#creature smut

[aemondsbabe]

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summary: you weren’t looking for company. he was seeking something he couldn’t name.

pairing: creature x reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, gothic themes, body horror (mild/very vague), grief/loneliness, emotional hurt/comfort, first kiss, slow burn, size difference, first time, piv sex, soft dom undertones (reader), gentle worship, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 9.5k

a/n: she’s back on her behemoth big boy fic shit, let’s go

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

🍁masterlist

The fire has burned low, a slow red heart pulsing in the grate. Sitting on an old, hand-sewn cushion, back pressed against the side of a threadbare armchair, legs tucked beneath a woolen blanket. The book in your lap is a familiar one–your favorite–yet you’ve read the same page three times and could not recount it once. Words seem to blur when you’re this tired. 

Your small cottage is quiet, save for the steady crackle of the fire and the faint patter of icy rain on the thatched roof. Evenings are usually a comfort—particularly in winter—when the day finally slows and work is done. Sometimes, though, the silence of it has teeth and gnaws softly at the edges of the room. 

Tonight feels like one of those nights, the stillness giving too much space for thought. Memories stir: last winter’s fever, frantic days now gone.

Outside, the wind sifts through the trees like a restless hand and the cottage creaks in reply. It’s familiar–the small groans of the wood and stone holding fast against the bitter cold. Life is quiet now. The few hens you have tend to roost early this time of year, the vegetable garden rests under a blanket of frost, and footsteps have long since vanished from the road.

No one would be fool enough to traverse them until the spring thaw. 

The chair at your back sits empty, as it has for a little over a year. Sometimes you still find yourself glancing toward it before remembering that no one’s there, that no one will fill it again. Shaking off the thought, you close your book, and stand to stir the fire. Sparks leap up, quick and bright before fading. You tell yourself that this solitude fits you and you nearly find yourself believing it–until a strange sound from outside catches your attention. 

It’s faint–something scraping beyond the door. Not the wind, not an animal’s small rustle. No, it must be something larger–heavier. A noise that has no business in so still a night. Frozen for a second, you grab the lantern from the mantle, ignoring the tremor in your hand as the wick catches.

The second you press open the old wooden door, the cold drives into you like a blade. The storm has thickened–sleet turned to snow, fat flakes dragged sideways by wind. Lantern light shows only swirling white at first, until a shape emerges: hulking, dark, near the edge of the shed. 

It moves.

Before you can stop yourself, you call out, “Who’s there?”

No answer, just another gust of wind that rustles the bare branches of nearby trees. The shape turns, hesitates. Against your better judgement, you tighten the woolen blanket around your shoulders and take a few tentative steps forward. The light illuminates the shape just enough for you to see him–taller than any man you’ve ever met, shoulders bent, face half-hidden beneath a curtain of wet hair. 

Your heart lurches and you take a step back, the lantern swinging, “Go on, then! I’ve nothing worth stealing!”

He flinches at your voice and lifts his hands–not threateningly, but as if warding you off. You see the raw red of his knuckles, the trembling of his fingers. His clothes are in tatters, soaked through. He looks less like a robber than someone hopelessly lost. 

“Please,” you call, quieter now, “What do you want?” 

His gaze flicks toward the cottage, the front door still cracked open behind you–letting the warm light from inside spill out into the dark. Again, he says nothing, merely gives a small shake of his head, chest heaving. You notice that he’s barefoot and your heart gives a pitying clench despite the situation. 

Words die on your tongue as you take a slow step forward, deliberate and careful–the way one would approach a wounded animal. Shivering, whether from fear or cold, he keeps a cautious watch, glancing toward the treeline as if planning escape. 

“I don’t mean you any harm,” the reassurance sounds foolish even as it leaves your mouth. He could overpower you without effort, yet something insists he won’t. 

He doesn’t answer, merely gives a fearful grunt and wraps the tattered coat he wears more tightly around himself. Slowly, it dawns on you that perhaps he can’t answer–that he may not understand you at all. 

“You’re lost, aren’t you?” The words hang between you, “No one would be out in this weather otherwise, I suppose.” Wind howls, branches scrape, and silence settles again. You can feel your pulse hammering in your throat, but you keep your voice steady, “Do you need help?”

Understanding flickers across his eyes. He looks hurt, scarred, pale—patched together in ways that don’t make sense. Yet, no danger radiates from him. Every instinct says to run, but compassion roots you in place.

“Yes? Help?” You try again, cocking your head to the side. He doesn’t nod or offer a word, but doesn’t look away either. After a quick prayer under your breath, you gesture to the open door, “It’s warm in there. You can stay the night, if you’d like–just until the weather clears.” 

Wide, dark eyes study you. A gust of wind makes him shiver harder while he looks between you and the light spilling out into the cold. His muscles twitch, wanting desperately to move toward the warmth, but still, he hesitates. 

You take a few steps back toward the door and he follows, stumbling forward before stopping–cautious and unsure. The sight of it makes your heart clench tightly in your chest for reasons you don’t quite understand. He moves like a dog who’s been scolded by its master, assessing every step for some unknown danger–expecting pain. 

You recognize that look–someone waiting for a mercy that won’t come; you wore it the night your brother died.

“Has someone hurt you?” You question, purposefully soft and slow–meant to soothe. No reply, but his body speaks plainly enough. Hair blows across his face, and in the firelight you glimpse eyes that, for all their strangeness, look kind.

Standing aside, you gesture him in. “I won’t hurt you,” you reassure, just as another icy gust forces a shiver through your blanket. “Come, it’s much too cold.”

He hesitates, then finally steps through, ducking beneath the lintel. The room seems smaller with him inside. Water drips from his clothes onto the boards, but awe softens his expression as he takes in the firelight and the few humble furnishings. When the door closes, he jumps at the sound.

For a long moment, the both of you simply stand there, watching one another. “It isn’t much, I know,” you murmur, finally breaking the silence and carefully stepping around him. Walking over to the hearth, you pick up a poker and adjust the logs until the flames pick up a little more, “You’re welcome to stay until light–or until it’s safe to travel.”

In the light, you can see him more clearly. Your heart thuds in your chest at his strange appearance–scarred and stitched, patched up in ways that don’t quite make sense. The coat he has wrapped around himself is old, faded in spots from the sun. His hair is damp and dirty. 

