Original Art book Wit Studio

Anime Levi #782

Episode 39 - 痛み (Pain)

There really is something about Pieck being the type of woman that Jean Kirschtein never expects to fall in love with, but falls in love with anyway 🥺🥺🥺

Ravenous

THIS FIC IS NSFW, 18+ only, MDNI! Thanks

Pairing: Jean Kirschtein x Fem!reader

WC: 7.3k

Content Warning: Monster romancing, monsterfucking (werewolf/wulver/hybrid), oral (M and F receiving), doggystyle, rough sex, biting, licking, blood, knotting, cum inflation, breeding, I think I got it all but if not please message me and I'll tag it.

You wiped your hands on your apron and scanned the crowds of people milling about the market square today, hoping to catch a glimpse of the hooded figure. For months he came exclusively to your stall for the freshly butchered lamb -- never the mutton or hogget; he said those were too gamey and aged for his taste. You struck up a sort of quiet friendship with this mysterious figure who called himself Jean Kirschtein and he thanked you with an extra silver most days for your cheerful and respectful conversations. For this kindness, you slipped an extra lamb chop into the package as your own thanks for his friendship.

He was a faithful customer every day, carefully pointing to his chosen cuts of meat with unusually long fingers gloved in black. Always gloved, no matter the weather. Neither heat nor cold seemed to bother him and he never lowered the hood of his cloak even when the sun was shining brightly in the morning sky. You had never seen his face, only caught a glimpse of a pair of shining hazel eyes within the shadows of the deep hood. These eyes and his rich baritone voice were your treasured secrets as he never showed his face or spoke to anyone else but you. Despite his mysterious presence, he wasn’t hard to spot in the market: He stood over six feet tall, probably closer to six feet and three inches from your estimate. He was often a full head taller than everyone else milling about, and you never missed spotting him.

It was three days since you last saw Jean. Every other day he sought out your stall as soon as the whistle blew at dawn to signal the market was open for business. Gods only knew how long he waited in the dark to be the first face you saw -- or rather, didn’t see. On Monday, as the sun rose and the full moon put herself to bed, he was nowhere to be seen, and the same on Tuesday. Today the sun rose high in the sky and you still caught no glimpse of the lanky figure. You sighed, disappointed, but went back to exchanging wax paper wrapped cuts of mutton for silvers. The lamb went untouched today, too expensive for most customers. You carefully wrapped the cut you saved for him and placed it back in your sack, deciding you could at least have a nice supper of lamb stew so it wouldn’t go to waste.

Your walk back home started out as mundane as it ever was -- through the city gates, down the rocky dirt path that led to the dense forest and beyond that was the glen where your small stone hut was perched near a clear stream that ran year round. As you trudged back home, your pack heavy with the lamb and your heart equally heavy that you missed your daily chat with Jean, you felt something wet on your ankle. Looking down, you noticed red -- blood. You set your pack down, inspecting your ankle to check if you caught a scratch from the brambles overgrowing the path but there was not a mark on your skin. There were, however, drops of blood soaking into the fabric of your dress, your apron strings, and as you felt with your fingertips -- a wet patch just where the bottom of the pack was bumping against your back as you walked. You turned and hoisted the pack off the ground where a pool of blood was forming.

Shit, you thought to yourself. Sure enough, as you opened the pack you saw that the wax paper came untucked and the lamb was dripping blood through the bottom of the fabric. Not much to be done now except to rewrap it and make your way home quickly. You hoped none of the forest creatures would catch the scent on the wind, and especially not the wolves. Though you didn’t see any today, you knew they were never far by the fresh tracks you found in the mud along the path and the lonely howls late at night as you lay shivering in your bed. The beasts had never bothered you before and you never gave them a reason to. Today, though, you wished you brought your walking stick or something more substantial than the tiny dagger you kept hanging on your belt.

As you attempted to wrap the meat with your shaking hands, you heard a twig crack no more than twenty yards away. You froze in place, scanning the dense undergrowth of the forest on the side of the path but saw nothing. You couldn’t hear anything except for your heart hammering hard enough it sounded like it relocated to your ears. In a flash of inspiration, instead of continuing to fumble with the package of lamb, you unwrapped it and laid it out on the ground on top of the wax paper. You cinched your backpack closed and stood slowly, setting one foot in front of the other at a determined pace -- a walking pace, so as not to elicit a predator to run you down, but a steady gait to show you were not afraid. You popped the snap that fastened your dagger in place and held it tightly in your hand with the point facing down, ready to slash if need be.

