aon

dom!vi x sub!f!r \\ cw. general!vi, bimbo!r, overstim, crying kink, light choking, bondage, vibrator use, dumbification, imply public humiliation.

VI'S PREFERENCES \\ nsfw \\ dom!vi x sub!f!reader \\ strap and toys that's it, bdsm (kind of)

cw. cnc, degradation, fingering, crying, manhandling.

NAME: VIOLET

AGE: ???

[ needy instrumental (slowed) - ariana grande ]

i.

ii.

The cavern stinks of smoke and fire. The walls glitter faintly with embedded ore, reflecting every flicker of flame from the torches jammed into cracks of stone. But none of that matters—because she’s here.

Vi.

Dragon-blooded, half-shifted, all danger. Horns curve back from her skull like obsidian blades, her eyes glowing molten gold in the dim. Her wings flex, shadowing over you, the leathery stretch brushing your skin with each twitch. Her chest rises and falls like a beast just returned from the hunt, and you know—no, you feel—that you’re the prey.

You stumble back until your shoulders hit the rock wall. Your wrists are snatched up before you can even breathe, slammed over your head, pinned by one massive clawed hand. The stone digs into your spine, but the real burn comes from her gaze, searing, unblinking, hungry.

“Caught you,” she growls, her voice rough, tinged with a guttural rumble that isn’t fully human. Her lips peel into a grin, sharp teeth flashing. “You think you can run from me, little morsel?”

Your throat locks tight. You shake your head, words failing you, but she doesn’t need them. She leans close, pressing her nose against your cheek, inhaling deep, and the hot drag of her breath makes your knees buckle.

“Mm,” she hums, tongue swiping up the line of your jaw, leaving heat and spit. “Sweet. Always so fucking sweet.”

Her free hand claws at your clothes, shredding fabric like it’s paper. In seconds you’re bared under her gaze, every inch of skin prickling as if her molten eyes alone could burn you raw. She doesn’t even give you time to cover yourself—her tail snakes around your thigh, yanking it aside, forcing you open.

“You belong spread for me.”

The words slam into you, heat flooding your core. You whimper, arching against her grip, and she laughs, low and cruel, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“Pathetic little human,” she sneers, pressing her thigh between yours, grinding up until you’re keening. “So weak. So soft. Do you know what happens when a dragon takes something for their hoard?”

Your lips part, but all that comes out is a ragged gasp. Her teeth snap close to your ear, the sound sharp enough to make you flinch.

“They don’t give it back.”

Her mouth is everywhere at once—biting down your neck, licking over the marks, nipping at your collarbone. Her teeth are too sharp, her tongue too hot, and every drag leaves you trembling, shaking, desperate for more even as you squirm.

“Stop moving,” she snarls, pressing harder on your wrists. Her claws prick, not enough to break skin but enough to remind you how easily they could. The sheer danger of her makes your thighs press together—until her tail lashes and forces them apart again.

“You’ll take what I give you.”

She lowers herself, tongue tracing down your throat, between your breasts, over your stomach, until she’s crouched before you, spreading you wide with a growl that rattles your bones. Her eyes blaze gold, locked on the wet heat between your thighs.

“Fuck, look at you.” She drags a clawed finger over your slit, careful but still dangerous, circling without giving in. “Already dripping. You like being hunted, don’t you?”

“N-no—”

The denial turns into a scream when her mouth seals on you, hot and wet, tongue dragging deep. She devours you like she’s starved, claws gripping your thighs tight enough to bruise, her wings twitching violently as she groans against your cunt. Every suck, every flick of her tongue feels desperate, feral—like she’s trying to drink the marrow out of you.

You writhe, gasping her name, tugging against her grip, but she doesn’t let up. If anything, her growls get louder, vibrating straight through your core until you’re sobbing, begging, arching helplessly against her mouth.

When you finally break, it’s shattering—your vision goes white, your voice cracks, your body convulses around her tongue. She drinks it all, lapping up every drop like it’s ambrosia, groaning low in her chest as if you’re the only thing that could ever satisfy her.

But she’s not done. Not even close.

