In fact, usually it was him that got jealous. You remember all the nights where you had to assure Scara that it was really him, the imperfect divine puppet, that you want.
Something has been irking you recentently though.
Your partner that you've been together with for literal years, that has been with you through everything just like you have been there for him, has been whaffling on about some woman.
Not only has he been rambling about this woman, he has been way too nice with his words, and sometimes even straight up wrong.
Your eye twitches each time he calls Haypasia "his first follower" when you have clearly been by his side for way longer. She wasn't even there yet when the first prototype of his soon-to-be archon form was constructed. And she cetrainly wasn't when he desperately needed someone to hold together the pieces of his delicate self.
So pray tell you why has he been talking about her this much?? What does she have that makes her oh-so loyal to the point where he seems to forget about how you have been there with him all along?
It can't be the hideous green hair, that's for sure.
You sigh as he adds another point his current ramble. Can't he tell that you're agitated by all this? It's like he's barely been paying attention to you ever since she came into the picture.
Your relationship is not so fragile that a mere scholar from sumeru can ruin it, right...?
And yet you're somehow worried about bringing this up to him. You know you should.
"Haypasia said something interesting today"
"She looked into my consciousness and saw my past"
"My first follower is so devoted, it's precious, really"
Devoted.
Precious.
What a joke. You feel your eyebrows twitch downward.
A dead cold grip catches your wrist. It's not painful, but it snaps you back into the moment. You were fidgeting.
Scara is staring at you. Unblinking. He's long stopped masking his puppet mannerisms in front of you.
"Where did your mind wander off to this time?", he asks flatly. "I was speaking."
Your mouth opens, but out comes only an illegible stutter. The idea of a reply that got stuck on its way.
You clear your throat and say, "I'm listening."
"No", his fingers tighten around your wrist, it's like he wants to shake you back into reality, "You're not."
The pressure of his stare and insistency make you crack.
"I am", you snap, irritatedly adding before you can stop yourself, "I just don't like hearing you go on and on about how amazing she is."
He stays silent for a moment. Then shifts slightly.
"...Her?" He sounds near incredulous, hard to believe considering his endless praise of that woman.
You roll your eyes. "Yes, Haypasia. It's like you're being dull on purpose."
He's still quiet, for a second you think you went too far.
Then Scara lets out an exhale through his nose. He's amused (relieved).
"You're jealous", he realizes with the smuggest, most self-satisfied grin ever.
Your face errupts in flames.
You sputter, before admitting, "Okay so maybe I am—"
"Maybe??", he laughs in disbelief at the sheer audacity to downplay this. Not only do your feelings matter, he also gets to witness you being jealous for once? And you're trying to undermine this? Yeah good luck with that.
"Shut up", you glare.
He keeps laughing.
"And you even called me dull, how cute", he covers his mouth, yet you can still see his grin, "I should make you jealous more often."
You repeat, this time slightly more agitated, "I said shut up."
"You've been sitting here drowning in your own thoughts for 10 minutes, you think I couldn't feel it?" The question is serious despite his amused tone.
You cross your arms, looking at him accusingly. "You didn't seem to feel it when you were still talking."
"Believe it or not, I did", he shrugs, before adding smugly, "Wouldn't have guessed that my precious Doll of all people would get jealous though."
"Your 'precious Doll' has feelings too", you frown. He is taking this seriously in his own way but that alone doesn't make your uncertainty disappear.
"Yes but there's nothing to worry about for you", he says in a more sincere tone.
"You called her your first follower", you point out.
He raises a brow, confused. "Well she is?"
"What, and I'm nothing?"
"You're my equal."
You pause. He did always make a point to talk about Haypasia like she's below him. You have just been too busy focusing on the fact that he was talking about her at all.
You feel a cold hand on the side of your face. It's soft.
"You weren't listening earlier", he says with the same resolute softness that adorns his hold, "Comparing yourself to her is insulting. A god has hundreds of thousands of devotees. Her being the first to realise my divine greatness doesn't make her any different from the rest to come."
You blink. Him reframing it like that does shift your perspective. You lean into his hand as he continues to talk.
"She saw my past but she wasn't actually there when it mattered", he says, leaving out the obvious. It was you who was there.
Pantalone x Reader x Dottore (mainly Pantalone x reader)
Where, after Dottore's (Zandik, the original) death takes place, both you and Pantalone quietly mourn the Doctor. Ends up with domestic dottolone x reader scenario don't worry
Fluff, Angst, somewhat long drabble, not proofread i'm lazy
After Zandik's death, every interaction with Dottore felt a bit... unnatural. The original had vanished from existence, and only his creations remained standing.
Somewhere deep, buried within your heart you still missed Dottore. The original side of him. Even as grumpy and insufferable he was, you loved Zandik with all of your heart.
And so, years ago at Zandik's death, you had to leave that piece of heart behind.
Pantalone was always nearby; he made his mission to be next to you after the tragedy. You were surprised at seeing the fact that he somewhat.. moved on from Zandik, as the human part of him had been transferred eventually to Omega. The main segment of Dottore, and the one who wears your husband's face, yet is still.. not him.
You were the last one to come to the pair. You were the last one to come to love them both; Dottore and Pantalone.. and you were the last one to move on. Of course you eventually did; yet didn't miss every single time it hit the anniversary of his death. Dottore would have thought that putting flowers at his grave would be boring, repetitive, and useless. As they would die.
So, instead, to honour his wish, you placed plastic, resilient ones, and replaced them each year. Same day, same blue.
The feelings got lost in the past. Somewhere long ago. But the tradition remains.
Yet, despite your somewhat annoying tradition at this point, your two partners were always so dotting with you.
Pantalone always made sure to love and dot on you. He draped you in fine silk, with beautiful chunks of roses at your feet. He kissed your hands, both of them equally. He kissed the ring on your finger, then flipped your hand and kissed your wrist. Your veins, and up, up, up...
Dottore was more quiet with his affection. Not so loud, yet so vulnerable with you. At long, silent nights, he rubbed at your face with his long fingertips; hardened from so much experimenting. His love was more his than anything. He took care of little things, small problems that itched, and that only he could reach.
One day, it was the date of the original's death. You went calmly to the graveyard, and paid your respects as usual. Once you were back home, you decided to go to your lovely spouse, Pantalone. In days like this, neither of you liked to talk to Dottore. It was a sensitive moment that Omega just didn't posses the humanity to comprehend so.
You found your spouse sitting at the edge of his bed, your bed also. He was facing the wall with so much intensity, as he did not heard the door's creak when you opened it.
"... Darling?" You asked out loud as you walked closer to him. Your steps echoed in the long space of the room. You watched as Pantalone slowly looked back at you, his shoulders, always steady and ready for you to lie on them, now trembled just slightly under your gaze. His face was bare, no glasses in sight.
"Ah..." Pantalone whispered in realization. He brought his hand up to wipe at his eyes, then murmured back to you in that always composed tone of his. "Welcome, my treasure.. how was the visit?" You saw how his hands shifted amxiously on his lap, like ready to hide something, and that was when you realized.
Pantalone had some kind of long... book on his lap. "To keep memories intact! You can never trust the human mind as much as a book, he said when he bought it for you three. Your eyes drifted to it, and you heard Pantalone curse. But not at you. Oh never at you.
Pantalone patted the space next to him with a small, tender smile. You sat down, and he wasted no time in hugging you.
Pantalone was offering something. A tender and vulnerable moment on his chaotic life; he knew it was small, but it was something. You see that expression on his face, vey rare for an occupied business days.
He let go of you after a few seconds, but his hand remained securely on your back.
"I was.. observing some old pictures, my beloved." Your eyes drifted to his lap, where the book was at. He grabbed your hand, and spoke as he kissed it.
