prettyevermores - Tumblr blog

prettyevermores · 1 day

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ily more!!!!!!

d is for delightful

mdni

jill valentine x reader

warnings: incest, mother - daughter incest, fem!reader, jill fucks with a strap, reference to a strap as a cock, mommy kink, age difference, mommy kink, mother jill/daughter reader, dead dove: do not eat

a/n: would say this a 500 follower special but. that would be a lie. sorry xx. i'm not officially back from my hiatus but i just felt like writing so here x. tag for @prettyevermores because i promised i'd tag her x

title is from d is for dangerous by arctic monkeys

wc: 1.7k

There are many lines that you live by, ones that stem from plain stupid to ones that belong to the bible. Really, the Vehn diagram looks fucking messy when it comes to one liners to pull out.

‘Momma didn't raise no bitch’ is something you swear by, especially when you're stuck on a shitty date, with a shitty girl and with shitty food. You must've lucked out.

Multiple tactics cross your mind. Bathroom doors, main exit doors, a bar and many other possibilities to end this date flow freely in your head.

It's not like this girl can use the excuse that ‘the man should always pay on the first date’, because you're both women, and you're not butch either.

You're just mediocre, so the fact you even landed this date is calling yourself lucky. But with this bitch opposite you? A wonderful state of affairs.

“I'm going to use the bathroom.” The words tumble out, and you can't even take it back. Who even takes back about going to the toilet? Nature calling to you is a very serious situation and must not be taken lightly.

“Okay.” Not even a glance. Maybe you don't deserve one, and maybe it's better that way, because the look of sheer defeat of the stale date covers your face like you've caught the plague.

You don't even look back as you head outside and shakily pull your phone out. Ma needs to pick you up, and Ma also needs to hear about the gone to shit date.

So, yeah. You'd say ‘Momma didn't raise no bitch’ is your go to line. Even though you are a bitch, because you ditched a date and let a poor unassuming woman pay for it. And for what?

Getting the ick can be dangerous, maybe even fatal, you supposed.

“Your date went so badly that you had me pick you up in less than an hour?” Unfortunately, yes. Shit happens, and getting cold feet while on a date is one thing.

Your mother doesn't look impressed, and really, you don't blame her. Waste of fuel, waste of time, waste of a lot of things, but whatever.

But you're sitting in her car, the warmth blowing in your face as you head home. Rather than a stuffy restaurant, you're in a stuffy car. Just your luck.

“Either you have really high standards,” She pauses, then turns to you. “Or she was a bitch to the core.”

You look at your Ma, you really do look at her. Her hypotheses are sound, and you'd agree on the second reason because that is technically why you left.

The real reason is not there, but saying anything on it would be spoiling it for your mother on your true intentions, and you'd rather have her keep guessing.

“She wasn't uh--” The right words don't come, you just kind of sit there with your jaw ajar, waiting for the right words, until they do. “She wasn't great to be honest.”

Damn straight. And also that you're infatuated with your mother, Jill Valentine.

–

With many discoveries, there's always that clarity of realisation that strikes through man. It leaves you on cloud nine, leaves you rushing to figure out more or let your mind wander on it more.

Then, it's regret. To be fair, crushing on your mother isn't exactly the thing people win awards for. Moreso lands you with a jail sentence and lifetime regret.

You'd hoped it was a phase. Don't all adults say that? That depression you suffered when you're that youthful age of fourteen, with scars on your wrists or thighs, that's a phase.

What about the drugs? Thirteen year old you smoking cigarettes and clashing empty vodka bottles in parks on a swing until you threw up. That's just plain old rebellion.

Is being utterly besotted with your mother a phase? It's sick, and awfully twisted. Maybe it's just a set up to just drag you down, or maybe just to send you spiralling down a road you'd rather not go.

You were never crazy, by your standards. You are who you are, living regrets and such is foolish. But this? It's bound to cling to you, taint your whole being because although being in love with her may merely just be a phase, it also happened.

Such a subject is not something you can tell over a late night drinking session with your partner either. It's something that has to stay dead and buried in your head, six feet under and hope it doesn't swell up into some reanimated corpse.

A diary could work, but even so, a misplaced diary could be fatal. One of your future kids (god forbid you even do have kids, that's commitment that you'll never be ready for) goes looking for it.

Wouldn't that be a story to tell?

You don't want to think about whether your mother reciprocates these feelings. You hope she doesn't, simply because the thought of her finding out tends to a shiver in your bones.

Rejection is harsh, rejection clings to a poisoned knife and digs its way into your heart. Yet, it's also a blanket, one all fuzzy and keeps you and your toes warm.