Behind you, you swear you heard… what? Padding feet? The clack of long claws on the stones in the path? You didn’t dare turn to see what was following you but it was certainly something. Breathe, you told yourself, and you heard a breath. A breath that was not your own, and it was much too close. You raised your arm with the dagger and were surprised to feel a hand on your wrist: A hand with long fingers in a black glove.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” Jean’s voice reverberated from his dark hood. His soft honey eyes shone, searching yours for confirmation that you recognized him. “There are wolves.”

Your arm relaxed in his grip and you huffed out a relieved sight. “Jean! I’m so glad to see you. I thought for sure one of the pack was coming after me.”

He turned his head to the side and peered into the woods, silent for some time before he turned back to you. “They were. I think they were intimidated by my size and turned tail but that lamb you have leaking from your bag is enticing. Do you walk home alone every day?”

Your eyes widened and you felt a tinge of wounded pride. “Of course I do. I’m perfectly capable of keeping myself safe and I always carry a dagger.”

“You’ll be busy with a pack of wolves if we don’t get you home now. Smart thinking on leaving the lamb behind.” He pulled his hand away from your arm and you started to tuck the dagger back into its sheath.

“No, keep it out,” he warned. “There are other things than wolves that aren’t as scared of me. Will you allow me to walk you home?”

“Yes, please,” you gratefully nodded. You shifted the dagger to your other hand and Jean crooked his elbow for you to hold onto while you walked. You’d never gotten this close to him before. Each interaction with him over the several months you’d known him had been across the makeshift wooden counter of your market stall, only briefly brushing your fingers against the supple black leather gloves he never removed. You were a little giddy now with the tension of the moment and your awareness of just how big he is -- tall, with broad shoulders, a long slim torso, and longer, impressively muscled legs, all clad in black. Entirely black, right down to the boots stepping next to your delicate little leather shoes. Even this close, your arm encircling his elbow, you couldn’t see an inch of skin and you wondered how he wasn’t roasting inside the black leather pants, the black linen shirt, that black cloak.

“If it’s not too bold of me to ask, do you have someone expecting you at home and why aren’t they accompanying you through these woods?”

“My father died when I was young. My mother and I tended the flock together until she caught a fever this last spring. It’s only me now, and the sheep, if you count them.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I meant no disrespect. May they rest in peace.”

“No offense taken, Jean. We’re close to my home now, would you come inside? I must repay your kindness. I have some mutton stew on the hearth, though I know it’s not your favorite.”

“I am repaying your kindness. Do you think I didn't notice when you put a bit more meat in my package than you weighed out?” he chuckled. “You owe me nothing more.”

“Still, I can’t let you go back through those woods alone with the wild life so restless. Would you stay for a cup of tea?”

His eyes seemed to grow softer in his hood. “Tea sounds nice.”

You continued down the path toward your stone cottage, chatting happily now that it seemed the threat had passed. Behind you, the wax paper blew away into the undergrowth, and no bloody lamb cutlets were to be found.

Jean was faithful to his word and lingered in the market every day until you sold your wares and packed up what didn’t sell, sometimes standing quietly on guard by your stall when the occasional belligerent customer argued over prices. He agreed to accept his customary package of lamb for escorting you safely home, though you noticed several more silvers in your purse at the end of the day than you counted after the market. He brought you fish that he caught in the cold stream each morning before helping you pack up your meat to be sold and accompanied you to the market. Your long walks through the woods became your favorite part of each day, when you could speak freely with Jean about everything and nothing, picking wildflowers and laughing as he fashioned them into crowns for you with his nimble fingers. He treasured the feathers and pinecones you found for him and tucked them into the pouch hanging from his belt.

Over time he explained he was orphaned in an incident with a drunken huntsman who couldn’t tell people from prey. Jean narrowly escaped and spent years foraging in these woods, learning to hunt and defend himself from the bears, boars, wolves and whatever else stalked the dark forest. He lived a wild existence in the forest with no particular place he called home, simply taking shelter as needed. When the first rain of autumn began to pelt down, you offered to let him stay in your warm, dry hut and was a bit surprised when he accepted.

“It would be a welcome change from huddling under a damp hillside.” You could hear his smile beneath his black hood. You longed to see his true face, knowing it would be just as kind and sweet as his deep voice.