All of it should reasonably frighten you, and yet, as he takes a few more steps into the cottage and stops before the fire, pity wins out. His fingers tug at the edges of his coat, keeping it held tightly around himself like a shield. 

Unsure what to say, you manage a small smile and gesture toward the armchair you’d been sitting against earlier. “Sit, please—you must be tired,” moving to the table, you glance at a half-eaten loaf of bread, “Are you hungry?”

He merely looks at the chair for a moment–as if it’s some brand new thing–before finally slowly going over to it. When he finally sits, it creaks under his weight–not exactly meant to hold someone so large. You don’t miss the quiet sigh that leaves him, one of relief. 

Slicing the bread, you spread a generous helping of jam–still sweet from the summer’s last batch–onto a few pieces before setting them on a plate and taking it over to him, marveling silently at the strangeness of it. You’ve long since stopped setting a second place at supper but sometimes, out of habit, your hand still reaches for another plate or fork before you can think better of it. 

When you reach him, he merely blinks at the food before looking back at you, prominent brow furrowing in confusion. Can he not speak? You think, observing him for a second, Perhaps he’s lost his memory?. He certainly looks as if that could be the case–so scarred and pale, almost sickly. 

Miming eating, you make exaggerated “Mmm!” sounds while pretending to chew, laughing softly at the silliness of it. “Hungry?” You try again, pointing to the bread, “Food, for you. Eat, please.”

Hesitantly, he does reach out and take the plate, though he makes no move to eat until you turn away–busying yourself by putting away the remaining bread and jam and wiping off the knife. Out of the corner of your eye, he raises the plate to his face and sniffs at it before grabbing a slice. His movements are uncoordinated–shaky and unsure–but he finally eats, wolfing down the simple meal with the occasional grunt of approval. 

Finishing up, you slowly make your way back toward the fire and lower yourself to sit on one of the cushions, grateful for the warmth of the fire when wind whistles through the cracks in the wood. Tilting your head to the side, you study him for a long moment–taking in the way light traces the uneven lines of his face, how exhaustion sits in his posture. Although it must be quite late by now, sleep will be scarce tonight–curiosity and apprehension weighing far too heavily on your mind. 

“Do you have a name?” The question drifts across the firelight and he pauses, his head cocked just slightly. Brow furrowed, you point to yourself, repeating your own name slowly. His gaze sharpens, following each sound until recognition flickers in his dark gaze. You repeat it, deliberate, syllable by syllable. “That’s me,” you whisper, “My name.”

His lips part in a rasping attempt. Then, finally, he shapes the word–your name–in a voice rough and uncertain. 

Your eyes light up. It feels like the first warmth of spring. 

“Yes, that’s exactly right!” The praise drips easily from your lips and you spend the next few moments coaching him, repeating your name again and again and listening as he repeats it with growing confidence, nodding all the while. The gentle encouragement seems to please him and the corners of his lips twitch up into a small smile, making a strange warmth bloom inside you. 

You know nothing of this man, and yet your heart stirs in your chest. 

“Your turn,” you finally murmur, nodding to him expectantly, “What do I call you?” 

The smile on his lips slowly fades at that and gets replaced by a look of confusion. He opens his mouth to speak, lips quivering as if trying to utter a sound his mind has forgotten. A strained breath pushes out instead–frustration, or fear, or both. His brows draw low over his eyes. One trembling hand lifts from his lap and hovers in the space between you, then presses against his chest as if trying to force a word up from somewhere deeper. 

Still, nothing–only the flicker of panic. 

“Shh,” you soothe quickly, hand raised before he can work himself to distress, “That’s alright, we’ve time.” Even as you reassure him, something inside you seems to break–he truly has nothing. No proper clothes, no name, seemingly not even the surety of some world–some life–waiting for him out there. “You can tell me later,” you continue, smiling softly as you lower your hand, tentatively resting it atop his on the arm of the air, “Whenever you remember.” 

His shoulders dip, relief loosening the tension that had crept into his frame. He nods–small and hesitant–seemingly grateful you aren’t pressing him. 

A quiet settles over the cottage, the kind that hums around the edges of the fire. Your eyes catch on the damp patches of his coat and you realize how his coat clings to him, heavy with melted snow and ice. “Poor thing, you must be freezing,” you say under your breath, just as another gust of wind pushes against the shutters, punctuating your point, “Wait here.”

He doesn’t understand the words, not fully, but he understands the gesture when you hold up a hand and step away. He stays rooted to the armchair, though his head cranes around as he watches your every move while you retreat to the far side of the cottage. 

The small trunk at the foot of your bed hasn’t been opened in months. Your hand hovers over the lid for a heartbeat too long and the iron hinges creak when you finally lift it. Inside, folded with a care only grief can bring, are the last of your brother’s things–his clothing, his oil paints, a tattered old journal of his that you still can’t bring yourself to read. 

Cedar. Soap. Faint, fading memories. 

Your chest tightens. You force a slow breath through your nose and swallow down the ache working its way up your throat before lifting a shirt and pair of trousers from the neat stack. They’re soft from wear, too big in some places and too small in others, but they’re warm–dry and whole. 

You close the trunk firmly before grief has space to bloom. 

When you return to him, the firelight paints his face in shifting golds and shadows. His eyes drop to the clothes in your hands and then lift again to your face, searching for instruction. 

“These,” you say softly, offering them out against the pain in your chest, “Were my brother’s.” You swallow once more, steadier now. For a second, you think of explaining–of talking through the illness that took him, the stillness that’s haunted you ever since. Deciding against it, you simply give a shake of your head and nod at the ragged coat he wears, “They should fit better than… those. And they’ll be warm.” 

He looks down at his tattered rags, fingers brushing over the threadbare fabric with something like shame. Then, he reaches–slowly, cautiously–and takes the bundle from your hands. His palms dwarf the folded clothes, holding them with a strange, reverent care, as though afraid to crease them. 

“There,” you try for a smile, “Let’s get you warm.”

You gesture toward the corner of the cottage nearest the hearth, where a simple privacy screen stands next to your wooden wash tub. It’s hardly more than a patched sheet hung on a wooden frame, but it offers the illusion of modesty. He watches you, then looks to the screen, and then back to you–uncertain. 

