you hate taking ymir to parties. partly because she makes a big deal about going, but mainly because the amount of alcohol she consumes.
ymir drinks anything as long as it didn’t taste like complete shit to her and apparently, shitty drinks were rarely found. drinks you’d consider nasty had no effect on her.
during the buzz stage, she’s a little louder, a little more bold if you can believe. she challenges everyone in games of pools, darts, arm wrestling, etc.
she’s not the type to throw up. despite ending up a drunken mess each time, she knows her limits.
she always makes sure to mention you, her loving, darling, girlfriend. there’s never a soul at the function that won’t hear about you at some point through out the night.
if you thought her pda was bad before, buckle up. drunk ymir cannot keep her hands to herself, craving to touch you at all times, both in innocent and dirty ways.
she loves giving you drunk cheek kisses. just absolutely smooshing her face against yours.
you can tell when she’s really drunk because there’s this girly little laugh that escapes from her mouth. it’s not forced or deepened, it’s natural. she gets really embarrassed about it, though.
drunk ymir loves to eat. if she’s at a party, she’s always got a full plate in her hand. “what? i’m hungry.
she’s a menace when it’s time to go to bed, saying anything and everything to keep you from forcing her to sleep. sleep is her enemy and she will not give in so easily.
ymir is a little ballsy when she’s drunk, starting fights with everyone if they dare look at you the wrong way.
if she’s drunk with out you (which rarely happens), she’s blowing your phone up. calls, texts, facetimes. she wants her baby. she’s sooo clingy.
Warnings: DARK CONTENT AHEAD. mentions of murder, blood and gore, description of injury, predator/prey kink, strapon, dumbification, rough sex, degradation.
Word count: 2.1k
A/N: part 2 of ghost face!Ymir
Mean.
That’s how she had described herself in that moment; mean, mean, mean. Apparently not mean enough when she’s bullying her thick cock into your convulsing body, smearing something unmentioned against your arched back and clapping her hips hard, hard, harder into your ass.
Something catches your elbow, a branch? It hurts, stings as it tears your skin deep enough to bring beads of crimson to the surface. There’s wetness on your bare feet, leaves sticking to your shins and mud caking your exposed thighs, staining the stupid, stupid white nightgown you were dressed in.
And nothing else. It pained you to run, not because of your feet, but because of your breasts heaving and the biting wind catching between your legs, hissing through the welts shaped like fingers around your throat. Time had stopped since she’d let you go, since she’d brought that dreadful mask close to your face and demanded you look at her with fake sweetness in her voice, cooing at you when you start crying and batting open your legs from where you had been subconsciously clenching them together at the simper and the hot breath you felt wet your neck. It was nighttime, you knew that because it was impossible to see anything two foot in front of you, darkness swirling and beckoning you closer, promising you freedom where you knew barbed wire and broken glass lay in wait for prey as pretty, and as innocent as the others.
Were you innocent? With how clean your hands were, yes but with how soiled your inner thighs were, how drippy you were with every step, every tender shuffle around trees and through bracken; no, you were by no means innocent of the crimes beholden of her and her mask, and her fingers, and her cock. Tears sprung from your eyes involuntarily at a twig snapping in the distance, body freezing and breath catching in your throat, clogging your chest and causing you to splutter with fear, and with something else. You had seen her in the bathroom before, tightening the straps round her thighs and waist, shoving something into her jeans, cursing when she admired herself in the mirror for a moment; the bulge at her crotch pronounced and so - mouth watering. And yet, it belonged to someone with no face, a mask for you to cry at and claw at in the throes of your orgasms, plastic cold on your lips when you desperately search for a kiss you knew deep down would never come.
That was your fate, that was was awaited you when she finally caught you in the damp, in the damp, creeping up on you like she did with all her other victims; only their end would be met with a very different kind of warmth and wet. But the chase was no less terrifying, no less - paralysing with the voice that echoes through your head,
“Be careful not to run too far, don’t want those pretty feet all cut up - might slow you down and heh - where’s the fun in running down a wounded prey?”
Wounded. Hurt. She was so mean to you, thinking you were some lost soul she had plucked from the suburbs with the promise of lust and love and something thicker than the two. That was the promise that awaited you too, rubbed into your bottom and hitching the silk of your dress, bulging so, so close to where you felt yourself dripping with need for her. A hand disappears between your thighs, sobbing at the slick you find and you almost collapse when you accidentally swipe over your hardened clit, throbbing and ready, and too neglected to even think about.
How - how dare you even be this aroused? How stupid are you? As stupid as she tells you when she’s got you bouncing on her fingers in the back of her van that smells funny and has bottles of bleach in the footwell? Probably more so if the mere memory of that has you whimpering and half a second away from cumming in the middle of this god forsaken forest.
♡.
She can see you from a mile away, no - smell you. You are stupid, a stupid little whore who begs so pretty and so lovely for her cock near every night. Can’t get enough of the thing, can’t get enough of her even though - even though you have no idea what she looks like, no idea what her lips taste of, what colour her eyes are, whether she still has those freckles her mom used to count before tucking her in.
You were her prey tonight, you were her victim, her flesh to carve and maim, her blood to spill, her cunt to fuck as she pleased. And there you were, leaning against a tree with your silly little hand stuck between your silly little thighs, whimpering and moaning; a naive little doe in the eyes of a beast unnamed by humankind and feared by those of its own specie. Ymir had to give it to you, even beneath her mask she could smell your arousal, leaking into the wind and sending blood rushing to her cheeks; addictive and almost as mouth watering as the blood caked to the bottom of her converse.