“Please, make yourself at home. If you’d like to change out of your wet clothes I will wash them for you and dry them by the fire. I’m afraid the only thing I have that might fit you is my blanket, if you’re not too shy.” You shrugged apologetically and whirled around to remove your cloak, hoping the blush spreading across your cheeks would fade before you faced him again. After several moments of silence, you dared to turn again and noticed he was unmoved from the spot where he stood just inside the door. “I’m sorry, Jean, I hope I didn’t offend you.” You lowered your head. Gods, he must think I brought him in just to get him naked. Stupid!

“I would like that, actually,” he shifted from one black boot to the other. “It’s been quite a while since these threads had a proper wash. There’s only so much I can do hopping into the river.”

Relief spread over you and your blush retreated to your ears. “All right, I’ll get the water heated for your bath and then I’ll head out to the barn to feed the sheep while you wash up.”

You turned to focus on lighting the fire under the big cauldron and thanked yourself for remembering to fill it with water for your own bath before you made the trek into town that morning. You made a mental note to bring one of the wooden buckets when you went to the barn so you could collect the rainwater pouring from the wooden eaves of your hut, saving yourself a trip to the treacherously slippery banks of the stream. As the water began to steam, you provided a cake of soap, a towel, and your largest quilt to Jean.

“Thank you for your kindness again, my dear friend,” Jean said shyly. “You give me hope in humanity again.”

You flushed again. His dear friend. Obviously that was true and you did consider Jean your friend but neither of you spoke it aloud before now. The words made your heart skip.

“I… I’m… happy to be your friend, Jean. You seem to be a person who doesn’t often come by friendship.”

“I’ve had a handful of true friends in my life. Connie, Sasha… Marco…” he trailed off thoughtfully and you swore you heard a slight tremor in his voice. “They all met their doom in one way or another because I wasn’t there to protect them. I hope I can pay for this sin by protecting you.”

You felt your feet gliding toward him, motivated by your compassion for this dark figure who somehow was the brightest part of your life. You threw your arms around his neck, squeezing him in a tight hug as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. He seemed shocked at the sudden contact, then relaxed his broad shoulders and wrapped his black clad arms around your waist, lifting you off the floor. It felt like nothing could ever harm you -- you were safe in his arms, safe in the cloud of his woody, musky, leathery scent.

“What a lonely existence you’ve lived, Jean. No place to call home, no friends, no family,” you sobbed.

“I haven’t been alone, though. I’ve had your smile to look forward to each morning,” he whispered. You thought for a moment -- that wasn’t quite right. Over time you noticed the two or three days he went missing invariably occurred when the moon was at its fullest.

“Jean, where do you go during the full moon?”

You felt his breathing stop, then he let out a deep sigh. “Keen observation. I knew you’d catch on.”

“I worried you were hurt the first time I noticed you gone but you always come back, always the same without a scratch on you, as far as I can tell.”

“There is… a ritual I must observe each full moon,” he said carefully. “It’s best to be alone then.”

“Ah,” you said simply as he set you down again. “I won’t pry, it seems to be a personal time for you.”

“It is. Um… the water is boiling now,” he pointed over your shoulder. The large vessel was indeed roiling with hot water and steam and you rushed over to grab a towel and scoot it away from the fire. Jean reached past you and easily lifted the heavy iron pot with his gloved hand and set it carefully on the stone next to the fire. You marvelled at his effortless strength, knowing the cauldron weighed almost as much as you did. “I’ll be taking that bath, I suppose.”

“Oh!” You blushed again. “Right. The sheep will wonder where I’ve been. I’ll give you time for the water to cool down. Hang this towel in the window so I know you’re ready for me to come back,” you handed him a greying dishrag. You excused yourself quickly, grabbed a bucket and made your way to the door.

“YN,” he called after you. “Thank you.”

“You’re always welcome, Jean.”

You hurried out the door, holding the bucket over your head in a weak attempt to keep some of the pounding rain off and collect some of it but by the time you made it to the barn you were soaked to the skin, mud caked on your feet and splattered up the back of your skirts. You pushed your wet locks out of your face and unlatched the barn door to be met with a cacophony of curious and excited bleats from your herd.