She rises, licking her lips, eyes wild. “One’s not enough. You think I’d stop at just tasting you?”

Her hand grips your jaw, forcing you to look at her. Sweat drips down your temples, your lips swollen, your body wrecked, but she looks at you like you’re still not enough.

“I’m going to ruin you, little morsel. Until you can’t even walk. Until every mark on your skin screams mine.”

Her claws rip the rest of your clothes, leaving nothing between you. She drags her cock—thick, flushed, too much—against your slick folds, smearing you open with each slow grind. You choke on your own breath, clutching at the stone, and her grin sharpens.

“Scared?” she taunts, pressing just enough to stretch you. Your body fights it, trembling, but your cunt clenches greedily around the tip.

“You’re begging for it.”

The thrust is brutal, splitting you open, driving every inch in one savage push. You scream, nails scraping rock, body arching, and she groans deep, wings flaring wide as if claiming the entire cavern in one motion.

“Fuck, that’s it,” she pants, hips grinding deeper, tail curling possessively around your waist. “Tight little thing—meant for me. Just for me.”

Every thrust rocks you against the wall, the stone biting your back, her body burning you from the inside out. She doesn’t fuck like a human—there’s no rhythm, no restraint, just raw, feral need slamming into you again and again until you’re babbling nonsense.

Her claws rake over your stomach, her teeth sink into your shoulder, her wings cage you in. You can’t breathe, can’t think—only take her, over and over, until your body breaks around her cock.

“Cum,” she growls against your ear, voice like thunder. “Cum on me. Show me who you belong to.”

You shatter again, clenching down so hard she roars, hips slamming forward in one final claiming thrust. Hot release floods you, thick and endless, her entire body trembling as she buries herself deep, grinding until there’s nowhere left untouched inside you.

When she pulls back, it’s only to watch your cunt drip, your thighs shaking, your chest heaving. Her grin is pure predator.

“You’re not going anywhere.” Her tail tightens, her claws pin your wrists again. “You’re mine now. My hoard. My prize. My plaything.”

1. The Lap Situation

When your Rottweiler-hybrid Vi sprawls across your lap, know that this is not a casual gesture. This is possession dressed up as relaxation. She will make herself heavy, anchoring you in place, pinning your legs with the weight of devotion disguised as muscle.

Her head will nudge against your stomach, chin digging in until you scratch her scalp. Do not be fooled—she is perfectly capable of scratching herself, but in her mind, your hands are sacred tools, meant for her and her alone.

If she lets out three long, drawn-out groans, it is not pain. It is demand. Each groan translates as follows:

First groan: "Why aren’t you touching me?"

Second groan: "I said, why aren’t you touching me?"

Third groan: "Do you want me to bite something just to prove a point?"

Proper Handling: Place your fingers behind her ear and scratch in slow circles. Praise her, low and steady. She’ll melt instantly, all sharp edges softened, tail thumping like a drum against your thigh. If you stop too soon, expect another round of complaints—longer, louder, and shamelessly theatrical.

2. Hunger Signals

Your Rottweiler-hybrid Vi is not subtle when she’s hungry. She will circle you like a restless storm, pacing with the heavy thud of boots that say feed me or else. Her eyes sharpen, pupils dilating as though every movement you make might turn into food.

The most telling sign, however, is the sound. A low, rumbling growl—not quite threatening, more like the engine of a motorbike idling too close to your ribs. She’ll drop her chin onto your shoulder or nudge at your side, teeth flashing in what looks like a grin but is closer to a warning.

If the hunger grows unbearable, expect a sequence of behaviors:

She will plant herself in front of you, arms crossed, ears twitching in irritation.

She’ll huff three times in quick succession, each louder than the last.

Finally, she’ll nip—lightly, deliberately—at your sleeve or wrist, a primal reminder that you are supposed to provide.

Proper Handling: Do not scold her. Do not laugh (she will sulk). Lead her to food immediately, or offer something from your pocket if you’re caught outside. Praise her for waiting—even if her “waiting” looked more like intimidation. She’ll beam, tail wagging furiously once her need is met, and then collapse beside you with the smug heaviness of a predator turned lapdog.