“It’s alright,” you reassure, pointing at the clothes once more and then back to the screen, “You can change there.” 

Understanding seems to dawn on him slowly and he stands, still clutching the clothes, and moves behind the screen. Fabric rustles. You poke at the fire once more, busying yourself and giving him space–trying not to imagine the state of the bruises and scars hidden beneath the tatters he wears. 

A few moments pass and the rustling finally stops. When he steps out again, the sight nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. 

The clothes hang strangely on him–the shirt’s sleeves end too high on his forearms, and the trousers fit awkwardly around his hips–but he looks… human. Softer around the edges and gentler in the glow of the fire. Warmer, somehow. 

“Better,” you say quietly, and you mean it. 

His fingers pluck at the hem of the shirt, testing the feel of it. He murmurs something low, a rumble you think might be gratitude, but the words are lost in his throat. You offer a small nod anyway. 

“Let me make you somewhere to sleep,” you offer, gathering spare cushions–patched, faded, but still soft–and arrange them beside the hearth, “It must be quite late by now.” You leave him the wool blanket you’d dawned before, then place a spare pillow down as well–one that smells faintly of the lavender sachets you’re so fond of. He watches, eyes wide and dark and questioning, while you kneel and shift everything into place, lips parted slightly in something like wonder. 

As if no one has ever done him a favor before, as if even this small shred of comfort is entirely foreign. 

When you finish, you look up at him with an almost sheepish grin. “It isn’t much,” you admit softly, “But it’s warm, at least.”

He doesn’t move until you do, finally giving him space as you go over to your bed–a simple thing pressed against one of the cottage’s walls. Finally, he lowers himself onto the pallet–slow, as though uncertain the floor will hold him. His hand presses into one of the cushions, testing its give with an odd fascination. Then, he lays down–stiffly at first–and pulls the blanket around himself. His body sinks into the softness, his shoulders relax and a long, shuddering breath leaves him–almost a sigh. 

Your heart twists at the vulnerability of it–a wild, feral thing, finally at ease. 

Climbing into your own bed, you quickly make yourself comfortable and stare at the dark wooden ceiling, watching the way shadows play on it. Turning your head to the side, you watch him for a long moment–trying desperately to make sense of him. “Goodnight,” you finally murmur, voice quieter than you intend. 

He looks up at you, eyes reflecting the firelight. His lips part.

Your name leaves him again–soft and imperfect. Your heart clenches. 

Not trusting yourself to answer, you simply lean over and blow out the small lantern on the old table by your bed. The cottage settles around you. Outside, the storm rages on; inside, the only other sound is the quiet rhythm of another breathing within the same four walls. 

Sleep comes eventually.

For the first time in a long while, you wonder if you’re truly meant to be alone. 

Winter refuses to loosen its grip. Days pass in a slow, snow-choked drift, and he stays because there is nowhere else to go–and because you don’t ask him to leave. 

A cautious routine finds its way into the cottage. 

In the mornings, you light the fire while he hovers nearby, hands held out toward the warmth with wary curiosity. He copies your motions–awkwardly splitting kindling, mimicking the way you poke at the fire. He’s clumsy at first, but quite determined. 

You read to him in the afternoons when the light is best. He sits cross-legged on the floor, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on the pages as though trying to devour every word. When you pause to take a breath, he taps the page with a large, scarred finger and murmurs, “Again.” 

He learns fast–faster than you expect. Simple words come at first, stilted and halting. Then, slowly, phrases. Sometimes he surprises you–snatching a word you didn’t think he’d been listening for and rolling it around in his mouth like a smooth stone. Before long, he’s reading through your books himself–sometimes aloud, sometimes with quiet whispers. 

You speak to him more each day; at first, it was to fill the silence, then because you want to. The cottage no longer feels so hollow. 

You catch yourself humming while you cook, or find him watching you with a soft, puzzled fondness, as though trying to understand the way you move through the space–to understand how you’ve taken up so much of his chest in so little time. You start setting two cups at the table without thinking. 

A quiet companionship roots itself between you–unexpected, fragile, strangely natural. 

Snow keeps the cottage shuttered, the world beyond reduced to white drifts and howling gusts. Days slip into each other, marked only by the crack and sigh of fire and the slow progress of your shared routines. 

Still, something in him changes. 

He grows quiet in a different way–restless beneath the surface. It starts small: pauses while you read, his gaze drifting toward the window and then beyond it, toward a world he cannot name. Sometimes, you catch him pressing a hand against his chest as though feeling for something missing. 

He dreams, you think, occasionally letting out quiet whimpers or gasps in the night–low, broken murmurs. His breath hitches. A few times he’s bolted upright, disoriented and searching for something you cannot see. 

One afternoon, when you’re darning a rip in an apron, he stands so long at the window that frost collects in his breath on the glass. His reflection looks back at him, strange and stitched, and questioning. When he finally speaks, his voice is steady. 

“I keep… thinking,” his words are careful, soft, “Before this place, before you. There must have been a place, a beginning.” His fingers tap against the window, restless. “I feel it–here,” he murmurs, pressing a hand to his chest, “But I cannot see it clearly.”

Setting your mending aside, you give him your full attention–head tilted with curiosity, “What do you remember? Even the smallest pieces.”

His eyes close and the hand against his ribs tightens. “Cold stone,” he whispers, searching, “Echoes, light so bright it hurt. And… a voice, a name.”

“A name?”

“Victor,” he mutters, speaking the word as though it causes him physical pain, “I think that is where I began.” 

You stand then and reach out to him as you approach, gently settling a hand on his arm. “If you feel drawn to it,” you say gently, “Then you should go. You have a right to know where you came from.”

His brows knit and he stays silent for a long moment before finally looking at you with wide, fearful eyes, “And if I find something I wish I hadn’t?”

You swallow, words sticking in your throat. “Then you come home,” the word slips out before you can catch it. His eyes soften–surprised, almost shy. 

You don’t take it back. 

You hate the way your heart lurches when he leaves the next morning, dawning his old coat once more. 

You spend that day listening–to the wind, to your own footsteps, to the hollow quiet left in his absence. The cottage feels wrong without his heavy, deliberate movements, without his curious hums at the fire, without the soft sound of him turning pages too slowly, tracing each line with a careful fingertip. 

The storm picks up at dusk. You light the lantern early. 