You made a quick headcount and were relieved to see all of your sheep were here, safe from the cold and rain. You envied them while you went about your chores, sopping wet and shivering. You grabbed the pitchfork from its corner and began doling out fodder from the massive haystack and the sheep happily went to work on it. You allowed your mind to wander back to Jean. You knew what his touch felt like, his embrace -- but still had no idea what he looked like beneath the hood. Was he horribly disfigured from the hunting accident? You decided you didn’t care if he was, he would still be your friend either way. In this harsh world no one lives long without bearing scars, you thought as you absentmindedly rubbed the hand you’d sliced open during the last shearing season when one of the ewes became unexpectedly feisty.

The longer you daydreamed while you spread hay for the sheep, the more your mind fixated on your impulsive hug. There was something so right about his heady scent mixed with yours, the feeling of his strong arms around you, the sound of his deep voice rumbling in his chest. If he trusted you as a friend surely there would be no harm in asking to see his face, right? Of course you wouldn’t pressure him and if he said no you would drop the matter for good.

You lost track of the time you spent in the barn and wondered if Jean finished his bath yet. You decided to try to peek out the barn door but the rain was still steadily beating down and it was impossible to see the shutters on your kitchen window. The chill was setting in and you could see your breath in little white puffs, your hands stiff with the cold. Just as you were moving away from the door you saw the kitchen shutter moved slightly and the dishrag flopped over the ledge. What else caught your eye and took your breath away was the decidedly furry hand with long, sharp claws that carefully pulled the shutter closed. You stared through the crack of the open barn door, your mind struggling to comprehend what you just saw.

Fur?

Claws?

You shook your head, pushing back the hundred fears clamoring in your mind and grasping for any explanation you could imagine.

Maybe he’s just an unusually hairy man and he’s embarrassed, that’s why he stays shrouded in a cloak… and he lives in the forest alone so it’s no telling how long it’s been since he properly cared for himself. I’m overreacting. I’m just tired, cold; I’m imagining things.

You peered out the door again and confirmed the dishrag was still there, though limp with the downpour. You decided you were too cold to be afraid and besides, Jean had treated you well so far. You gathered your courage and bolted the barn door shut behind you, then sprinted back to the hut as best you could through the mud and blinding rain. Jean must have heard you splashing because the wooden door opened just as you hopped on the stoop. What greeted you was a figure swathed in your quilt, not an inch of skin showing at all and those familiar shining hazel eyes peering back at you, still cloaked in shadow.

“Oh!” You cried in genuine surprise, stopping in your tracks. “Thank you, Jean. I didn’t expect you to open the door for me.”

“You should come inside before you catch a cold,” he replied, then drifted over to the fire still burning on the hearth. Next to the steaming cauldron laid a carefully folded pile of black clothes. You stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind you, then tried to take off what sopping wet layers you could and still maintain some modesty.

“How was your bath?”

“The best hot bath I’ve had in probably years,” he chuckled, and your heart thrilled at the deep, woody tone of his laugh. “Bathing in the stream is all right but less relaxing. I saved some hot water for you, YN, you should get out of those wet clothes and warm up.”

Your face turned a brilliant shade of red and you stammered helplessly. He sat on the floor near the fire and turned to face the wall.

“Listen, I won’t bother you. I’ll just warm myself by the fire until you tell me you’re finished.”

You couldn’t think of another solution and you were longing to wash away the mud and chill, so you did as he suggested. Turning your back to him, you stripped off your wet chemise and made quick work of your spongebath, scrubbing first your face and hair, working the lather down over your shoulders and breasts, belly and beyond until at last pouring a bowl of hot water over the last of the mud on your feet and sinking into the washbasin to chase away the chill. You relished the tingling in your fingers as the warmth thawed your stiff digits. After a few quiet minutes of soaking, you stepped out of the basin and reached for a dry towel. Out of the corner of your eye you noticed Jean’s caramel eyes watching you until he quickly averted them and sank deeper into the quilt.

“Hey,” you chided him. “I thought you said you wouldn’t look!”

He laughed heartily-- a rich, dark laugh that both startled you and made you feel strange deep inside. “I said I wouldn’t bother you. We never agreed I couldn’t look.”

You should have been scandalized at his sudden lascivious tone but you were not. You were distantly aware that you stood stark naked before him, still dripping as you held your towel in one hand. You felt too warm and tingly, your senses heightened by desire, to feel ashamed.

“Well, you’ve seen me. When can I see you?”

