up to your torso. She doesnât whisper a word; you think itâs because she doesnât wish to wake you. But the overwhelming pressure of her eyes burn into you. Like sheâs watching you and examining you.
It takes you a while to genuinely let sleep envelop you, as her obsessive stare stays for what feels like hours, and you swear, you heard her whisper as her fingers smoothen against your cheek to caress your resting face.
Whisper words of malice. Whisper words of revenge.
Weeks had passed since the day of your coming back, and eventually the people of Jackson had stopped gossiping about you and what happened. Lights had been decorated through the town, and people stood amongst themselves, speaking in more of a jubilant manner than they ever have. As sweet as it seemed, unfortunately, you were limited on patrols now, and were expected to recover before returning to your usual routine. Since you were one person cut off though, there had to be another carrying your weight, and it just had to be Ellie.
Moments with her were so limited now, you only found time to see her in the night. Even then, she was probably too fatigued to make plans after, so you found it in your best interest to just let things go the way they were, and not be in her way. You were grateful she was even doing this for you.
Although, on some nights, you recall her peculiar behavior that one evening, and it sets an uneasy churning in the pit of your stomach. Her fingers tracing along your cheekbones, brushing against the scratches and blemishes on your skin. Her whispers to herself, quiet and soft but hinting malicious intent. She mumbled about the description of your perpetrator. You wanted to act like it was nothing, but its hard, especially with her sudden enthusiasm for patrols now. Maybe you had said too much to her. Was she taking your patrol time into her hands to find him? You couldnât understand it, and honestly, the last thing you ever wanted to think about was your girlfriend getting hurt.
The winter started to become thicker, snow came in heaps and ice frosted against surfaces. Tonight was especially worse and you couldnât find it in you to move from the coziness of your cotton blanket. That is, until three hard knocks came rapping on your front door. They echoed through your home eerily.
You sit in confusion for a second, wondering who could be wishing to see you right now, and why at this time for that matter. You draw blanks until finally, you think of her. Her in all her light. Ellie Williams. You canât help but smile fondly at the thought of her, coming to the conclusion that sheâs come to visit you after all these exhausting nights. You chuckle to yourself, and with a shake of your head, youâre kicking off your blanket and heading to your front door nimbly.
With a twist of the knob and a push of the door, the cool air is pooling into your home, and you shiver sensitively. You find that your prediction of who may be here is actually correct, but the sight in front of you is something that leaves you trembling- not from the winter air, but from utter fear.
âIs that-" your eyes are scanning hers, and then checking her stained clothes, âis that your blood?â. You reach for her in a panic, holding her sticky hands in yours. Her nails are tarnished, and outlined with dried crimson. âAre you hurt Ellie? Jesus Christ come inside-â, you usher her closer, but she stops you with a tug of her hands.
âI made that dick payâ, she stands there in the entryway, her jacket glistening under the moonlight, slippery with blood and soil, âI made him regret everything he did to youâ.
Your mouth is dry, and your body is still while you watch her take steps closer to you. She shuts the door behind her, trapping you inside, but you canât comprehend it because her confession has already struck you internally. It is not her blood that is streaked across her face, it is your perpetratorsâ.
âI love youâ, Ellie whispers as she goes to hold you. âI love you so muchâ. You donât know why, but you let her embrace you. You let her guide you back to your room, her sinful hands staining you. Sheâs kissing you once you lay down, her lips are not soft and warm like they were before. Her lips are now chapped and filled with urgency as she chases after yours. You can smell it off her. Death. Obsession. You give in to the tug of her teeth on your bottom lip, you indulge in it.
âI love youâ, she whispers once more. Over and over again as if itâs a mantra. âAnd I don't want to lose youâ.
Description: Short headcanons of what to expect from an obsessive Pyramid Head.
Warning: NSFW themes, obsession, and violent themes.
Punishment (Will they punish you?) đŞ:
Pyramid Head has spent his entire existence punishing the ones who have sinned. He tosses around things he doesn't find important, but you? Oh no, he couldn't. He's so powerful he could reach down and crush you with his hand, but he simply doesn't because he chooses not to. When you've made a mistake, he leans more towards abandoning you so you learn your lesson. Oh? So you decided to explore the hospital without his permission? Stay there and deal with the nurses then. He'll leave for short periods of time, but then come back to retrieve you as he always does. He knows you've learned when he sees your bloodshot eyes and trembling skin.
Sexual endeavors (How they please you) đĽ:
He definitely falls on the higher spectrum for lust. He desires it endlessly, and will gladly take you if you even hint at it. Prefers to receive more than give during sexual intercourse, meaning he is always taking control in any situation. Prefers to bend you over something and pleasure you that way, it's easier for the both of you. Doesn't mind you grinding against him though, he melts when he feels your legs straddle his thigh, and your whimpers coax his gloved hands to squeeze your waist tighter. Definitely has a size kink, and is animalistic and rough with his sex.
Bloodshed (Are they willing to kill for their s/o?) đŠ¸:
Absolutely! It feels like his duty now to ward off the threats that could possibly leave a scratch on you. He will forever kill for you. You can't really stop him, it's the whole purpose of his creation.
Stalking (Will they stalk their s/o?) đ¸ď¸:
At first, yes. He would linger in the shadows of silent hill and observe. But after seeing you as an eternal partner, he doesn't try to hide the fact that he watches your every move.
Obsession/scale 1-10 đ¤:
Pyramid Head is an 8/10 considering obsession level. He is known for purely existing to protect Alessa, battling any darkness that attempts to harm her. He would absolutely do the same for you. Guarding your every step, and watching your every breath. Make sure you stay out of harms way when you grow exhausted and decide to rest. Even with as terrifying as Silent Hill is, you'll never have to feel scared with a 7ft tall monster protecting you.
Desires (What do they wish from you?) đˇď¸:
Pyramid Head deep down wishes he could stay with you eternally. You are human though, and he knows this. He knows you're significantly different from him, and living this life with him won't last long.
Endangerment (How scary is it to be with them?) đ:
Pyramid Head himself doesn't put you in trouble. He doesn't wish to harm you, he's your "guardian angel" after all. It's the atmosphere that is a risk to you. Silent Hill is full of monsters, and staying in it is extremely dangerous.
Sympathy (Do they feel bad for taking you?)đŞŚ:
He doesn't care less. It would be of best interest if you gave in, it would be less of a pain on your part. He was eventually going to take you whether you liked it or not.
Roughness(Do they hurt you?) đŚ´:
Pyramid Head quite enjoys manhandling you, through innocent intention and sexual intention. Seeing how weak you are compared to him makes his monstrous mindset soften. He would not purposely hurt his darling though, it could kill them.
Intimacy (How romantic are they?) đ:
Obviously, he does not have the mentality of a human being. He won't take you on dates, and won't buy you presents. He doesn't speak words of affirmation, and he can't kiss you. But strangely, with how inhumane he is, he is quite affectionate. Keeps you warm in his large arms, and let's you curiously hold his hand. He rumbles through his helmet in an animalistic manner, and it echoes in your eardrums. You can truly tell he's happy with you. That he loves you.
Game? (Are you a game to them?) đĽŠ:
Never was, and never will be a game to Pyramid Head. He's one of the more serious slashers in general, so when it comes to significant others, he wouldn't find humor in it.
andulkaphoto
prguitarman
kianamaiart
gummygunk
izzy806
theartofmadeline