By nightfall, fear sits like a stone in your stomach. 

Then–just as you reach for your cloak to go after him–the door slams open. 

He stumbles inside–not the careful, cautious creature you’ve come to know, but something unraveling. Snow clings to his hair and lashes and ash streaks his face, remnants of whatever ruin he’d found at last. 

He collapses to his knees before you as if his legs have simply given out. “I found it,” he rasps, “The tower.”

You drop beside him, brows furrowed with worry, “What happened?”

He lifts his head, and the devastation in his expression cuts into you like a knife. “I know what I am,” he says, voice breaking, “I saw the place, I read what he wrote.” His chest heaves, breath shaking over a sob, “I was made of… pieces. Scraps. Things torn apart and stitched together. I was not… born, not wanted.” He shakes his head, a miserable and helpless gesture. Tears streak over his cheeks and your stomach drops, “I thought–I hoped–that there might be someone who wished for me, but there was nothing. Only the work of a man who came to fear me.”

More tears fall and he presses a trembling hand to his throat as though steadying something inside himself. “I am a monster,” he whispers.

It hits you like a physical blow.

You reach for his face–gently, carefully–and cradle the sides of his jaw. He flinches, then leans into your touch with a broken exhale. “Look at me,” you say softly, sucking in a breath when his dark eyes look up to you, “You are not a monster.” 

His breath shudders and his brows twitch, “How can you say that?”

“Because, monsters do not learn,” you whisper firmly, as if trying to press the words so deep into him that they stick like stone, “They don’t feel, they don’t try. They don’t listen to stories like they matter or help me shovel snow or read words they’ve never seen before. They don’t care.” Exhaling, trembling, your voice drops to a mere breath, “They don’t say my name like it means something.”

Sniffling, you brush a streak of ash from his cheek with your thumb, “You are someone.”

He closes his eyes as if the words hurt, as if they warm him too quickly after too much cold. A moment passes and he lifts his hand, hesitates, and then touches your cheek with the gentlest brush of his fingertips, as though he fears you may break, “I don’t want to be alone, to be nothing.”

“You’re not, you have me,” the words come as a whisper and you sigh when his forehead rests against yours. His hand curls carefully around one of your wrists and the fire crackles, snow still falling outside. 

Something new seems to settle in the air between you, different from before. It’s not mere comfort, or gratitude, not even longing–not yet. 

You don’t move closer, he doesn’t either. 

But neither of you move away. 

The storm breaks two days later, as if exhausted by its own violence. Snow still blankets the world, but it begins to shrink under patches of weak sunlight. Icicles drip steadily from the eaves. The road outside remains buried, but icy wind no longer beats against the walls. 

“The storm will clear soon,” he says quietly, looking up from the book he’d been reading to you. You look up from his coat, the tattered one he’d come to you in–you’d been determined to fix it up for him and had been slowly mending tears. Almost tentatively, you look at one another, “And when it does… I go…?”

The words land like a cold draft on your skin and you swallow, setting the heap of fabric in your lap to the side. “That was our deal,” you murmur, “When the weather changed.” Turning your gaze to the window, you watch for a moment as the tree branches outside sway in a soft wind, “Do you… want to go?”

He stares at you for a moment, unblinking. He seems to sense the turmoil growing within you, the uncertainty in your voice. His fists clench and unclench in his lap, his throat tight. “...No,” he finally answers, hoarse, hardly more than a whisper, “I don’t, but I thought… I assumed you wanted me to…”

“That was before,” the words come quickly–to quick–and you catch yourself, pausing. That was before you learned about him, before you cared for him. “Before I… I knew you,” you finally say, words settling on a whisper. 

An ache swells in your chest and you busy your hands by picking at the fraying edge of your apron, but the feeling doesn’t dissipate. “I don’t want you to go,” you continue before you can talk yourself down from it, “I don’t. I’d been alone here for so long, I… I thought that was what I wanted. But now…” You shake your head, feeling your heart beat up into your throat. “Now it feels… wrong. Empty.”

A flicker of surprise passes across his face, followed by hope and something a bit warmer that he doesn’t quite know how to name. 

“I would stay,” he says slowly, “If that is what you truly want.”

“I do,” you whisper and silence settles–not heavy, not like before. It’s more of a relief, something left unsaid now made plain. 

From that moment on, things change between the two of you. 

He offers to carry firewood in from the sheds now rather than merely helping, brushes snow from your shoulders with a hand so gentle it nearly undoes you. You spend an afternoon teaching him how to mend tears in fabric, guiding his fingers with yours. He reads to you more now–slow, at first, but endlessly determined; the delighted scrunch of his nose when he recognizes a difficult word warms you from the inside out like wine. 

And you… find yourself watching him more than before. 

He’s becoming familiar in a way that feels alarmingly precious. You expect the way he’ll bow his head ever so slightly when he’s deeply listening, or start expecting the low hum that sounds from his chest when something’s confused him. What you find yourself searching for the most is the way his eyes light up when he makes you laugh–really laugh, not the brittle sound you’d grown used to after your brother passed. 

You’d forgotten what it was like to share a space with someone who truly knows you, and who you know in turn–someone who would care if you’re tired or cold or quiet. 

He feels the change, too–you see it in the way he goes still for a second after you touch him, the way his breath catches in his throat and he looks to you before quickly averting his gaze. 

You don’t rush him, you don’t need to. 

You do, however, start leaving out more of the romance books you’d had carefully tucked away; tales of knights and princesses, of desire. 

Some nights later, the world feels strangely gentle–the kind that breeds anticipation. 

The snow has finally begun to melt in earnest and the air that seeps through the shutters is still cold, but no longer biting. The outside smells of rain and damp earth and new life–a scent you’ve grown to associate with early spring, when endings and beginnings still press too close together. 

You’d fallen asleep easily, lulled by the low crackle of the fire and the steady turning of pages from the nearby pallet. Lately, he’s taken to reading long after you’re asleep; your lullaby has become low mumbles while he reads through paragraphs with careful concentration. 

Tonight started off no differently, until a sound drags you from sleep–sharp, choked. 

Pushing yourself upright, your brows furrow and your heart thuds. The cottage is dim, lit only by the glow of slowly dying embers, just enough light for you to make him out. 