His eyes dropped again and he seemed to stare beneath the quilt at his hands, though you couldn’t really see what he was looking at through the layers of fabric. You were aware that the black gloves he always wore were folded on top of his pile of dirty clothes. He looked back at you and his eyes held sadness but also hope.

“Do you trust that I would never hurt you?”

“Yes, I do trust you. You’ve never hurt me before and you’ve had ample opportunity.”

“You’re sure you want to see me?”

“I do, Jean.” You wanted it very much. You were certain that no matter what secret he held under this makeshift hood you could accept him. You understood that you might already love him.

“I promise, I am going to stay right here. If you’re frightened I’ll leave and you’ll never have to see me again, ok?”

“Ok,” you said a little impatiently. How bad could it be? Burns? Scars? Maybe he’s missing an ear?

You watched as he extended two long arms, covered from elbows to knuckles in caramel colored fur-- fur!-- and bearing the longest black claws (CLAWS!) you’ve ever seen. With them he pushed the quilt back from his face and allowed it to drop quietly on the floor behind him. The sight before you made you gasp, but not in horror.

He’s… a wolf.

He’s a wolf!

He is beautiful.

Your mind shouted at you that you should be afraid but your heart and your exasperatingly heated core screamed something else entirely. Your eyes took in everything: The tawny ears that sprouted out of his ashy hair, standing alert on top of his head; the chinstrap of a beard that grew along his strong, angular jaw; the thin, pointed but human nose; the long fangs that grew far past the hopeful smile on his soft lips.

“Wulver.”

“Wh-What?”

“Well… half wulver, that is. My father was a wulver, my mother was human. Full wulvers look like hairy men with a wolf’s head. I turned out… mostly man, some wolf.” Jean shrugged and looked down at his clawed hands. A creeping desire to touch his ears swept over you.

“Are you frightened?”

You couldn’t help staring at him. “I think I’m supposed to be but I’m not. Not really.”

“I won’t harm you,” he promised, and you believed him.

You stepped toward him and he rose from the blanket on two furry legs of the same tawny color as the hair on his arms and head. His shaggy tail swept back and forth -- where did he manage to hide a tail in his clothes? His figure was less imposing than when he was cloaked in black but he was still impressively tall, lean, and attractively muscled.

“Can I touch you?”

For once, Jean seemed at a loss for words and he responded only by nodding his head. You stood face to face with him and cautiously outstretched your fingertips, gently tracing the outline of the canine ears, caressing the velvet fur, and carding your fingers through his soft, nearly shoulder length hair. He closed his eyes and a low whine escaped his throat as he leaned his head into your palm. His hands trembled, so delicately rested on your hips that you hardly registered the sensation at all.

“Maybe I’m the one who is frightened,” he whispered.

“Of what?”

His eyes searched yours, and you saw the fear deep within them but alongside that you perceived tenderness. Affection. Desire. Hunger.

“You’re human. Fragile.”

“So are you, Jean.”

“I’m not.”

“You said your mother--”

“She was, and my father was entirely wulver. A man-wolf. A beast. A monster.”

You continued stroking his hair and drew closer, allowing him to circle your waist in his big arms. You laid your ear against his chest, cherishing the strong rhythm of his heartbeat.

“You don’t sound like a monster to me. Your heart beats like mine, you breathe like I do. You speak, you dress yourself and bathe -- which is more than I can say for half the men in the village. You are kindhearted, full of joy and wonder, and you’ve only ever shown me goodness and loyalty. So I ask you again, Jean: What are you afraid of?”

He stared at you, his mouth open just enough that his fangs glinted in the soft light of the fire. You didn’t notice how dark it was getting outside the hut.

“I want…” he whispered but stopped himself, squeezing his eyes shut again. The tremor in his body returned. He shifted his weight to his other foot, seeming uncomfortable. You didn’t need to look down to know his cock was straining and painfully erect-- if anything was frightening about him it was this colossal organ that pressed against your belly as soon as you stepped into his arms.

“Tell me what you want,” you urged softly. “And I’ll tell you if you should be afraid.”

The alarm didn’t leave his face but his voice came out much deeper, almost a growl. “I want you. I want to mate you. I love you.”

“Then you have nothing at all to fear. I am already yours.” You caressed your hand over his jaw and he kissed your fingers. “I love you, Jean.”