"You always get so.. sad, whenever the day comes. I see the light of your face wash off whenever the date arrives."
"So i.. " he pressed another kiss on your hand. "I thought we could take look at this. Together. It contains a bunch of pictures of ... him."
At the end of the book, Pantalone's head was resting on your lap. A rare moment of tenderness that he allowed himself to have by exposing out his heart.
Your fingers, so untoched compared to your spouses, carefully threaded through his hair. His mouth sung out a lullaby that didn't fit with the tone of his voice, but at the same time, it was so him. Your expression remained affectionate under his closed eyes, but you fully knew he was still watching you.
You leaned down and pecked his cheek, breaking the lullaby he sang. You chuckled, he did too. You pecked him once more, his forehead and his lips. But this time they brought you something rare.
A red peeked from his ears, and you had to take a second look make him realize.
"Oh, uhm," he murmured with an akward chuckle. "Well, after so much time, perhaps i am still not inmune to your charms."
The next day, Dottore saw you both. You looked giddier than usual, whenever Dottore raised his tone, grumpy like usual, you just weren't... there. Like your head was in a dream that you were not willing to wake up from. And Pantalone? That man wasn't any better. He looked surprisingly refreshed, as if he just had the best bath of his life.
"Hey, what is going on between you two?" Dottore pointed out accusingly. "You're both.. stupidly giddy, and for what i have observed, your dopamine leves are higher than usual,"
'"Are you both hiding something from me?"
You both shook your heads.
"My, my... are you jealous, perhaps? I wouldn't have dreamed of it."
You merely watched as Dottore gritted his teeth. You smiled, hid it beneath your hand. Pantalone patted the seat next to him on the couch, and Dottore, very much against his will, sat next to Pantalone.
"Did you eat chocolate? I've heard it makes humans quite happy.. any sweets?"
"Well, i sure eat a plenty of sweets." You teased back with a giggle, and Pantalone could only pat your back, as he was discreetly laughing too. Dottore merely swatted at both of you.
tw ; sadomasochism, graphic violence, implied past trauma. nsfw content, unsafe and unsane but consensual, no penetration.
reader ; gn, civilian.
You're a normal person. A rabbit in a world of wolves. Lohen thinks you need to learn how to defend yourself in the same way he did: the hard one.
It is a beautiful day in Mondstadt, and your nose is bleeding.
The blood runs down in warm rivulets to soak your nice white prayer-day shirt. There is no way you are getting it out in a single wash. It'll take scrubbing hard, and may even need a potion bought from Timaeus down by the alchemical crafting table.
And the bastard— Lohen, you think his name might be —is smiling.
His clothes are pristine. Barely show a sign of your scuffle. He even wears a collar around his neck like he's a goddamned dog. The only sign that he's involved in the violence rather than a kindly passerby is blaring red and wet. Your blood on his gloves. It stains his palms and fingers in the way you'd always imagined a victim's blood might the hand of their killer.
“Are you going to cry?” His voice grates on your ears. Makes the ache of your nose worse. You think he might have broken it.
“Piss off,” your voice cracks when you speak and he laughs. He fucking laughs.
“You said yes and I did what I said I was going to.”
His eyes crinkle at the edges, but there's no light in them at all. Wine-dark and deep enough that you avert your gaze as soon as you catch his. If you don't, you might never stop looking. The rabbit-fast pace of your heart makes your nose thump with pain. Even with your eyes anywhere but on him, you can't spot an exit path.
“You told me your name and asked if I had a good reaction time!”
The bell at the Church tolls. There's no time to change. It seems like you'll be heading to prayer covered in your own blood.
“And you lied,” Lohen laughs louder. “I didn't, just so you know.”
You run toward him, to get past him and onto the main road, and he grips your shoulder painfully tight. Then he lets you go, and you speed up, feet thundering against cobblestone. You cast a hesitant look back.
The bastard is waving at you.
"I'll get you back someday," you whisper. You're not sure if it's a threat or a wish.
Two weeks later, you spot him on your way out of the Angel's Share. The moon is bright against the night sky, the stars a glittering tapestry, and Lohen leans against the bar wall like a creature out of the Abyss.
“What,” you spit. “Do you want from me.”
He tilts his head, all animalistic and curious. His eyes are wide and sharp. Remind you of the drink you've just had. Tangy grapes turned wine that went down sour. It courses through you still, making the evening pleasantly warm and hazy.
Your nose is still bruised from his punch. Droning crickets and patrolling knights and noisy drunks make the night feel far less dangerous than the quiet alley did. But something about him makes your hackles raise.
“Must I want something from you?” He asks instead of telling you anything upfront, smile as audible as it is visible. He has sharp canine teeth. You support yourself against the wall so you don't lose your balance. Drunkenness has never suited you in the way it does every other citizen of Mondstadt.
“You're staring like you do,” you answer. “And I don't know why else you'd be here, if not for a second try.”
“Hah,” his laugh is short, dry. “You know me better than most already! Am I so easy to read?”
You launch yourself at him. His grin only widens. Fucking reaction time— Barbara started panicking when you walked in, and what could you say? Oh, some knight punched me in the face because I got a little proud of myself for once? Lohen's laughter is as sickening now as it was then.
His knee finds your gut. Your nails find his cheeks. You spit bile and wine onto his clothes as you feel skin give way underneath your fingertips. A hard shove down, and the stone street is against your back, or your back is against it, and minty hair dangles in front of your face, smelling nothing like the plant. He stinks of sweat and iron.
“Screw you,” you shout into his face. Someone from the bar opens the door. Lohen drags you, you think, because the light doesn't reach your eyes.
“Stop fighting or I'll stop you myself.” The stranger says. Their voice is warm. Deep. A comfort as you lie on the cold ground, nauseous, dizzy, blood pooling where you've scratched. There is no response and the door closes.
Lohen punches you in the face again, and then he's hoisting you up by the arms, laughing still.
Freak.
“Are you sure I'm the only one who wanted that?” He sounds barely out of breath, and doesn't even flinch when you vomit all over his shoes.
Three days later, Lohen shows up at your door covered in blood. His face is still bruised, scratched like a cat was trying to kill him, but he's smiling.
You are not sure of how he knows where you live. Knights privileges, maybe. You watch as he drips all over the cobblestone and a little on your wooden floor, and you consider trying to kill him right then and there.
“Hello,” he says, raspy. “I was hunting, oh, sorry, I mean— tracking down a band of escaped Treasure Hunters.”
You swallow the bile that threatens to rise. Try not to think of how you threw yourself at him like you could have won. A murderer on your doorstep who punched you in the face twice. Barbatos must hate you specifically.
“And?”
“And I was wondering if I could teach you some tricks on how to not end up like them.”
You try to close the door and he grabs the side of it, holds it open. You push harder and it doesn't give a single damned inch.
“It'd be good for you,” he says, all chipper. You eye the hilt of a blade at his belt. You thought knights considered it immoral to fight with anything but a sword. But of course this one doesn't. Assaulting a civilian in broad daylight, and all. Even if you'd technically said yes. Even if you'd jumped at his throat later.
“You aren't giving me a choice,” you say.
“I always have a choice,” Lohen's voice, usually all light and sweet twists into something sharp, something like a blade. “You could end up like that, if you wanted.”
You close the door.
A few seconds pass. You do not hear him walk away. There are no weapons in your house, no tools to defend yourself with, only your body.
A memory strikes you, unbidden; Lohen on the ground due to nothing but surprise, the way he'd dragged you away from the light of the bar, safety just out of reach.
You open the door. His answering smile makes your blood turn to ice. It doesn't look like he expected anything else.
Four months later, you are knocking down wooden stands with as much force as you can muster. The sound as they fall hurts your ears, and you can't quite tell if the violent thumping noise is the rush of your pulse or the training sword smacking into cloth.