Rejection is easy, acceptance is complicated.

It's supposed to be the opposite way around, that's how it should be. For you, it's not. Self destructive tendencies and all, you reek of them.

“Honey.” A hand threading through your hair, moving it out of your face as you look up at her. “Shouldn't you be in bed?”

Yeah, you should. Instead, you're spiralling about an issue you should (need) to get a grip over. Shit like this happens, why can't you accept it? “Ma.”

You can't accept it. Truth is, you want to rip the bandage off, be out with your secret to your mother. It's better that way, easier that way. Rejection, right? “I love you Ma.”

Jill's got that smile on her face, that one where it displays her endearment for you, the one where you say something sweet. But she doesn't get it, she doesn't.

You cling to her, the signature blue tank top furrowing under your fingernails, scarred with creases from your grip. “No- you don't get it. I love, love you.”

Your mouth is open, the temptation to say more is but a second away, however a finger rests just shy of your lips. “You shouldn't think like that-”

“I know- I know but I really love you, and I know it's probably a phase-” The floodgates are out. Well, they aren't fully open, but they aren't completely shut.

Embarrassment fuels you, adrenaline of the cynical situation drives you to speak, drives you to do something, just anything.

But you don't, you don't do anything. Instead, she does something, your mother does.

She kisses you. Lips on lips, you know, the standard stuff. It's a peck, not on the cheek, but more. “Did that feel wrong?”

Thinking about it seemed foolish, because really, it's been awhile since someone else's lips touched yours in such a way, and of course it wouldn't feel weird.

But it's Ma's lips, not some girl you went on a date with, or a drunken mistake, or anything else of that calibre. It's your mother, it's Jill Valentine, Miss Valentine.

“No- no Ma- it didn't.”

–

Whines and heavy breaths escaped your lips, the twisting and turning of your body as the pleasure scars through your veins, dulling all your other senses.

“Do you like it?” Faint on your ears, but loud as it echoed around the room. ”Do you like my cock?” You follow it with a nod. What else can you do?

One thing leads to another, it always does. So when you're laid on your stomach, hands clutching at the bed sheets while your mother fucks into you with her ‘cock’, you wonder what it all meant.

“Pretty fucking girl.” It's tight on her lips, a hand already running through your hair and pressing your face down into the sheets beneath you, uncaring of how painful it is on your nose. “Aren't you my pretty baby?”

“Yeah– Mommy's pretty baby.” You're quick with that response, eagerness slipping through your tone like it had no business being there. “I wanna be Mommy's pretty girl.”

“Oh yeah?” She laughs, it's like silk woven into the sound, an easy rest on your ears despite the jabbing at your cervix. “How bad?”

“So– so bad, really wanna– shit– really wanna be perfect for you.” Holy shit, you're besotted. It's like you've been caught under a spell, an enchantment of sorts. “Perfect for mommy.”

A reassuring squeeze from the hand sewed into your hair, before it tugs and chokes. “That's what I like to hear.”

The strap continuously suffocates you, giving you near little of any coherent material. Not like you had any in the first place, you're in love with your mother.

But that isn't coherency, that's insanity.

Noisy squelching sounds blend in with the pleasure you feel, the vulgarity of them truly not hitting you as the rope in you threatened to snap.

You vaguely register Jill's hand pressing your head down into the mattress still, the grip on your hair faltering as she chases the pleasure for you.

“You close?” A nod suffices, well, that's what you think anyway. It's hard to nod with the way your head is positioned, but you make it work. “You gonna cum for mommy?”

Words don't reach you, but instead, your release hits you. It's like a tumble of emotions, like waves crashing against the shore.

“There we go.” Coddling, yet teasing and such. It's like she's caring for you after you'd scraped your knee, or got a papercut and there's tears rolling down your cheeks because of it.

A haze sets over you, one full of mindless words that are never uttered, yet they spin around your head and mush into nothing.

“Baby,” A pause, then the hand once woven into your hair now brushing it aside, making your face clearer. “Are you alright?”

You can't speak, you can't. You're like soup, and she's a fork, trying to pick you up but you only slip through the seams.

But you try, and the only word that leaves your mouth is her name. “Ma-”

A look, and you're able to push yourself up, just so you can fully see your mother. And you do, you see her. “Don't you-”

“No.” Stern, her hand gesturing for you to stop. It's like you've stolen a cookie, or something that you shouldn't have off the top shelf. “Let's get you in the shower, yeah?”

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prettyevermores · 2 days

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me reading this ngl….

i NEED mommy jill, want her to fill me with her cock xx