Nickolai survives and goes on a date, but Jill interupts.
woven into | drabble | jill/nicholai, re3make spoilers, mild sexual content, post-game
(on ao3)
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He’s nursing his drink in silence when the woman approaches him from the opposite side of the bar, sliding her glass next to him. Early thirties, short hair, rosy cheeks. Must have taken a couple of shots already. She mutters some attempt at small talk, her voice alluring like a siren’s calling. Nicholai doesn’t remember a word that comes out of her mouth, can’t summon her name even if she has likely dropped it casually. He doesn’t care a bit, but he lets himself be swayed over by her invitation. Could use the distraction. All noise feels distant and far gone, background rock music coming from a dirty jukebox. The bartender places two more glasses in front of them. She laughs coquettely. He just gulps the drink down his throat.
“Alcohol is not going to help you get rid of me.”
When he twists his neck to the side, it’s Jill Valentine standing up next to him. A complacent smile perches at the tip of her lips.
He scoffs, hot anger bubbling inside him. His fingers clasp violently around the glass—he pictures her neck, and applies a bit more pressure.
“Have I fucked you up this much, Nicholai?” she whispers, leaning over the counter. “Good,” she sentences.
A blink and she’s gone, replaced by the same woman from before; she keeps talking out loud about something. Nicholai is not even listening. His grasp on the glass loosens, then he lets out a lungful of air under a low growl. It doesn’t take long until the woman grazes her knuckles against his arm. He tosses down what’s left in his glass and thinks it’s about fucking time she shows her intentions.
Shortly after, they’re crammed into the grimy bathroom, his lips sucking at the skin of her throat, biting along her jaw, not facing her. He inhales and catches the scent of spicy perfume—it makes him wonder what would Jill Valentine smell up this close, thinking of blood and sweat and Raccoon City.
The thought summons her, somehow. It’s not the first time this has happened.
“Is this how you hate me?” she echoes in his ear, teasingly, and he can hear the smirk in her tone.
The same smirk Jill Valentine had worn on the hospital’s rooftop, when she had put an end to his plan. When she had made her choice. When she had him beg for his life. When she had ruined him utterly and completely.
Oh, he hates her. She is woven now into him, tangled in his mind, like a haunting ghost stealing his sanity. The lump of flesh from the bullet wound hurts, sometimes. It definitely aches tonight.
Deft fingers unzip his fly and start stroking him, and he buries his face on her neck, muffling the grunt out of his mouth. He sinks his teeth on soft flesh, slams the body against the wall behind. There’s a moan as his fingers wander under her skirt, and he pretends it’s really hers, because he knows if he took a step back now, he would be seeing her with lips parted, half-lidded eyes staring in defiance—he would be seeing Jill Valentine, not the nameless woman from the bar.
And he’d rather have it this way.
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