Lohen watches from the side with a dull expression. You don't know how long he's been standing there, aren't sure of when he arrived, but you're duly ignoring him. Training is exhausting. You're no knight. And yet…
“Stop,” he says. You don't flinch. Your grip tightens on the hilt of your sword.
He walks toward you with a casual pep, little capelet bouncing in the breeze, and a bruise still healing over his chin. There is a sword in his hand. Not his favored weapon, you've learned. The polearm or the dagger or the poison— he hasn't used a ranged weapon of his own choice in years.
“How long has it been since we practiced together, again? I swear, it's been ages since I've had a good fight!”
You roll your eyes. You put up little struggle next to knights.
“Two days,” you say.
Lohen laughs something ugly and charming. “Two days too long, clearly!”
A gloved hand comes to rest between your shoulders. There is still blood on them. He never washed it out. He never does. It could be yours, or it could be the treasure hunters’, or it could be his own. You don't know which option you favor. His hand is cool where it touches you, even through the cloth.
“Your form is off,” he says, smiling. “Do I not train you hard enough?”
You stiffen, and his hand presses harder, hard enough that you stumble and have to regain your footing by jumping a few paces.
His eyes are shadowed despite the light of the setting sun. You can't quite read him. You think you thought you could, when you met him, but now every expression slips between your fingers like powdered milk. Spoilt. Rotten.
You raise your sword to position. He grabs a training lance from the rack and puts his sword, sharp and deadly, down on the ground beside it.
Ah. He's going serious on you. For once.
The sight makes you swallow and you find that your own spit feels like swallowing a toad. Nerves bundle up. Your fingers shake. Your stomach hollows. Bastard knows how to frighten you.
He says nothing as he pounces on you, legs kicking out to sweep your feet from under you, and it is practice and luck combined that means you avoid it. A hard blow from up above makes you have to block with both hands, one on the hilt and one on the blade, wood splintering into your skin.
“Come on,” he says, his rasp somewhere between laughter and a sigh. “Are you going to risk that with a real weapon? Stupid, but brave…”
You thrust up a knee, aiming for his stomach, and find a softer spot instead. He giggles, pained, and you don't know how to feel about how satisfied the wheeze in his breath makes you feel. His clothes do little to obscure his movements. Leaning over, hand on his polearm, all blue and white… He almost looks like a true knight.
You don't let pity get you. Don't let the pained look fool you. He's smiling through his wince. Lohen is a bastard, and you raise your sword high, aiming for the soft spot between neck and shoulder blade.
He blocks it with the wooden blade of his spear, fast and hard, hard enough that your foot kicks into his thigh and makes him fumble. It might leave a bruise.
“Nice one!” Lohen laughs, and you're surprised enough by his praise that you don't see the hand that grabs your throat coming at all.
It knocks you down flat. Familiarly so. His legs around your waist, knees tight like he's restraining a wild animal. His gloved fingers squeeze around your neck, just enough to make you struggle to breathe with how hard the exertion made you pant.
“But,” he starts, tilting his head, leaning down until the wispy bangs of his hair brush your skin. “Nice isn't good enough, you gotta want it to hurt me.”
His eyes are wide. Empty. Fucking wine-dark. You never noticed it before but he has a little mole underneath one of them. Once, you heard someone say that a mole like that signifies a life of hardship and tears. You've never seen his eyes water even a little.
“Okay,” you say just to fill the silence, to distract yourself. The bruise on your nose has healed long ago, but it lingers in your mind. “Wanting that is easy enough anyway.”
Lohen's smile twists into something so sharp you think it might be satisfied.
“We'll make a fighter out of you yet.”
Five hours later, you are sitting by his side in the infirmary. The blood has mostly been cleaned off by now, removed with more patches of cloth than you'd ever seen used in your life. It colored the water in the bucket a deep red.
Lohen, for his part in things, seems awfully happy. He kicks his legs back and forth despite the flesh wound on his calf, smiling so brightly that the white of his teeth rivals the white of the bandages wrapped around his head.
They're already staining. You think he might have a concussion, but Barbara swore he didn't.
They called her over because of the severity of the wounds. You tried not to meet her gaze when she asked who did it, what happened, who else got hurt. It was you and not you. It was you and the people you fought and really, that makes it all Lohen's fault.
If you'd been stronger, neither of you would have gotten hurt. If you'd never accepted the desire to get stronger, neither of you would have been there at all.
Nausea climbs your throat at the memory of slack expressions. Empty eyes. Sinew and bone.
“You're lost in thought,” Lohen says, chipper. He waves a hand in front of your face and you push it down with a groan. “Care to share?”
“Not really,” you mumble.
Your own wounds were treated last, because they weren't as severe. Scratches and cuts on your arms, a thin injury from a blade along your back. Lohen couldn't keep his eyes off of them when you'd first helped each other walk back. He'd stepped down hard on his own bleeding leg. Not even limping.
You swallow at the memory. Try not to think about what the bastard made you do— about the blood on your hands. His. Theirs. Your own.
“Did you not like it?” He asks, and you look at him to find his face awfully empty. Familiarly empty. The thought of him dead strikes you hard, like sickening lightning, and you shake your head just to clear it.
You clench your hands in your lap. Lohen takes them into his own, thumbs the calloused skin of your palm, brushing hard enough to make the scratches sting. Turned up like this, they look awfully normal. Like nothing has changed.
“You barely even did half of the work, I was the one wiping the floor with them,” he says, sounding not-quite-enthusiastic. Not like usual. “But there's nothing wrong with enjoying yourself when you're fighting to survive.”
You watch a knight pass by the open infirmary door. Armor shining in the light of the day. Weapon sheathed at their belt.
“I think we could've done it less…” Less what? With less mortal consequences?
Lohen laughs as you trail off. He sounds like himself again. You think his expression still looks off.
“That's the kinda mindset that gets you killed, and you won't even have lived enough to make your mercy worth it!”
You can't quite disconnect from the moment, can't think of the bodies, because his thumb presses harder into your palm. The sting keeps you tethered. Keeps you awake. Makes blood bubble to the surface.
You are alive because you killed. Lohen won't let you forget it.
Six days later, you find yourself in Lohen's small apartment. It's a single room on the upper story of a house where several knights live, with a small window that lets the sunlight in, and a view of the rolling fields outside Mondstadt's walls. You can even spot Dragonspine in the distance.
He'd explained to you that the room was on a rotating schedule amongst knights in his company, that whoever lived in it was whoever was stationed in Mondstadt at the time, and that someone else had lived in it for over a year while he'd been on the expedition.
“Is that why it's so clean?” You ask, half-joking, and he laughs but doesn't answer.
When you poke around, you find knives hidden under pillows on the couch-bed. It's a miracle you don't cut yourself by accident.
“I invite you here for dinner and you make fun of an apartment that's barely even mine,” he rolls his eyes. He's dressed more casually today than you've seen him in… Forever, you think. White and blue, but no pomp, no knightly symbols. Covered from head to toe.
Every so often he looks back at you from where he stands in the tiny kitchen, hair falling into his eyes. “You know perfectly well I keep my weapons sorted.”
“And your collection,” you say instead of pointing out the polearm hanging precariously above the rickety dinner table.
He nods, gives you a look you can't read. His smile is too soft. “And my collection.”
The smell of fish and cream permeates the apartment, warm and cloying. You lean back against the bed where you sit. It's softer than you thought it would be. Somehow you'd just assumed Lohen was the kind of masochistic idiot who slept on hard mattresses to prove something to himself.
“Taste test before I serve it or I'll make you lick it up from the floor,” he calls, and you rise, flicking him across the forehead. You never know if he might make good on it.