“I don’t want to break my promise to you. That I won’t hurt you -- Ohhh!” he moaned as you sank to your knees and took his cock in your hand. You ran your thumb down his impressive length -- nearly twice the length of your own hand, from heel to fingertip. He was slick with precum beading from his reddish-purple tip and dripping down his shaft -- at least his dick was human enough, you mused. You wrapped your fingers around him, though they didn’t quite fully encircle his thick cock, and gave him a gentle tug. He groaned again and his head sagged to the side, his eyes closed as his hips involuntarily bucked up against you. You felt yourself salivating as you watched him fuck himself into your hand. Gently, you cupped his heavy balls in one hand and continued pumping him as you licked the dew from his cockhead.

“Fuck!” he grunted, his voice hoarse and needy. You ran your tongue along the swollen ridge of his tip, down the long, throbbing vein along his shaft as he panted above you, his thighs shaking against you. You took as much of him as you could in your mouth, stroking the remainder of his length. His breath became ragged, almost a snarl, and in a flash of skin and fur he picked you up as easily as a child pulling a ragdoll off the floor. He bounded over to the feather mattress you kept tucked away in a corner alcove, depositing you on hands and knees and settled himself behind you.

The desperate whimper in your throat elicited a whine from his own. Despite his needy, nearly pained mewling, he still held your naked hips gently. You could feel the heat from his thighs pressing against the back of yours and yet he still hesitated.

“YN, I must be completely forthright with you. Once we’re mated, there’s no going back. We are mated for life. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, Jean,” you replied quickly. You wanted him, not just to satisfy your lust but to live with you, to be yours in both pleasure and mundane daily life.

“There’s something else you should know, my love,” Jean murmured, his face nuzzling into the still damp hair at your neck. “Once you have become mine, you must complete the Ritual of the Moon or risk becoming a wulver yourself. I promise I will protect you and teach you. I will understand if you want to leave now and I will not try to stop you or bother you again. Are you certain you want this? That you want me?”

You pressed your ass back into his lap to emphasize how ready you were for him. “I want to be yours, Jean. I’m not afraid of you or what you are. I love you, consequences be damned.”

Jean traced his fingers down your sides, following the curves of your waist and hips. “I love you. I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you. You are like no other.”

He was panting now, lovingly grazing the pads of his fingertips over your arched back as his hot breath fanned across your body. He dropped to his knees and buried his face deep in your cunt, slurping your arousal greedily. His strangely long tongue prodded at your entrance until it found its way inside, lapping at your juices and teasing your swollen clit. Your thighs quivered, barely able to hold you up while he devoured your sweet pussy until you came undone on his lips. He held you steady with his strong hands, determined not to miss a drop as he licked the creamy release from your cunt and thighs. You allowed your head to drop against the mattress as you attempted to catch your breath.

“Are you ok, my love?” Jean muttered in a low, purring timbre. The best you could do was to nod wearily as you felt the head of his thick cock nestled against your sensitive heat.

“Jean, fuck me. Don’t hold back.”

You felt as if you were being split into two halves when he pushed deep into you, though the saliva and cum coating your walls helped him slide in easily. He buried himself to the hilt, pressing against your cervix and making your mind fuzzy with the overwhelming pleasure of being so full of him. Your hand trailed down your belly, caressing the bulge of his cock under your own skin.

“Oh fuck, holy fuck,” Jean whispered shakily as he plunged himself deep into your pulsing cunt, savagely pounding into you from behind, his long fingers kneading at the plush of your ass. You were helpless in his grasp, barely able to clutch at the bedding in shaking fists while his heavy balls slapped at your pussy for what felt like hours. A low, growling moan arose from deep within him and he snaked an arm around you to squeeze your tit and pull you flush against his furry chest, allowing him to deliver a series of sharp nips and licks to your tender neck.

He reclined onto his back, holding you upright and continuing to fuck his monstrous cock up into your gushing cunt, spearing you on his length while you struggled to ride his bucking hips. Jean fisted a hand into your hair and pulled, exposing your delicate throat blooming with his bites. He raised himself up on his elbow and sank his teeth deep into your neck, then threw his head back and let out a howl just as you felt his cock spasming deep inside, gushing rope after rope of thick cum until your belly felt bloated with his seed. He fell back against the soft mattress with you still wrapped in his arms, throbbing with your own release and milking his cock. Your lover held you tight against him, whispering soothing praises and gently licking the blood and sweat from your neck while you came down from your high.