He’s sitting upright on the pallet, shoulders curled inward with a hand tangled in his hair. His whole body seems to tremble–not violently as if from cold, but more contained, like he didn’t want to wake you.

“Hey,” you whisper, already across the room before thought catches up to you, “It’s alright, you’re safe.” 

He doesn’t flinch from your voice, but his breath stutters as if he’s trying and failing to hold steady. “I… I saw it again,” he manages, voice rough at the edges, “The tower, the fire… him.” His throat tightens around the last word as he stares blankly at the flames dancing in the hearth, “I thought it would fade but… it’s as if he haunts me.”

You kneel beside him atop one of the cushions, your knees nearly touching his. Your hands hover before you dare touch him; he looks lost–truly lost, the way he had been the first night you’d found him. Understanding only seems to have brought a new kind of pain. 

Gently, you reach for his arm. 

He exhales shakily at the contact, like the simple touch alone is what anchors him to the present. “You don’t have to sit with it alone,” you murmur, “You needn’t wake up alone either.” 

His gaze lifts at that–dark, shimmering in the low firelight. Confusion and longing braid together; your meaning is clear to him, as is the knowledge that the ache that’s steadily been building in his chest is present in yours as well. 

He swallows hard, shaking his head slightly, “I do not want to frighten you.” 

“You could never frighten me.”

“I should,” he mutters quickly–too quickly, it makes him wince. Taking a breath, he turns his head from you, then says again, softer, “I should… I… I’m a monster, I am nothing.”

You shake your head and slide closer, brows furrowed as if his words bring you physical pain. “Come,” you say gently, “Come here.”

His hesitation is visible–shoulders drawn tight, eyes flicking to your bed, then back to your face. You wait, patient. You let him come to you–it matters that it’s his choice. 

After a long, trembling moment, he finally shifts toward you.

He leans in carefully, forehead pressing to your shoulder with a drawn out breath, warm against your collarbone. For someone of such large stature, he’s such a fragile thing. You ease your arms around him, pulling him close into a proper embrace for the first time.

He melts. 

Bit by bit, piece by piece, the tension leaves him until he’s practically folded into your chest, one hand clutching the fabric of your nightdress as if afraid you might slip away. 

“You’re alright,” you whisper into his hair, breath catching as he seems to purr low in his chest, “I’ve got you, it’s alright.”

The two of you stay like that for a long while–the fire’s dim glow painting the room in amber shadows, the only sound the soft stutter of his breathing gradually smoothing into something calmer.

When he does finally speak again, the words are quiet. “Will it always hurt?” He questions, “Remembering?”

“Maybe,” you admit, a sharpness fills your chest as thoughts of your own family flood your mind. It doesn’t take long to soften, though–morphing into something sweeter, nostalgic, “But they may settle, eventually. And when they do come… you don’t need to face them alone, not anymore.”

A breath leaves him, soft and shaky–like a weight’s been lifted from his shoulders. 

You pull back just enough to see his face. His eyes flick toward your bed again, then away just as quickly–as though he’s ashamed for even looking.

Your voice stays calm, even as your heart skips a beat in your chest. “Do you…” you start slowly, taking a deep breath, “Do you want to lie down? With me?” 

He stays utterly still in your grasp, seeming to freeze. “Only if you want to,” you add quickly, damning the way your heart sinks, “Only for… comfort. Just warmth and rest.”

His chest rises once, sharply, and his brows pinch. Something like disappointment passes over his gaze before vanishing. “I… want,” he whispers, rough, “But I do not know if I should.” 

It feels as though someone pours a bucket of hot water over you when you hear those words–he wants. Your eyes connect with his–only for a second–but the meaning is clear enough, understanding blooming between the two of you. Swallowing thickly, you nod and reach for his hand, threading your fingers with his, “I trust you. I want you there.”

Something inside him breaks open at that–not painfully, but like thawing ice finally cracking to let something gentle through. He nods once. 

Standing, you lead him to your bed–humble and somehow holy all at once. 

You get in first and shift over to make space beside you before looking at him expectantly. He moves carefully, cautiously, as though afraid he’ll overstep some boundary he doesn’t fully understand. You pull the blankets up as he settles beside you–too large for the narrow mattress, pressed close by necessity. Even still, he keeps a respectful distance at first, rigid with uncertainty. 

Under the blankets, you slide your hand toward his, just barely brushing against his fingers. He inhales sharply and then slow, deliberately, closes the distance and lets his hand settle, warm and heavy, over yours. 

“Relax,” you whisper, a coy smile playing on your lips. 

“I am trying,” he breathes, with a trembling kind of honesty that softens something deep inside you. 

You shift closer, offering your warmth without crowding him, and after a moment, he mirrors you. His forehead comes to rest lightly against yours, his breath mingling with yours in soft, tentative exhales. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, “For letting me stay.”

Your thumb strokes the back of his hand before you lift it, cupping his cheek instead, “I don’t ever want you to go.”

Some small and aching thing flickers across his face–wonder, disbelief, and want all rolled into one. He lifts his hand, hesitates, and then cups your cheek–mirroring you. He touches you as if you may break and his thumb brushes the corner of your lips. 

You don’t know who leans in first, only that you’re drawn together like a magnet–by some pull that’s been slowly gathering strength for days now. 

Your lips meet his softly and for a moment, it’s as if the sun’s rays have managed to swallow you completely. There’s a gentle pressure, hesitant at first, but then firmer when he realizes you’re not pulling away. He exhales against your mouth–a tender, trembling sound–and pulls back only an inch, eyes wide while they search yours. 

“... Alright?” he swallows, words failing him. 

You cradle his jaw, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone once more while you chuckle softly, “Yes,” you nod, grinning, “More than alright.”

Growing more confident, he clings to you like a man drowning, shifting down until he can press his cheek against your chest; the sound of your heartbeat beneath his ear pulls a pleased grumble from him. There are no books or borrowed words grand enough for this feeling–this belonging–so he simply holds to you tighter. 

With a contented rumble, he presses another kiss to you, this time to your collarbone. The two of you stay quiet for a long moment, simply basking in the feel of… whatever this new development is. After a while, he tilts his face up to meet your gaze–dark eyes full of quiet wonder. “...Happy,” he murmurs hoarsely, knowing the word alone can’t possibly contain everything he feels. 