Only mostly serious, you ask a question that gets you the reward of a wink and then a shake of the head as you step toward his side. "Did you add anything weird to it? Poison, maybe?"
You grab for the spoon but he dips a finger into the boiling mixture and raises it to your mouth.
“What,” you say, but that's too much of an opening, clearly, and he stuffs it between your lips. You bite down like you're faced with a carrot, annoyance hot in your chest, and he winces, but doesn't pull back.
Slowly, biting harder all the while, you lick the cream from his finger. It tastes buttery and sweet. You let his finger go from between your teeth and watch as blood pools, marks visible on his pale skin like bruises on fruit. He's an apple nobody but you would ever pick, you think.
“It tastes fine,” you say, looking into his dark eyes to avoid looking at the marks. “But you're a real freak, you know that, right?”
Lohen's answering smile is more real than you've seen since the fight.
“I know,” he grins. Leans too far into your space. “Want to test out just how true that is?”
Seven months later, you are crouched in the tree at Windrise. The breeze is blowing leaves up from the undergrowth, rustling every branch with such noise that it hides your labored breathing.
Beneath you, a dark blue dot shadowed against the bright blue sky, Lohen approaches with his polearm in hand. This far up he looks like a rabbit on the ground, face twitching, hunched up like a prey animal ready to start running. You swallow the excitement. This has been months in the making. Over a year.
It is your test, to see how far you've come, how much his training has pushed you, and— and you want to prove that you're not going to take a single hit and go down. You'll rip his throat out today. Eat him alive.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he shouts, sing-song and delighted, and you curl so that the leaves will hide you better.
Your grip on your blade tightens. The leather handle brushes against the scars left over from the fight all those weeks ago. You don't think about it much anymore. It happened. You lived. Lohen lived.
All things considered, there were few better outcomes to have.
He steps further toward the tree, careful and quiet and if you hadn't been up here, you never would have seen him coming. His polearm is kept up just-so, ready to strike and yet never hitting the ground and telling you of his position.
You watch him tilt his head, looking around, and you can just about picture ears on his head darting toward every sound. You crouch lower.
A step more, and the position will be perfect. You don't even dare breathe. Too great a risk.
And then he looks right up at you.
And the bastard smiles.
It is entirely on impulse that you leap from the tree, blade outstretched— iron, sharp, a real threat —toward his neck. That little collar has pissed you off since you first met him. You are going to cut it off as you cut his throat.
That's how Lohen has trained you, after all. You even have the reaction speed to lean back when he swings the polearm toward you, just barely out of reach as it swims through the air in front of your nose.
“Fuck you, I fucking had you,” you say, and he laughs, swiping a leg toward you. “Fuck you!”
You jump up to avoid it, use your sword to balance and relish the satisfying feeling of a sharp edge sinking into soft dirt. A kick toward him has him staggering back, and then he stabs the polearm toward the arm you're leaning on, and you have to raise it so fast you nearly take your own eye out with the blade.
“It was a good try,” he says, panting, and you punch him with your free hand. You think you might have broken his nose. He doesn't so much as wince, just smiles wider, using the long handle of his spear to take out a leg from under you.
Fighting with Lohen feels like dancing, now. It's a test too. It always has been. But you dodge under and over the long, hard swings of his spear, and every time he tries to get close you use your blade to drive him away.
“A good try,” he says again, ducking just under the swing of your sword, and you swear you can see that you take a few hairs off his head— and then he rises, forehead meeting your chin. You gasp, lean back, a hand where it hurts, but you spot where he's going to go next, and… “But not good enough.”
This time, when he makes for your throat with a hand hidden just underneath the shadow his spear casts on the ground, you grab his wrist and twist it around.
He falls along with you, as you push your elbow against his back, right into soft flesh. His polearm goes careening, and you hold your sword high. When he lands facedown in the grass, you're on his back, digging the blade into the ground right beside his cheek.
You pant. Lohen wheezes beneath you. You can feel the uneven breaths where you sit, both of you shaking from the fight. His hair covers much of his face, but he tilts his head, letting the sharp edge of your sword cut into his skin, and meets your gaze.
“That was great,” he says, sucking in a harsh breath. Blood from his nose runs down into his mouth. Stains his teeth. “You've learned how to take a punch, and how to dish one out..!”
The hand trapped between you and his back wriggles, and you tighten your grip. Sitting down, you can feel where your ribs will bruise, where your body will ache tomorrow. It doesn't matter, though. You won.
He runs cold, but when you tilt the blade a little closer, digging a little further into his flesh, you can see that his pale skin is warming up. Blushing red.
“You gonna get up and let me go for a second try?” Lohen asks, sounding awfully excited about the thought. “Or are you gonna take your time making me pay?”
The answer is clear as day to both of you. Sometimes he asks questions just to feel the sting of a denial.
You have several months of things to make him suffer for.
It takes only a few seconds of consideration before you lift him by the hair, bringing the sword to his throat. The blood from his nose and cheek drips onto it. By now, both the edge and the flat of the blade are red with his blood.
Carefully, without remorse, you dig it under the collar, and strip it off like you would when unleashing a trapped dog.
Lohen's giggle sounds hoarse, muted, and the way he sniffles could fool anyone else into thinking he was crying. But you can see the smile. Know it's only the blood. You don't know how far you'd have to go to get him to sob, but you think you might want to find out.
You yank him up higher, dig your fingers into the thick of his hair and clench around the roots, and feel the way he fights against your pull. Just to feel the ache, you bet. Bastard. Freak.
This close you can look him in the eyes, see the little mole under one of them, the long arcs of his lashes. The blood on his teeth.
“You don't seem too upset to have lost,” you say aimlessly, considering what you might do, what revenge you can take. You sit up further, holding down the arm on his back with your weight, and tilt the hand you're using to hold the sword so close that you're nearly taking out his eye just so you can brush the skin underneath it.
Soft. Too soft for someone like him, you think, and then he's leaning up into you and kissing you with too much teeth. The taste of his blood is metallic and you're sure you must look awfully shocked because he's laughing again, biting your lips, all coppery stench and impulse.
Lohen's tongue swipes across your teeth, and you're not sure what possesses you to do it— whatever drove you to agree to training with him in the first place, perhaps —but you lick against the inside of his cheek like you're tasting fresh kill. There is a bite wound there, biting his tongue doesn't seem like his thing, but now that you're thinking back on it…
“You fucking freak,” you spit, laughing at the red on his cheeks, laughing at the way the memory of his lust for violence mixes with the memory of him in his kitchen, cooking you a meal. “You love me!”
Then he kisses you again, sharp and hungry and painful, biting down your lips to your chin and to your neck. It hurts like you imagine being bitten by a desperate animal might. The funny part is just that he keeps leaning up into you, keeps chasing after you even when you rise.
“Don't stop there,” he half-groans and half-wheezes, out of breath. You hit him over the head and he makes a miserable, delighted noise.
It probably makes you a freak too, you're realizing, that you think this act of hurting each other is a fitting reward for the past year of dancing around each other. You don't have much time to think about it, though, because Lohen is kicking back at you to upheave you from where you sit.
It takes maneuvering and strength and a little bit of luck for you to remain sitting, but you're on the ground instead of on top of him, and his hands find your shoulders with surprising speed. He's shaking, but you think that's excitement, and his fingers squeeze so tight that it hurts.
Your knee is between his thighs where his cock is hard in his pants, your teeth are on his now-bare neck, biting into pristine skin. His fingers are calloused under the gloves he almost always wears, but here he's soft, delicate, a word you'd never use to describe Lohen otherwise.
“Too easy," you mumble, and he bites into his glove to drag it off, then digs a hand under your shirt. He scratches down your back with his nails like a wildcat, and you dig your knee up so that you're both wincing.