“Can’t move,” you laughed in weak, shaky gasps. Your exhausted arms hung limply by your sides, chest heaving as you caught your breath.

“Don’t move,” Jean whispered. “It’ll hurt us both. Give me your hand, precious one,” he cooed as he took your hand and moved it to the junction of your sexes. He guided your finger into your entrance, alongside his shaft where you felt him knotted inside you, swollen thick and bulbous just past your tight ring of muscle that fluttered around him. You slipped your finger out and brought it to your lips, sucking the tangy, sweet taste of yourself mixed with his bittersweet cum off your digit. Jean moaned, kissing your face and neck as he continued pumping you with his seed. “You are mine now, and I am yours. Always.”

“I am yours, and you are mine,” you repeated, happily relaxing into the warmth of his embrace. “Forever. Come what may.”

The ripe, full moon rose over the crest of the hill, illuminating the rocky landscape just enough for the man to reorient himself to his whereabouts before the clouds obscured the light again. He cursed himself for wandering so far off the path this late but he needed to satisfy his curiosity. The strange sets of tracks that lead off the narrow trail and into the woods didn’t make sense to him -- one large set of tracks that appeared to be from someone large wearing boots and the second set of tracks, much smaller and fainter as if made by someone padding through the thicket in soft leather booties. Another jumble of tracks of various sizes, mixed together in a way that made it impossible to discern how many feet made them. Bizarre, he thought, that these tracks would end in this clearing with no one around but surrounded by variously sized wolf prints. Not a scrap of clothing or blood to indicate an attack…

“Shit,” he whispered to himself. “Oh shit…”

Before him in this small clearing in the densely overgrown wood, by the brief glow of the moon, he spotted something up in the tree just to his left -- a bundle of cloth, wrapped tightly in a rope and strung high off the ground. A thick trail of salt encircled the tree, surrounded by shining black stones set in a pentagonal pattern. He dared not take another step, knowing that what he stumbled into was an ancient and well kept secret in this area of the forest. His heart dropped when he saw a pair of shining yellow eyes just beyond the clearing. No, not one pair, his mind raced as he counted … six.

He remained frozen in place as four wolf cubs tumbled out of the dark, not paying any attention to the intruder as they nipped and growled while playing at fighting each other. As he watched in fascination and horror, an enormous tawny wolf padded into the clearing with its hackles raised, and its mate followed close behind with bared teeth. As the she-wolf took a protective stance in front of her cubs, the tawny male bound over to the tree and scrambled up to the high branch, its long claws scrabbling for purchase in the bark of the tree. Its jaws snapped into the rope, severing the bundle from the branch and sending it to the ground with a soft thud.

The wolf sprang out of the tree to rush to the bundled cloth and pulled a black cloak from the folds. The hunter watched, dumbfounded, as the wolf worked the still fastened cloak over its head and the huge wolf paws began to form into hands and feet. Within moments a large man with wolf ears and fangs stood before him, naked except for the black cloak.

“You are intruding on my family, stranger,” this beast of a man snarled, circling back to his mate and pups.

“I… I mean you no harm,” the man squeaked. He was focused entirely on this nude man looming near him and did not notice the she-wolf rooting through the cloth to writhe into a chemise, transforming into a beautiful woman round with child. She assisted the four cubs into their own clothing until they changed into a group of four children, all with the same ashy hair and shining hazel eyes of their father.

“I wish I could say the same,” the wulver growled. “Why do you trespass in my home, human, and why shouldn’t I tear you apart where you stand?”

“Please, I won’t say a word! I’ll forget I was ever here!” The man fell to his knees, shaking and pleaded for his life. “If I don’t return to the village a search party will come looking for me… your family will be hunted down and slain for their pelts, or captured and put on display for the king’s entertainment.”

The children began to wail, surrounding their mother and clinging to the fabric of her loose dress. She peered at her mate, searching his handsome face before turning to fix the hunter with her radiant eyes. The man’s desperate begging faded away to silence as he stared into her mesmerizing gaze.

“Aye, sir,” she purred in a captivating, low tone. “You will forget.”

She sang a series of strange, guttural words that made his head feel light and far away, as if he were being transported by the melody of her voice into a dreamlike state. He couldn’t understand her speech but he could sense the meaning plainly -- she sang of the moon, and beckoned him to regard its full glory as the clouds parted above them. She sang of the soft glow leading him home to his village on swift feet. She sang of his memories of this night, of straying too far off the established path and wandering aimlessly in the dark until the bright moon revealed the trail again. She sang of a watch of six nightingales guiding his way back to the village by leading him with their haunting songs along the trace through the wood.