3. Jealousy Episodes

Jealousy in your Rottweiler-hybrid Vi does not creep in quietly. It strikes like lightning, sudden and scorching. The first clue: her ears flatten, eyes narrowing with the kind of glare that makes even the bravest souls reconsider standing too close to you.

She doesn’t growl right away. No, she starts with hovering—looming behind you, chin hooked over your shoulder, arms snaking around your waist as if to brand you hers. The more someone lingers in your orbit, the tighter her grip becomes.

If the situation escalates, expect these behaviors:

Short, sharp huffs, hot against your neck—her version of warning signals.

A low, pointed “heh” laugh whenever the other person speaks, the kind that promises violence wrapped in humor.

Sudden, deliberate touches: her hand resting heavy on your thigh, her jaw brushing your temple, her teeth grazing your skin in a way that says claiming, not affection.

Proper Handling: Do not dismiss her feelings. Acknowledge her, firmly but gently—“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” Scratching behind her ear helps; so does turning your body toward her, signaling priority. Never tease her jealousy unless you want a full-blown sulk or, worse, a fight picked with the wrong stranger.

Once reassured, she’ll soften—still clingy, but smug, tail wagging against your hip like she just won the biggest prize in the world.

4. Protective Mode

When your Rottweiler-hybrid Vi senses danger, the shift is instant. One heartbeat she’s lounging across your lap, the next she’s on her feet, shoulders squared, body coiled like a loaded spring.

The growl is different this time—low, guttural, meant to freeze the air itself. Her tail stiffens, ears locked forward, eyes locked onto whatever dared to come too close. Anyone with common sense feels it immediately: the weight of a predator choosing her perimeter.

Signs you are under Vi’s “protection protocol”:

She steps in front of you, blocking your body with hers, even if you protest.

Her hand finds your hip, her thumb pressing firmly—silent reassurance: stay behind me.

Teeth flash not in a grin but in a snarl, lips curled back just enough to promise she won’t hesitate to bite.

If you move to the side, she shadows you seamlessly, a living wall of muscle and defiance.

Proper Handling: Do not fight her stance—it only winds her tighter. Place a hand on her back or arm, grounding her. Speak low, steady, reminding her of where she is, who she’s with. If the threat is real, let her handle it. If it’s a false alarm (a startled stranger, a sudden noise), stroke her jaw until the tension drains.

Once the danger has passed, she’ll collapse against you, panting, eyes still wild but desperate for comfort. Praise her—always. She lives for your approval, and nothing soothes her faster than hearing she did well.

5. Play Mode

You’ll know it’s Play Mode the moment your Rottweiler-hybrid Vi starts bouncing on her heels, tail whipping like it’s got a mind of its own. Her grin is all teeth, mischievous and feral, the kind of look that screams I’m about to start something and you can’t stop me.

Typical signs include:

Sudden shoulder bumps—hard enough to jolt you, soft enough not to bruise.

Quick nips at your sleeve or collar, tugging like a pup demanding a game of tug-of-war.

A low, playful “grrr” rumbling in her chest as she circles you, daring you to chase.

Out-of-nowhere pounces: she’ll tackle you onto the couch, pinning you down, laughing like a maniac while demanding, “Say you give up!”

Proper Handling: Do not ignore her. If you refuse to engage, she’ll only escalate—louder growls, harder bumps, maybe even carrying you off over her shoulder just to get her way. Best response: give in, play back. Wrestle with her (you won’t win, but she loves your effort). Toss her something to chase if you need a break.

When she’s finally tired, she’ll flop down against you, panting, tail still thumping weakly. Scratch her head, praise her stamina. She’ll fall asleep with a grin, entirely satisfied.

6. Affection Overload

Sometimes your Rottweiler-hybrid Vi doesn’t want food, doesn’t want a fight, doesn’t even want to play. She wants you. Every inch of you, every second of you, every breath you take.

The first sign is the stare—wide, unblinking, pupils blown so big they swallow the color of her eyes. She tracks your movements like prey, except instead of pouncing, she folds herself into you. Literally.