He's grinding against you with no rhythm, and you're no better where you sit on his thigh, and dully you think that you're both really fucking lucky that there's a festival in Dornman Port and most people are far away from Windrise. It means that when Lohen lets out a sound somewhere between a keen and a mocking laugh at the way your hips stutter, you don't have to stuff your fingers into his mouth to keep him quiet.
You think he might want you to do that, though, because he kisses your palm on your way to burying it in his hair. The palm with the scars from your fight all that time ago. The sight makes you swallow thick and bitter.
"Fuckin'," you start, gasping out when he grinds his thigh harder against you. "Sappy bastard."
"Can't you see how delighted," he breathes against you, cool despite the heat of the situation, the closeness of your bodies, the way his blood still runs down his face in warm rivulets. Cryo vision. "I am, that you've figured out how to be cruel?"
"Gross," you say, and he laughs hard enough that he smears the blood on his face against your skin. You're both covered in it. It's everywhere, and you both stink of iron and dirt and arousal, and you can't help but laugh along with him. His eyes are impossibly dark. Still that same color that gets stuck in your head, that lingers when you close your own.
Wine-dark.
Behind him, your sword lays in the grass, green and grey dotted with red. You kiss him this time, and fumble for the hilt, and... There, you have it. His eyes are closed, long dark lashes fluttering against his pale, bloodied skin. You bite his lip, lick the open wound, and press the blade of the sword to his throat.
He laughs. The edge cuts into his skin just-so. His smile is wide and alive and joyous.
"You've got it out for me," Lohen says like you've promised him the world, out of breath and hard against you, leaning further so a single movement would cut his head from his body.
It's the merciless press of your blade against his skin and the cruel, slow grind that does him in, and with your faces so close together, you can see the satisfied look on his face as he comes with a frenzied giggle.
You don't stop moving, not when the grip of his fingers and the harsh scratching makes you grit your teeth, and you shake on his thigh as if the risk of slitting his throat with one awkward movement wasn't hanging right above your heads.
"Guess you really did screw me in the end," Lohen laughs, and you roll your eyes, dropping the sword at your side. You brush your finger across his neck. The blood pools and mixes together until you can't tell which of you was the first to start bleeding.
It takes a good few minutes until either of you speak again, but you don't bother counting them.
"...Satisfied with your revenge yet?" Lohen asks, breathing hard. Grinning.
You hum. As if you were considering it. Let the silence settle in, nothing but your breathing and the breeze to occupy it. Watch his face fall from a smile to an empty frown. The hollow nothingness that settles in after the joy. It'd be a cruel fate to condemn anyone to.
But you have the choice, now. You always will.
You look him over. His white clothes, knightly as ever, are stained with blood. Discolored by grass. A blush dusts his bleeding cheeks, there's a little cut on his throat that's sure to scar. His lips are red and wounded. He looks debauched. It was your hand that did this to him. It's a nice thought.
"No," you say finally, and watch his eyes light up like Mondstadt on a festival eve. "I'm not sure I'll ever be."
In which Red Riding Hood gets the creamiest of the pies!
werewolf!Varka x fem!reader
wordcount: ~4100
TWs: MNDI, PWP, fairy tale vibes, predator/prey, size difference, age gap (he calls reader lil' Red, but reader IS NOT a minor) possessive behavior, manhandling, implied kidnapping. NSFW: non-con to dub-con to con, virginity loss, knotting, breeding kink, dacryphilia, creampie, Varka is in heat, oral sex (f receiving), a tiny bit of rimming and anal play marking/claiming, serving pussy so good he sees Celestia.
(If you find some more, please let me know.)
As usual, thank you all, my dear sweethearts, for your support!
NOT SUITED FOR MINORS. Not proofread. Author does not endorse or condone any of the actions depicted in real life. Also, English is not the author's first language, so there might be some mistakes.
Please remember that you are responsible for your own media consumption.
“Just one bite…”
You clutched the wicker basket tighter, while Momma’s warning echoed in your ears: “Be careful, my darling girl. The Big Bad Wolf haunts the woods of Wolvendom. Walk as fast as you can and don’t you dare to stop, or he’ll get you.”
But the pie, nestled in your basket under a red-checkered cloth, sang a siren song of cinnamon and sugar, of buttery crust and tender fruit. You, all dolled up in your favorite little red dress, red woolen stockings, and the scarlet cloak, had walked for nearly one hour before the gluttony won.
“A small taste,” you whispered to the silent trees, your voice swallowed by the thick moss and shadow. “A crumb. Just to see.”
You found a stump, set your basket upon it, and lifted the cloth. The aroma that burst forth was obscenely delicious, making your mouth water. You broke a piece of flaky golden crust with your fingers, moaning softly as the flavor melted on your tongue.
Then another.
And another.
Lost in it, you were feasting in the forbidden wood, your cheeks dusted with sugar, fingers sticky, and belly warm from your momma’s fine pastry.
That’s when The Big Bad Wolf himself stepped into your sight. One moment, the clearing was empty, the next he was there, parting from the shadows between two great oaks.
The piece of pie dropped from your fingers at the sight.
The figure before you was gigantic, and the scandalous state of undress did nothing to hide his monumental form. Sun-kissed skin, stretched taut over a terrain of thick muscle, was marred by a map of silvery scars that spoke of countless battles. A light dusting of golden hair, catching the dappled forest light, traced the hard lines of his torso, leading down past the stark V of his hips.
His face held a wild charm, a rough stubble dusting a jaw that looked capable of crushing bone. And his eyes… they were a blue so piercing and knowing it felt uncanny. They saw the tremor in your hands, the traitorous hitch in your breath, the coil of heat tightening low in your belly despite your terror. Two large wolf ears, a shade darker than his tousled blonde hair, twitched and pivoted at your every whimper, attuned to the frantic rabbit-beat of your heart. Behind him, a magnificent golden tail lashed once through the air with a soft swish, betraying his interest.
But your gaze, horrified and helplessly fascinated, was dragged downward. Between his tree-trunk thighs, utterly unabashed, it stood – a thick, ruddy, obscene length of flesh, heavy with prominent veins. It wasn't fully upright but jutted forward with a weighty promise, the tapered tip already beading with a single pearl of moisture that caught the dappled forest light. It gave a slight bob as you stared, making your own breath stutter in response. The air grew thick, charged with the scent of pine, musk, and something feral.
You stumbled back with a shriek, clutching the basket and holding it in front of you like a shield. “S-stay back!”
The sound that rumbled from his chest was deep and grating, startling you for a second.
“Whoa there, lil’ Red! Easy! I don’t bite… much.” He took a casual step forward, his nostrils flaring. “Gods. That smell...” He inhaled deeply, and a smile spread across his face, revealing sharp canines. “The sweetest pie.”
“Take it then!” you squealed, thrusting the basket toward him, squeezing your eyes shut. “Just take the pie and don’t hurt me!”
“Hmm?” He plucked the basket from your trembling hands, sniffed it once, and threw it aside without a glance. “No, no, silly thing. Not that pie.”
A large hand closed around your wrist. You gasped, eyes opening wide to meet his blazing blues. They were glazed, half-lidded with a hunger you barely understood.
“Name’s Varka, lil’ Red,” he growled, “and I’ve just caught the ripest scent in whole damn Wolvendom.”
“No!” You tried to pull back, but his grip was iron. “Let me go! I have to go to my grandmother!”
“Grandma can wait,” he purred, his other hand coming up to push the hood of your cloak back. His fingers tangled in your hair, appreciating your beautiful locks before yanking you against the unyielding wall of his body. The impact knocked the air from your lungs, and you were acutely aware of every sculpted ridge of his abdomen and chest pressed against you. The hard line of his erection, throbbing with a slow pulse, pressed against your belly, searing hot even through the layers of your dress. You whimpered in pure terror, and your high-pitched sound ignited something feral in his eyes.