When he woke the next morning, he found himself slumped against the city gate with a small parcel in one hand. Carefully unwrapping the waxed paper, he found within it a small trout holding a silver coin in its mouth -- strange, considering he had no memory of fishing by the stream that ran deep in the forest outside the city. He leaned his pounding head back against the iron gate and tried to recall the night before. Did he drink himself into a stupor and fall asleep here? He was certain he went into the wood to hunt but couldn’t find his quiver or bow anywhere around him. Maybe I lost it and came back to drink away the disappointment, he thought, though something nagged at the back of his mind that this didn’t seem right.

“Hail, my good porter,” a haughty voice called from horseback, making the hunter’s head ring with pain. “Be a good man and open the gates for us?”

The man winced at this solitary figure and his absurd royal plural for disturbing his thoughts and making his headache so much worse. Then something caught his eye -- the morning sun glinting off the ostentatious golden buttons littering the bastard’s padded vest struck him with a terror he could not explain. He scrambled to his feet and backed away from the horse and rider.

“Twelve of them… twelve…”

“Good sir, what are you--”

“TWELVE! TWELVE! SIX PAIRS! SIX PAIRS OF EYES! GODS HELP ME!”

The hunter sprinted through the small gap in the iron gates and into the crowd waiting for the market whistle to signal the start of trading. A few heads turned to watch him clamber through the assembled bodies until he ran face first into the chest of a large man dressed head to toe in black, the hood of his cloak pulled so far forward that his face was completely obscured.

“Please, friend, you dropped your fish,” the black-clad figure rumbled as he pressed a wax paper packet into the hunter’s hand and clapped him on the shoulder with a gloved hand. “Eat up. Fish is good for the memory, you know.”

“Memory?”

“Of course! Wouldn’t want you to forget your way home this morning after a long night of drinking at the tavern, right, friend?” He clapped him heavily on the shoulder again.

“Drinking. Right.” Was that right? Yes? Yes… yes it was. The man pictured himself sidling up to the bar and ordering tankard after tankard of strong ale to wash away the disappointment of a failed hunt.

“You know, friend, you should probably avoid going out into the forest again if you’re that poor of a hunter. It would be a shame to lose your way or stumble into danger out there… all alone… amidst the hazards of the wood.” The thoughts and half-formed memories swirling in the hunter’s head seemed to melt away when the big man clapped his shoulder a third time. He tried to connect the fading images of the night before but for some reason he couldn’t recall a thing, like a dream evaporating in the light of dawn.

He stood rooted to the cobblestones of the market, confused why he was there but certain that he didn’t dare step outside the city gates -- why was he even so close to the edge of the city? The thought of what yellow-eyed threats prowled in the trees gave him a shiver so powerful that it wracked his body.

“Thank you…” he murmured and stepped away from the huge figure. He looked over his shoulder as he ambled away and caught the eye of the mutton seller at her stall, flanked by her four sandy-haired sons who tended to her customers while she rested her feet and rubbed her child-swollen belly. Something about the smile forming on her lips as the black cloaked man approached her filled him with both a feeling of utter dread and a warm sense of gratitude. He turned away and walked back to his cottage where he dutifully consumed his trout and absentmindedly tucked the silver coin into his pocket, and did not think again of leaving the safety of the city gates.

Taglist: @reiner69er @usernamehere91 @fandomficsobsession @esroh06

Thank you for reading! Please feel free to tag a friend who'd enjoy this little romp, and HAPPY HALLOWEEN

Me: Sir! Commander Smith asked me to tell you to meet at his office!

Levi: Tch, tell big brows to shove it up his ass. I got enough shit to do without him splitting open my crack.

Me: *about to lose it* Word for word, sir?

Levi: *freezes*

Levi: ...Yes.

Five minutes later

Me: Captain Levi said that yoUR A BIG BROWED BITCH AND YOU CAN SHO-

Later on

Levi: To be fair, I didnt think they were going to do it

Me: *From where Im scrapping bird shit off the roof* I AINT NO BITCH

I should not be allowed in the AOT universe

I think Eren fucked up his Titan transformation to move the rock because he was tipsy and couldn't focus properly

Mikasa in the manga.