Expect the following behaviors:

She drapes herself across your body no matter where you sit. Sofa, chair, floor—makes no difference. You are her mattress now.

Excessive nose-burying. In your neck, in your hair, against your stomach—like she’s memorizing your scent molecule by molecule.

Little whines. Not the demanding kind, but the soft, desperate ones, muffled against your skin as if she can’t stand the thought of you being even an inch away.

Hands that do not let go. Even if you try to move, her grip tightens, muscles locking you in like a living restraint.

Proper Handling: Give her what she wants—touch. Fingers in her hair, soft scratches down her spine, murmured words against her temple. If you absolutely need to move, negotiate gently, with kisses or promises you’ll be right back. Never just push her off; it’ll crush her.

Handled right, she’ll melt into a purring, tail-thumping heap, half-asleep with a satisfied smile. Mishandled? Expect sulks, sharp barks of complaint, and her shadowing you so closely you might trip over her.

7. Tantrums

Rottweiler-hybrid Vi doesn’t pout quietly. When she’s denied what she wants, the entire room knows it. The growl is the first giveaway—not deep and dangerous like in protective mode, but sharp, frustrated, rattling right in her throat like an impatient drumroll.

Signs of an incoming tantrum include:

Loud, dramatic sighs—each one heavier, longer, and more exaggerated than the last.

Pacing back and forth with her tail lashing, ears flicking like shutters in a storm.

Half-growled mutters: “Unbelievable.” “You’re killing me here.” “Seriously?”

The infamous three-bark complaint—short, loud, and echoing. Everyone within a mile knows she’s upset.

If left unchecked, she’ll escalate: dropping herself face-first onto your bed or couch, arms folded under her chest, refusing to look at you. The silent treatment never lasts long, though—it usually ends with her throwing herself at you again, muttering about how unfair you are.

Proper Handling: Do not laugh. Laughing only makes her louder. Instead, acknowledge her feelings with a firm voice and steady hand—scratch the back of her neck, coax her chin up, let her see you’re not ignoring her. Offer compromise if you can. If not, reassure her that she’s still your priority.

Handled gently, she’ll grumble a little longer before melting against you, tail tapping out reluctant forgiveness. Mishandled? Prepare for sulks that last hours and an even clingier Vi afterward—because underneath the barking is pure fear of losing you.

The air inside the garage was warm, humming faintly with the quiet chatter of tools left to rest. You stepped out of the Phantom VIII, heels clicking softly against concrete, the silver car gleaming like a mirror of your own polish. Eyes followed you—some subtle, most not—but you didn’t spare them a glance. You’d grown used to it. The weight of stares slid off your shoulders like water.

Except hers.

Vi stood by the workbench, wiping grease from her hands with a rag she’d already ruined. The sight of her hit you the way it always did: broad frame, tattoos crawling down sinewed arms, a presence that belonged more to fire than flesh. She looked at you like you weren’t some passing client but a puzzle, a machine worth studying, worth tearing apart and rebuilding until she knew what made it hum.

“Well, look who it is,” she said, voice low, scratchy, the kind of tone that belonged in smoke-filled bars at midnight. Her grin cut sharper than a knife. “Princess, you break another toy already?”

Her mechanics chuckled behind her, but the joke wasn’t for them. Her blue eyes pinned you, dragging slow over the lines of your dress, the set of your shoulders, the steel in your spine. Heat climbed your skin, but you refused to give her the satisfaction of looking away.

“Not broken,” you answered simply, lifting your chin as though daring her to doubt you. “Just needs someone who knows what they’re doing.”

Her grin widened—feral, entertained, as though you’d just tossed down a gauntlet. She leaned against the bench, crossing her arms, grease still staining the skin beneath her tattoos. It should have been rough, unrefined. Instead, it was magnetic.

“Good thing you came to me, then.”

The shop felt smaller with her eyes on you, as if the air had thickened into something you could drown in. You’d told yourself, more than once, that she was just a mechanic. Just another woman with sharp edges and a reputation. But standing there, caught in the quiet gravity of her gaze, you knew better.