A terrified “Please!” was all you managed before his fingers, tipped with claws that lightly scored the fabric, closed on the front of your dress. With a brutal tear, the pretty red fabric turned into a shredded remnant in his massive fist. You stumbled backwards, and your ass hit the soft moss of the forest floor.
Varka kneeled and loomed over you, a mountain of scarred muscle and primal intent, blotting out the sky. His blue eyes, the pupils dilated into dark pools, glinted with a heat that had nothing to do with violence. His gaze lingered on your exposed belly and the tender swell of your breasts rising and falling with panicked breaths. Instinctively, you crossed your arms over your chest, a futile shield.
“Still tryin' to be modest, sweet Red?” Varka rumbled fondly, a low growl lacing the words. His knee, rough with hair and corded muscle, pressed insistently between your thighs, using his overwhelming weight to force your shaking legs apart. The cool forest air kissed your skin, making you shudder. “No need for that. Let’s have a proper look at what’s makin' all that sweet smell.”
You thrashed like the sweetest prey, your red stockings snagging and tearing against something in the moss. “Please, no – the pie, take the pie!”
“Hah! I’ve told you,” he snarled, leaning down so his hot breath, carrying the wild scent of his arousal, fanned your face. His rough stubble scratched your cheek as he nipped at your earlobe. “I’m not interested in the one in the basket.”
You felt his hands, rough like weathered bark, completely engulf your hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of your inner thighs as he spread you open wider. With another rip, this one accompanied by the sickening sound of torn lace, the remaining skirts and your delicate panties were rendered into useless shreds. You screamed, kicking back wildly. Your heel connected with the solid rock of his thigh, which only made his cock, now fully erect and angrily red, jump and leak a thick strand of precum onto your inner thigh.
“Feisty! I like the fight in ya!” Varka laughed wholeheartedly, and his wolf ears flattened against his skull in concentration. His lips find the shell of your ear, whispering intimately, “Gon’ lick ya stupid, lil’ Red. Gotta taste what I'm goin’ to destroy...”
Before you could plead again, his mouth descended. His lips and tongue were a brand of fire, trailing down, sucking violent hickeys into the tender skin of your neck, your collarbone, the trembling swell of your breast. Varka stopped over your pert nipple, sucking the innocent flesh deep into the scorching cavern of his mouth, teasing the poor bud mercilessly with the rasp of his rough tongue, then bit slightly around it, his sharp canines leaving a perfect red circle of indents around your tortured peak.
The mix of pain and shocking pleasure made you grab fistfuls of unruly hair near his ears and tug. This only elicited a low growl of approval from him as he released your poor flesh with an obscene pop.
“Tha’s it… Ya startin’ to look like mine, Red.” He admired the darkening mark with a possessive gleam in his eye before continuing his relentless journey south, licking a broad stripe down your belly, his nose inhaling deeply, savoring the salt of your sweat and the sweet feminine scent beneath. As his handsome face came level with your loins, hidden in shy curls and glistening with your own betraying arousal, Varka stared at your slit, appreciating the delicacy of his next meal.
"Here's the pie I crave," he murmured, and buried his nose in your curls, sniffing like a starved bloodhound at a feast. A rumbling groan of appreciation rattled in his chest, and, drunk on your scent, he finally licked a burning path from your dripping entrance all the way up to your swollen clit.
You jerked as if struck by lightning, a broken cry torn from your throat at the white-hot bolt of pleasure that seared through the numbness of your terror. Your toes coiled against the damp moss, and your hips gave an involuntary jerk towards his greedy mouth. Varka growled, the sound shaking his entire frame and vibrating deliciously against your labia.
“Oh, fuck,” his voice was muffled against your slick folds. He lapped at you again, broader, slower, more proprietary, his broad nose nudging insistently against your clit as his tongue parted your inner lips, prodding at your leaking hole, savouring the taste. “Hit a jackpot. Cunt sweet as honey and ripe as a fucking peach. You knew what you did, coming into my woods ovulating, didn’t ya?”
With that, Varka hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, the red wool of your torn stocking being a stark contrast against his sun-tanned skin. Dipping back, he pressed his face to your cunt so tight that his nose flattened your poor clit, and his tongue became relentless when you whimpered at the sensation. It speared inside you, fucking you with shallow thrusts that made you sob and gush more of your honey into his thirsty mouth. Then it flattened, dragging over your clit in tight, dizzying circles that had your back arching off the ground against your will, your hands flying to his head once again.
This time, though, you didn't try push him away. Instead, your fingers tangled in his hair, the gesture caught between a plea to stop and a desperate pull for more. Varka held you down easily, one huge hand splaying possessively over your lower belly, pinning you, urging you to gush out more sweetness against his face.
With his tongue on you, in you, you were becoming boneless, melting slowly, the forest canopy spinning above you. Tears of shame and pleasure streaked your temples.
“Va– Vah–!” you tried to plead, but found yourself unable to speak when he sucked at your clit again.
“Sho– shooo fuckin’ shweet,” he snarled between licks, his hands coming up to cruelly pinch and roll your neglected nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, kneading the soft swell afterwards. He shifted, nuzzling lower, his wet nose tracing a path further down. His tongue, eager and curious, darted to tease the tight pucker of your other hole, kissing and licking it with blunt pressure.
“Ah! N-not there!” you shrieked, jolting as if struck.
“Everywhere,” Varka corrected hungrily, his voice muffled between your thighs. “But for now…” His tongue returned to your weeping slit with renewed fervor, drinking from you, licking up like a starved mutt, then sucking your raw clit into his mouth with obscene gusto, smearing more of your juices all over his stubbled cheeks and chin, biting at the tender nub ever so gently with his teeth.
The culmination was too vast to fight, and, with another teasing nip, you came, body convulsing violently under the prison of his mouth and hands, your vision whiting out as waves of shameful pleasure wracked you. Varka tugged at your nipples again and drank every spasm, every drop, his growls of satisfaction vibrating through your very core.
“Fuck yeah,” he panted, lifting his head, his face glistening with your release. “Jus’ a small appetizer before the main feast.” As you lay there trembling, utterly wrecked and puddled on your own red cloak, he moved up your body. His immense weight settled over you, supported only by his forearms, deliciously crushing the air from your lungs. The intimidating length of his fully erect cock, its ruddy skin flushed dark and slick with his pre-cum, pressed insistently against your quivering entrance. He nudged impatiently, and you felt the tapered tip catch and begin to part your swollen hole.
“W-wait!”
Varka did not.
With a single, powerful, and utterly devastating thrust, he fully sheathed himself inside you, and white-hot pain obliterated everything. You didn’t hear yourself scream, and didn’t feel how your nails dug into his scarred shoulders, scoring thin red lines over old silvered wounds, as more tears escaped your eyes. There was a tearing in your abdomen, a stretching beyond comprehension, a burning invasion that split you open around a thickness you could not fathom, and a hot trickle of blood joining the mess of fluids between your legs.
Varka halted, his entire body going rigid above you. His nostrils flared, sniffing audibly at the coppery new scent mingling with your arousal in the air. His pupils dilated into vast pools, the blazing blue nearly swallowed whole by dawning realization.
“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he breathed, his voice a thick rumble of lust and sudden wonder. He pulled back just enough to look down between your joined bodies. A smear of vivid crimson painted the thick root of his cock, a stark, virgin red glistening around the veined flesh and the swollen knot at its base. A profound change came over him. The rowdy predator was still there, thrumming in the tense cord of his muscles, but it was now layered with something else – an almost reverent gentleness. The low growl in his chest softened into a deep purr, and his tail began to thump a joyful rhythm against the moss behind him.