Comfy things they were, convenient, easy to chuck in the washer and forget about for an hour. Comfy, light, good enough to chase in, quiet enough to sneak up close to you, close enough to smell the perfume she makes you wear, close enough to hear the lewd clicking of your fingers swiping through your sodden cunt, close enough to whisper deep and low,
“Gotta run bunny, run while you still have legs to walk on,”
♡.
Your scream echoes around you, feet thundering as loud as your heart, blinding you almost as you tear through the trees, down valleys and up hillocks. You didn’t care for the tears and bruises on your legs, didn’t care for the rips in your nightgown and the leaves clinging to your hair; she was close, so close and you - you could barely breathe. Adrenaline shoots through you, bones cold and skin colder with the sweat clinging to your pores. Right, left, a little way upwards - there was a big tree back there you could maybe hide in, or down by the stream? - a cry leaves your throat when your foot catches on a fallen branch, knees buckling and -
“No - no, up bunny, c’mon now,”
How is she still so close? How can you still smell the rancid stench of her clothing and see the ominous white of her mask through the dark? You’ve been running for hours, screaming with every howl and hoot and shudder in the earth, crying when the clouds part and reveal the new moon, dark and haunting and somehow ridiculing you. All this for some dick? Pathetic. Whore.
“I don’t want to play anymore!” Why are you stopping? Your body isn’t supposed to be doing this, you’re supposed to be running, scrambling, sobbing for mercy and yet - you’re slowing down with painful wheezes and gasping cries, “I don’t want to! I’m tired! I’m scared! I want to stop playing!”
Home didn’t even enter your mind, that was a foreign word to you now, strange and unfamiliar because home didn’t really exist anymore, not really, not in this blood thirsty world. You don’t stop moving, but you don’t speed up, clutching your chest and trying desperately to swallow down your fear, your saliva, your terror at the huffing and growling and beastial noises coming up behind you.
“You - are pathetic,”
The pain comes minutes after you hit the ground, cry muffled by long, lean fingers dripping with something and nothing at the same time. An arm hitches your hips up, propping you up on your knees and gravel digs into your skin, palms tearing on brambles and the flush of blood over your knuckles makes you -
“You’re so fucking - you’re such a whore,”
Even covered in mud, out of breath, crying and snotting, bloody and bruised, and most likely concussed; you’re grinding back into her crotch and moaning like a bitch in heat. Even in the darkness, Ymir can see the slick smearing across the tight material of her jeans, sliding with the audible pulse of your cunt and she almost rolls her eyes, almost snaps and brings your neck with it but maybe, maybe that’s why she gives in so easily, maybe that’s why she lifts one leg to brace and shoves your face into the mud, maybe that’s why she flips your dress over your hips and undoes her fly - because she likes it, she likes the way you’re so desperate and so dumb for her, so stupid that you blatantly overlook the knife lying only inches from your nose and can’t hear the zip ties clattering on her belt,
“Fucking fine then - if you want it so bad, if you’re fuckin’ gagging for my cock then take it, fuckin’ take it,”
A single slap to your clit has you keening and clawing at the dirt, thrashing and almost looking as tough you’re trying to get away from her, but she knows, she knows all this is because you’re so desperate to feel her deep and hard, just how you like it best. You scream, you arch your back, you’re positively weeping when Ymir forces the strap inside of you, thrusting down, down to where she knows you’ll drip pearly white and gush so nicely for her.
“Should’a run bunny, should’a done what ghost face wanted - might’a gone a bit nicer on your stupid whore cunt,”
Your whole body jiggles with her thrusts, being shoved up and through the leaf litter, hands scrambling for purchase and she’s sure you loose a nail in the fight, but you’re too busy leaking down her thighs to notice the blood smearing on your cheek.
“Nngh - f - fu -,” you’ve got a mouthful of mud and your breasts rub raw on the ground, but there’s a band in your belly and you can feel something building, feel claws down your back and latching on to the nape of your neck, pushing you further into the ground, a beast crowding over you, hard and big and dark. Pain blossoms over your spine as you are bent in half, ass so high in the air that you’re almost balancing on your tiptoes, skin tingling with the slamming of her hips into yours. Ymir spares you nothing, a fate worse than death maybe, splitting you open over and over with the girth of her cock, heavy against your cervix and bullying that soft spot over and over until she can see the sticky webs dripping from your pussy, fat lips plush against the silicon balls with every hard, hard, mean thrust.
Yes, this is where she’s mean, this is where ghost face is horrible and terrible and as mean as can be. Hardly letting up when you scream through your orgasm, gasping for breath and on the verge of hyperventilating, legs shaking and struggling to hold yourself up against the dizzying assault on your cunt. Hardly letting up when you sob and cry out for - something, more, deeper, harder -
“Please! More! Don’t - nagh - don’t stop!” There’s nothing behind your eyes, crossing and rolling and fluttering when the wind catches just right on your clit, pulsing and angry and beating with your erratic heart, and Ymir thinks maybe this is her calling instead of terror and horror and the mask. Maybe she’s been put on this earth to bully your sensitive, needy pussy every minute of the day, maybe God looked at her soul and decided that it belonged on top of yours, inside of yours, owning yours the same way she owns your cunt, your body, your mind.
And you don’t even know her fucking name.
It’s a shame really, she’d much rather have you beg for her cock, Ymir’s cock rather than lashing out at whatever name comes into your tiny little brain.
S’mean really, how Ymir threatens to choke you on her cock day in and day out, and doesn’t even have the audacity to tell you her name or show you her face. But what’s really mean, really fucking mean of her is the next time she brings home a pretty innocent church girl to set out in the woods around her cabin; you’re there too, ass up face down and taking her cock like the proper perfect whore you are and Ymir finds they scream so much louder when they can hear you cumming in spurts and sprays through the fog.