The sweetness of the simple declaration has you huffing out another breathy laugh, your lips quirking up into a smile. “You make me very happy, too,” you whisper, cupping his cheek before you comb your fingers through his hair once more, “I’m so glad you found me.”

The two of you lay together in a comfortable silence for a while, the steady crackle of the fire in the hearth and the occasional whistle of wind the only sounds keeping you company. Having him pressed against you like this, so solid and strong, has your mind wandering. Trailing your hand down ever so slowly–slow enough for him to stop you if he wishes–you gingerly untie the laces of his tunic. 

When he doesn’t stop you, you let your hand wander further. Sucking in a tentative breath, you reach out and slowly trail your fingers over the center of his chest, keeping your eyes on him the whole time. 

Beside you, he tenses for just a moment when your fingers brush his bare skin–still unused to touch that isn’t clinical or violent. But then, he melts into it with a shuddering exhale, nuzzling further against your chest, silently marveling at how strange it feels to be seen like this and not recoiled from. 

When you pull your hand away–only for a second–he makes a small noise of protest before going perfectly still as you bring your hand back to him once more, your fingers tracing over the lines of his chest where he’d been stitched together. There’s no disgust in your touch, only gentle curiosity, and it steals the breath from his lungs. 

“... Ugly,” he murmurs, rough voice muffled against you as he struggles to meet your gaze.

Your brows furrow and your heart clenches as a wild desperation fills you–a need to show him that he’s wrong, to make him understand how lovely he is. “No,” you whisper, giving a slow shake of your head, “Not ugly. Beautiful.” 

Gingerly, you press at his shoulder until he shifts a bit on the bed, moving to lie on his back. With an infinite slowness, giving him more than enough time to protest should he wish, you carefully move until you can straddle him–your thighs on either side of his hips. The delicate fabric of your nightgown rides up your legs with the movement and you let out a soft sigh as you finally settle, resting your hands against his chest. 

“You are so lovely,” you murmur, gazing down at him while you slowly work his tunic open, “Not ugly, never ugly.”

Below you, his eyes widen as you trail your fingers over his chest once more, as if he can’t quite believe the touch. It’s as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop–for you to stop and pull away in horror at the sight of him. “But…” he says hoarsely, swallowing thickly in a poor attempt to ignore the lump forming at the back of his throat while he watches you. 

Quietly shushing him, you slowly lean down and press a kiss against the bare skin of his chest, trailing them up over his neck until you can reach his lips. “Death needn’t be ugly,” you whisper against him, letting your forehead rest against his, “Death can be beautiful, peaceful… like you.” 

Giving him a soft smile, you press a series of kisses over his jawline and press yourself further against him, letting him feel the warmth of you, the softness. A little thrill goes through you when he groans underneath you, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Death is not one thing, just as you are not one thing,” you whisper, straightening back up and looking down at him with a soft smile, watching as your words sink into him. 

A quiet sound escapes him when you sit back up, desperately wanting to pull you closer but so afraid of hurting you. He knows he’s strong, much more so than you, and infinitely worried he’ll bruise the thing he loves most. But, when you kiss him again, he meets you eagerly–hoping you’ll somehow understand the words he fails to say as they get caught in his throat. 

The kiss is languid and sweet, achingly tender even as stark need builds between us. His hands move over your body slowly, tentatively at first but with growing confidence–squeezing gently here and there, trying to see which touches illicit sweet gasps from you. 

After a moment, he presses up against you–an instinctive buck of his hips–and you gasp at the unmistakable feel of the hard line of his arousal pressing against you through the thin cotton breeches he wears. A small, surprised laugh claws its way up your throat as you pull away for air and you move against him in return, rolling your hips down against his. 

He groans at the feel of it and his fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs as he moves beneath you again, chasing that same delicious pressure. One large hand cups the back of your head and pulls you down into a kiss. His lips move against yours more surely now, need obscuring uncertainty as he feels every shuddering breath you take, every sweet noise vibrating against his mouth–all of it driving him mad. 

Breaking from the kiss, you sit up once more and stare down at him with a half-lidded gaze. Already panting, your jaw sets and you swallow thickly, brows pinching. How much does he know? 

“Do you… want more?” You ask, measured and careful, watching him closely. It’s plain to see he longs for something, the way his breaths catch in his throat tells you that much. Reaching out for him, you take one of his hands in yours and mindfully guide it toward the area where your center presses against his length. 

His eyes widen slightly and you gather that your question is pointed enough when he nods, bucking up toward you again as understanding quickly dawns within him. He had read about this, about intimacy–in fragmented, flowery prose, yes–but the reality of it is infinitely more overwhelming. “Yes,” he rasps, fingers flexing against your hip. He can’t imagine a world in which he would ever tell you no. 

Seeing you atop him like this, though, makes him pause, apprehension flickering across his face. Compared to him, in all his size and stature, you’re so… small, delicate in ways he is not. His free hand comes up and brushes over the curve of your jawline. “... It hurts?” He asks softly, brow furrowed with concern. 

He’d never forgive himself if he broke you. 

His question gives you pause and for a second, you merely blink, the realization of what he means slowly coming to you. Your heart flutters in your chest, a new, foreign warmth filling your veins. Even after all the weeks you’ve spent with him, his sweetness still takes you by surprise. This is all so new to him, so much, and still, he worries for you. 

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head reassuringly as a smile creeps over your lips, “No, if done right, it needn’t hurt at all.” 

Your movements are measured still as you help him rid himself of his tunic, leaving him shirtless before you. Your eyes widen as they rove over his form, greedy as you take in the various lines and shades decorating his skin. “Beautiful,” you murmur after a moment, finding your voice once more. 

He shivers under the intensity of your gaze–exposed in more ways than one as you drink him in. The firelight dances across his patchwork skin, highlighting every scar and seam. When your fingers trace over his chest again, he catches your wrist gently–bringing it to his lips to press a kiss against your pulse. His dark eyes hold yours as he whispers, “Show me.” 

His other hand finds the hem of your nightgown, fingers trembling where they brush against the softness of your thigh. You guide his hand up higher, letting it trail over your skin while you nod your head–permission to remove it. 