“Ah, sweetheart...” he murmured, the words gravelly with awe. Varka lowered his head, his stubbled jaw scraping gently against your cheek as he nuzzled you, his large wolf ears swiveling forward to catch every hitched breath. He licked the tears from your skin with surprisingly soft licks, the action slow and soothing, like a dog trying to calm his owner.
“Shhh, lil’ Red, you’re good… Givin’ your first to a Big Bad Wolf…” He kissed your eyelids, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth, his actions bizarrely tender even as his monstrous erection stayed lodged deep inside your pussy, the heat of him a brand on your very core, stretching you with a fullness that bordered on torture.
“Gonna make it so good for you, you’ll beg for more, yeah? For now, be a good girl and relax, ‘key?”
Varka stayed like that for long minutes, kissing and cooing, letting his weight envelop you, letting your body adjust to his monstrous invasion. The burning pain slowly began to transmute into an unbearable fullness. You felt stuffed, speared, owned. And as he began to move – a shallow rock of his hips – withdrawing almost all the way before sliding back in with aching slowness, the pain melted into a pleasure so intense it felt like dying.
“M–more!” you sobbed, back arching into him needily.
He cradled your head in his calloused palms, kissing your face as he thrusted. Each gradually deepening move punched a soft whimper from your lips. Needing to anchor yourself, your hands found his bulging forearms, clinging weakly. Varka made a pleased sound deep in his chest and gathered you closer, the hot, musky scent of his sweat and skin enveloping you.
“That’s it,” he grunted, his composure beginning to fracture as the rut reclaimed him, his gentle rhythm growing more insistent, the slap-slap-slap of his flesh against yours growing louder in the quiet glade. “Submit, lil’ Red. It’ll feel even better...”
Slowly, but surely, the world broke apart. Each piston-like drive of his hips punched the breath from your lungs and smashed the tapered tip of his cockhead against the mouth of your womb, making you see stars. The wet, filthy sound of him pounding your sloppy cunny filled the air, louder than your cries.
“That’s it, baby,” Varka roared, his own composure shattering, his claws extending just enough to prick the skin of your hips, “So tight, so hot around me– fuck! Gon’ knot you so full!”
One hand gripped your hip so hard you knew there would be bruises in the shape of his fingers. The other wrapped in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat for his biting, sucking, kissing. His teeth grazed your pulse point, not breaking skin, but promising the mark. Your breasts, freed from your dress, bounced and jiggled wildly with every brutal thrust.
You were beyond thought at this point. Cock-drunk, mindless, pounded into the wet moss by a Big Bad Wolf himself. Your legs, which had been pushing weakly at his sides, now locked around his waist, your heels digging into the small of his back, just above the base of his thrashing tail, trying to pull him deeper, to feel the burgeoning pressure of his knot against your ravaged hole.
“Va– Varka! P-please… mo– ore!” you heard yourself beg, the words slurred and shattered by each devastating plunge.
He laughed, a joyous sound echoing in his chest. “Such a greedy little virgin I caught! Wants it all, doesn’t she?” His eyes, glowing with feral adoration, devoured your mindless form. “Ride it then, baby! Take what you need from me!”
In a dizzying display of strength, he rolled onto his back, keeping you seamlessly impaled. Your world spun as you found yourself straddling him, your hands on his hairy chest, his shaft buried to the hilt inside your clutching pussy. Varka folded his powerful arms behind his head, muscles bulging, and grinned up at you with wolfish delight, his golden tail thumping against the moss. “Earn your cream, lil’ Red. Show this ol’ wolf what yer made of.”
You tried to move, but managed only a shallow rise before sinking back down, a needy sob catching in your throat. Seeing your struggle, the vestige of the predator vanished, replaced by a guiding lust.
“Aww, poor Red... Let the Big Bad Wolf help ya,” Varka murmured, and his large hands settled on your hips. He began to guide you, lifting you with ease until just the swollen tip of him remained inside, then pulling you down slowly, sheathing you back onto his girth like a toy.
“Like that, yeah?” he encouraged, his blue eyes holding yours. “Use me, darlin’. Take a ride.”
With his help, you found a rhythm – a slow, deep, rolling grind that dragged every inch of his veined shaft against places that made you see Celestia behind your eyelids. You rose and fell with a wet plap-plap-plap, aided by the upward thrusts of his own hips, meeting him in a syncopated dance of mounting frenzy, your head thrown back in abandon.
“Look at ya,” he panted, his hands leaving your hips to cup your breasts, kneading the soft flesh with rough reverence. “First timer, and already ridin’ that cock like a pro, yeah? Bouncing on it like you were born for it. Want my cream tha’ bad?”
“Please! Varka! Give it to me– I need it– I need you!” You nodded frantically, slamming yourself down onto him despite the tang of pain in your cunny, meeting his upward thrusts desperately. The base of his shaft, that threatening swell of his knot, began to stretch you even wider with every bounce.
“Come on my cock then!” he ordered, his voice a guttural snarl. “Squeeze it out of my balls! Let me put a litter in you!”
“I’m gonna– Please–!” You shattered. Your orgasm was a tidal wave, violent and all-consuming. Your cunt clamped down on him like a vise, rippling and convulsing around the intrusive thickness, milking his length in rhythmic, desperate pulses.
“That’s my good girl!” Varka howled, his heart banging against his ribs, eyes rolling back.
“Gon’ cum!” was his final warning. His face contorted in ecstatic release as he sat up halfway, wrapping his arms around your waist in a crushing embrace. With one final, powerful upward surge of his hips, his knot slid past your resisting entrance with a wet pop, locking him inside you. At the same moment, you felt the tip of his cock kiss your cervix, delivering hot his spent right into your fertile little womb.
For a blinding second, his vision whited out entirely, and in the void, Varka swore he saw you – not the trembling girl on top of him, but a maker wearing your face, baring teeth in a sharp smile of absolute approval.
Ah, fuck.
The realization was a different kind of punch, landing in the gut as his body was still wracked by the last waves of release.
Letting you go? Ha! Absolute bullshit!
Not now. Not ever. Not after he’d just nutted his very fucking soul and brain into your shy cunny. Not when you’d taken him – all of him, the fear and the fury and the frantic need – and met his frenzy with an eager rhythm of your own. Not when your shattered moans of his name had sounded less like pleas and more like a prayer.
“Mine,” Varka finally decided, hands flying to the meat of your bruised thighs, making sure that he marked them with his fingertips properly, “My pretty Red…”
You collapsed forward onto his chest, sending you two to fall on the soft moss, sobbing through the endless pulses that filled you, feeling your belly grow warm and heavy.
Varka held you through it all, one rough hand splayed over your lower back, the other groping and spreading your ass, his middle finger teasingly pressing an insistent circle against your butt in a promise for later. Even when you went limp, his hips never stopped their shallow jerks, pumping his cum against your cervix in spurts until he was utterly spent and sure it would take. When he could speak, Varka looked down on you, draped so fucking adorably over his massive body. His blue eyes were sated, possessive.
“So, my lil’ Red,” he murmured, his thumb stroking over your hip. He shifted slightly, making you both aware of the warm seep of his spend already beginning to leak out around the knot still plugging you. “Grandma’s not getting her pie. Not now, not later, not ever.”
You lifted your face to stare at him, and his tail began a happy wag against the moss at the sight of your dazed, fucked-out, questioning expression. Varka leaned in, licking a broad stripe from the corner of your swollen lips up to your temple, and you blushed adorably, hiding your beautiful face in his hairy chest and nuzzling into it like a needy pup. “But her granddaughter… she’s getting all the pies she deserves.”
As the knot began to soften, he pulled from your tarnished cunt with an obscene sound, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness and the flood of gush that followed.
In one swift motion, Varka stood, tossing you over his broad shoulder like a prize. Your head hung down his back, your sore cunt openly dripping its creamy load in a thick trail down the inside of your leg and onto the forest floor. He turned his head, his blue eyes darkening with renewed hunger as he watched the evidence of his claim leak from your raw cunny. Smirking, he ran a hot tongue up your outer thigh.
“Breedin’ season’s on us, my lil’ mate,” Varka growled, the words a hot rumble against your skin as his fingers dug possessively into the soft flesh of your ass. He began to move, walking deeper into his territory, his thick tail lashing with primal satisfaction. “My den’s where you belong. Gon’ take you home and keep that pie full of my cream ‘til you’re properly fat with my pups.”
He leaned down, his breath scalding against your skin before his teeth sank in, making you tremble and marking the curve of your ass, a promise of bruises and bite marks to come. A low, predatory chuckle vibrated through him as he laved the stinging spot with a broad, rough stroke of his tongue.
“And Big Bad Wolf has lots of cream to share.”
.
Comments, likes, and reblogs are appreciated!
Series Masterlist: Creatures Features
Next part: Pride Rock (Hard) (LionHybrid!JingYuan x fem!reader)
Honestly, I liked it so much when I'd finished the first draft. But after I edited it... I don't know, it feels kinda drier than I intended it to be. I need to know if I'm the only one who thinks so, so please, don't hesitate to leave a comment! c:
synopsis. having a boyfriend whose body dwarfs anything that stands in his way and carries an unusual amount of strength, it's either you're getting pulled into the warmest embrace, or getting your soul fucked out of you.
wc. 1,269 words 7,008 chars | genre. fluff, smut | cw/tags. intercourse, sexual terms, carrying, cuddling, choking, pet names
you've got mail ✉ ! yayay i had so much fun writing this! i have this hc that these three are the most buff, even wrio and itto has the old models. also the banners have the baddest quality but if i was going to put the whole thing i'd be way too big, also the wrio banner kinda has a white part, but i can't be bothered to fix it.. also creds to the person who first had the idea of varka calling reader 'pup'.
varka who loves to pick you up bridal-style, swinging you around in his muscular arms. your weight was never a problem for him, not with his immense strength. those long, tiresome training sessions to skillfully master his wolf's gravestone, which weighed heavily on him, paid off for him and his beloved. he would shower you with kisses all over your face, smooching each detail of your features. his lips would occasionally peck on your shoulders as his stubble tickles your skin. "y'er. don't. know. how. much. i. missed. ya. hon." he whispers endearingly between smooches while you giggle under grizzly affection.
it didn't matter if he had just gone on the most tiresome expedition, or if he had swung his claymore all day to protect the people of mondstadt from the dangers of lurking monsters—only the image of you cradled in his large arms gave him the determination to pursue each troubling day. "hey, darling." a quiet husky voice lingers behind you. still, you had no time to react as you were scooped up into someone's biceps in one smooth motion. varka's broad chest vibrated against you when he let out a booming laugh that probably echoed all over tevyat. "missed you, sweets, been mhm, thinkin' bout you every second of the day," he growled against your skin, planting more and more kisses as he talked that caused you to feel warmer than usual.
but his unusual strength is not only useful for sweeping you off your feet, but also to conveniently help him lift you effortlessly to help his cock plunge into the deepest parts of your cervix. he absolutely loves to put you in positions where his arms and hands need to raise you so his fat tip can go all the way in. standing lotus, standing cowgirl, standing reverse cowgirl, standing full nelson, against the wall, almost anything that requires for him to carry or stand he is all over for it.
"hmm, that's it. you're taking it, s' good pup.." he groans in your ear, his dick filling your tight hole up. your arms wrapped around his neck while his warm palms held you up by your ass, balancing your weight on his. a whine falls off your lips when you could feel varka fill you to the brim, and his mushroom tip reaching your cervix.
wriosthesley, who always came home with his energy depleted and dark eye bags circling his under eyes, showing the effects of waking up early when the sun barely peeked over the horizon and of slumbering at the depths of midnight. as soon as he got home from the fortress of meropide, he hurriedly took off his heavy boots and jacket putting it beside the front door of your shared house, and throwing other of his miscillaneous accesories off somewhere. wrio heads straight to the bedroom, where you were nestling soundly beside an empty space he owns.
he quietly closes the door behind him, making a soft click once he fully rotates the knob. a soft smile making its way to his lips, as he sighs now that he's finally at ease with no one bothering his ass away. wriothesley lets his body retreat into the comforts of the fluffy sheets. his hand pulls up the covers so he can huddle closer to you. you were then woken up from your slumber when you could feel yourself get pulled into someone's broad frame. "wrio what are yo-", "sorry, give me this moment love.." he says in a low voice before nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck while pushing your back flush against his broad frame. you could feel the warmth of his aching body spread to yours, while your hearts beat steadily. he just loves to cuddle with his princess after a tired day.
this man's favorite part of the day is coming back from his draining work to his beloved, letting his guard down now that he knows he's safe and sound, even though he's the one wrapping you in his muscular forearms. although sometimes this warm cuddle session turns to something more heated, he pushes his frustration into your lips, his tongue pursuing you aggressively while his toned arms put up one of your legs as he ruts into your heat in a rhythmic pattern. the arousal from your earlier orgasm drips and stains the sheets, but you couldn't care less, not with how good he's fucking you right now.
his hips move like there's no tomorrow, earning shameful moans that spill out of you endlessly. your tongue lolled when his wide shaft hit another sweet spot inside your walls. "shit, you feel so f'ckin' good, and i'm not stopping till the suns up." he growls, battling your tongue whilst he could feel you shake uncontrollably and clamp down on his length. you wanted to argue, knowing that his body clock was a mess, but he shuts up by winning control over your own mouth.
itto who proudly shows his endearment through physical approaches, for example, his favorite by putting you in breath-taking hugs, literally. at some point, you were mad at him for his deathly embraces, but no matter how many reminders you give him, the man just does not seem to know how to control his strength. so you just accept this dangerous trait of his, and every time he skips happily like a little girl towards you, his arms flailing wide open, you take a deep breath as if you were about to take a deep dive, but instead it's a pile of muscles.
"oh my archons, baby! you wouldn't believe—" itto pauses at his rant, before lowering his head to see you choking on his pillowy like pecs, it looked comical in an outside view. he chuckles awkwardly before reducing the pressure of his bear hug. your head cartoonishly pops up out of his large arms, and you wear an annoyed look at your boyfriend. "my skull was about to crack," you note bluntly, eyes staring daggers at him. itto scratches the back of his head. "woopsie.. you're just too cute!" he exclaims as he squishes you into him like a child playing with his squeaky toy. your head returns to dive into his muscles, stunting you from being able to breathe.
one could call this a dream, but to you, it was a suffocating nightmare. but you would not complain if the dream was a wet one. the way he would wrap his vein-filled bicep around your neck, cutting your airways off while he's jerking his hip to push himself further in. your ability to whimper was taken away by his muscles, forcing you to only let out strangled cries out of your throat harshly. his arms strangled you so badly that it left you to beg for him to loosen even just for a second, but oh, did it feel so fucking good didn't dare to fight it.
his arms have you in a headlock, leaving you gasping and wheezing for air. your body stiffens, while he pounds you into mush. itto lets out animalistic grumbles, his arms getting tighter around you by the second. you could feel his length pulse and swell inside your dripping cunt. and with a final strong thrust, his seed spills in you while his arms relax. you loudly gasp, feeling your throat is no free from pressure, but a few seconds pass by, and he has you choking in his arms again and pulling his shaft in and out of you. "c-can't stop it, baby!" he exclaims as he claims your pussy, pushing his cum deeper.