He’s careful with it as he pulls it up and over your head, letting the fabric pool on the floor by the bed to be dealt with later. Your cheeks flush while he looks you over, taking in the bareness of you for the first time, looking you over with something akin to reverence. His hands hover over your waist for a moment before settling there, watching the way your breasts rise and fall with each breath you take. 

It only takes a moment before he gets antsy–curious–and his eyes flick up to yours as one hand trails lower, slowly trailing over the thatch of hair between your legs. He makes a quiet sound of wonder at the way you feel–so different from anything he’s read about, yet infinitely more perfect. He stills again, silently seeking permission once more. 

Nodding just slightly, you raise up a bit, giving him more room with which to explore you. He tentatively traces lower, until his blunt fingertips graze lightly over your entrance, eyes lighting up when the small touch earns him a sweet whimper from you. “Oh,” he murmurs in amazement, feeling the slickness of you against his own skin, somehow knowing that must be a good thing–some fuzzy memory from a life he no longer remembers telling him as much. 

The way he looks at you alone makes you whimper, those dark eyes staring up at you like you’re sunlight in human form. Heart fluttering, you let him explore–let him touch and look–only gasping when his cool fingers brush over your folds, trailing toward your entrance. 

Eyes slipping closed, your head tilts back from the pleasure of it. “Yes,” you breathe, voice catching in your throat as you nod, jolting just slightly when he rubs over the aching bud at the apex of your center, “Like that.”

Beneath you, he commits every sound you make to memory, entranced at the way you move and how your voice fractures when you try to speak, the way you arch into his touch. Growing bold, he circles your entrance once more before just barely dipping the tip of a finger inside, marveling at how warm you feel against him. When he withdraws to rub slowly over that pinpoint of nerves that had made you jump a moment ago, he watches intently as you squirm above him–determined to learn exactly what makes you gasp and shudder. 

You can feel his length twitch against you and, not wanting to leave him aching, you give him one final look before snaking a hand between your bodies. Working at the laces of his breeches slowly, you gauge his reaction all the while, grinning at how eager he seems. “Can I?” You ask, voice soft while you press the tips of your fingers beneath the fabric. 

He nods immediately–eager despite his shyness. His hips jerk slightly and a low groan sounds from him when you tug his breeches down just enough to free his cock, letting it rest against his lower belly. “Please,” he rasps, fingers flexing against your thighs while he watches you with a dark, hungry gaze. 

A shudder runs through him when your fingers finally brush against him–his entire body tensing for one breathless moment before melting into the touch with a choked-off sound. 

“Shh,” you soothe, gently wrapping your hand around him, stunned at the size. It feels similar to any other man’s–definitely no less magnificent–and seems to work the same as well, a bead of moisture already welling at the tip that you run your thumb through, making him jerk beneath you, “I’ve got you.” 

Arching into your touch with a low whine, he feels as if his body is strung as tightly as a bowstring. Every touch sends sparks racing up his spine and when you lean down to press kisses against his neck, it makes him shudder–too much and not enough all at once. 

“Y-You… inside?” He manages to pant out between ragged breaths–words failing him as you twist your wrist just so. His hips stutter upward helplessly, chasing the sweet friction of your hand even as he pleads for more. He wants desperately to be closer, to somehow be a part of you.

“Inside?” You echo, needing to be sure. This is so precious for him–to be held this way, touched with a loving hand–you need for it to be good for him, “You know what that means, yes? You understand?” You ask, gently directing his gaze to yours with a hand on his jaw. 

Nodding–slower this time, more deliberate–he blinks up at you steadily. “To… become one,” he murmurs, borrowing the words from the various books you’ve shared with him. There’s no fear or apprehension in his eyes now, only aching want and quiet trust as his hands settle on your hips again–guiding but not forcing, “Ready… please?”

Nodding along with his words, you lean down until your forehead rests against his, unable to stop yourself from wanting to be close. Your heart flutters when he eagerly leans into you, practically purring while you press your lips against his. 

A moment later, you sit back up with a deep, trembling breath. Sparing him another glance, you reach between your bodies once more and carefully position him at your entrance, angling your hips just enough to notch the head of his cock against your opening. 

“O-Ohh,” you breathe, voice catching in your throat while you rest your hands against his chest, slowly sinking down and letting him fill you, relishing the gasps spilling from his lips. 

His entire body tenses beneath you at the overwhelming heat and tightness surrounding him. For a moment, he simply stares up at you in stunned silence, dark eyes wide with awe. His hands tighten at your hips, not to thrust or control but simply to hold you, as if he’s terrified this perfect moment might slip away. When he finally finds his voice again, it comes out broken and reverent. 

“... Home,” he chokes, because what else could this be? Your warmth around him, your heartbeat syncing with his–perfect. For him, this is much more than the simple joining of bodies; this feels like finally coming home after a lifetime spent wandering. 

Caught off guard by the sheer sweetness of him, you huff out a soft, adoring laugh and lean down to press against him, needing to be close. “Gods, you feel so good,” you breathe, chest heaving with soft pants. You stay still for a moment, letting yourself adjust to the stretch of him, before just barely rolling your hips–the small movement enough to elicit gasps from the both of you. 

His hands flex against your hips, greedy and needy in equal measure. A low groan rumbles through his chest when you move against him, his head tipping back against the pillows. “Mine,” he thinks deliriously as he starts to move with you, your bodies slotting together like you were made for one another. 

His large hands slide up to cradle your ribs–careful now, even in his desperation, as he helps guide your movements. Every little gasp you make, every flutter of your walls around him, sends sparks shooting down his spine until he’s trembling with restraint. 

“More?” He says lowly, voice gravelly, half begging, half checking while his thumbs brush over the undersides of your breasts. Please say yes, he thinks, willing you to hear him, Please never stop. 

The second he requests it, you find yourself nodding, unable to deny him anything for very long. “More,” you acquiesce, voice morphing to a breathy mewl when he slides his hands up to cup your breasts–his touch worshipping and curious all at once, “I’m yours, all yours.”

He surges up then to capture your lips in a messy, desperate kiss–all restraint gone now that he has those precious words echoing through his mind like church bells. His hips snap upward to meet the next roll of your hips, sheathing himself fully inside you with a choked groan. 

Yours, yours, yours, he growls it with every thrust, each time his hips meet yours. 

One hand tangles in your hair while the other grips your hip tightly, guiding you to move faster–harder–until the bed creaks beneath you both. His breaths come in ragged pants against your neck, every thrust punctuated with broken whispers of your name. 

“Mine,” he groans beneath your ear, unashamed to say it now, and he commits the way you shiver at it to memory. His words dissolve into incoherent sounds as pleasure coils tighter in his belly–his entire body trembling with the effort to hold on just a little longer, “Love you, love you…”

His words seem to make the pleasure flowing through you double, taking your breath away. Gasping in his hold, you let out a broken whimper and eagerly nod your head, words failing you for a moment. “I love you,” you manage, keening as desire threatens to overtake you, “I love you.”

Knowing he’s hardly hanging on, you hastily trail a hand between your bodies, seeking out the bundle of nerves between your thighs. Tensing against him when your fingertips finally come into contact with it, you waste no time circling it with a practiced touch. “Let go,” you pant, hardly able to get the words out as you finally tip over the edge, walls clenching around his length, “Let go for me, my love.”

Beneath you, he shatters. Your touch, your words, your love, all of them blend together and send him reeling. His entire body seizes as pleasure crashes over him like a tidal wave. Burying his face against your chest with a choked cry, he spills inside you, hips stuttering erratically before stilling. 

For a long moment afterward, he simply clings to you–trembling and breathless–as if afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. When he finally lifts his head, his dark eyes are shining with something soft and awed as he presses a shaky, gentle kiss to your lips. 

“...Stay?” He murmurs against your mouth–the question carrying far more weight than just tonight. Stay forever, he hopes, trying to will it into existence, Be his, always.

The question makes you grin against his lips, a huff of soft laughter escaping you at the notion that you could possibly want him to do anything else–as if you haven’t made your stance perfectly clear a thousand times before now. “Stay,” you echo without pause, giving a slow nod as you rest your forehead against his, “You’re home.”

Something bright and joyous flares in his gaze as he pulls you closer, moving to lie down with you tangled in his embrace. His arms wrap around you, protective and adoring, while he tucks you against his scarred chest. He lets out a quiet, low purr of contentment as he buries his nose against your hair, breathing in your familiar scent.For once, the never-ending thump of his heart doesn’t fill him with dread. It feels steadying, reassuring–content that it has finally found something, someone, to keep beating for.

tags: @zaldritzosrose @sphynxestrel @vampirexprincess @supernaturalwitch89 @sadbirdy @creative-mang00 @brise-ginandre @mywickeddivinity @irrepressible-domovoy @elviraliarlecter-blog @this-gave-pidgeon-further-shock @hauntinq-6 @skeletons-and-roses @poepard @phizzyfrog @nattalinas @tk-tumbler-br @qirlzpanda-blog1 @vkitzu @cherryteddysblog @meryl-melys @luckybook @i12211tg @mintysrandomintrests @thewhisperedone @r4v3n0us

[burntsaintt]

"awake, fairest…"

dark!creature x fem!reader

Summary: forced to take refuge in an empty barn until the town gates reopen, your dreams are visited by a lovely stranger…

Tags: mdni, dub-con that crosses heavily into non-con territory, somnophilia, dark!adam/creature x fem!reader, no use of y/n, humping, masturbation, reader doesn't get to cum unfortunately (perhaps in pt. 2?), mainly the creature’s pov, period accurate clothing

Author's note: tbh this really is a mix of shelly’s creature and gdt’s, so he’s a lot more vindictive and bitter than how he’s depicted in the 2025 retelling. The plot is basically just what would happen if we swapped out justine, so this takes place after the cabin but before he meets with Victor. I apologize for massacring the source material; this piece is pure self-indulgence because I fell in love with gdt’s creature design. My grammar also sucks, and I use dashes and semicolons like they're sprinkles.

read part two here

“awake, fairest, thy lover is near—he who would give his life but to obtain one look of affection from thine eyes; my beloved, awake!”

The words were a soft, coaxing sweetness upon your senses. Your subconscious stirred, slowly unfurling from the heavy cloak of sleep like a flower's petals at dawn– unhurried as you drifted between sleep and awareness. Instead, you basked in the warmth pressed against your form. You felt safe, swaddled in a heat that felt like solace against skin that had shivered throughout most of the night, and so you reached out and held fast to it.  

The last thing you remembered was being locked out of town, forced to take refuge in a barn lest you froze to death waiting for sunrise by the locked gates. It was surely morning now–you felt so well rested, aware of your body even as your eyes refused to open.

Then you felt feather-soft kisses dot your neck, your jaw, before tenderly enticing your lips into a trembling, then languid dance. Phantom hands grasped your hips, your back arching as you felt something hot and heavy settle between your parted thighs. Your skirts had been bunched at your waist at some point, allowing that heady warmth to settle closer. Joy burst in your bosom, bright and lovely as you murmured a thanks to whatever deity of sleep that had sent you such a pleasant illusion to wake up with. 

Surely, it was the incessant demands of fate that had led him to the barn in which you slumbered. He had traversed the rocky mountain terrain for hours before descending into the valley to forage for berries and roots, but his findings were sparse, and his bones ached from the cold. The barn was dry and inviting, but he had no sooner slipped through the splintered door when his eyes landed on your form. You looked so lovely, like an angel bundled in straw.

He stood, transfixed, while his pulse roared in his ears and his mind split into two about how he should proceed. In the end, he slumped clumsily on the other side of the barn, his glittering eyes sparking with wonder and his head tilted with curiosity. 

He couldn't stop staring at you all night, slowly gathering his courage as the stars and moon trekked their course upon the dark sky overhead. It wasn't until the first hints of dawn lightened the sky that he had decided to be selfish; to indulge his racing thoughts as he hovered above you. Just to fix your hair, he reasoned, but then he found himself adjusting your skirts, smoothing your stockings, his scarred fingers ghosting over cool flesh and marveling at how you sighed and shivered beneath his touch. He wanted more. He debated whether to rouse you from your sleep, to see the color of your eyes at last and have them gaze upon him…

“awake, fairest, thy lover is near—he who would give his life but to obtain one look of affection from thine eyes; my beloved, awake!”

But no sooner had those honeyed words spilled from his lips when those thoughts came—dark and unbidden. If you should wake, his form would petrify you, he realized. You would scream, and the farmer in the home beyond would arise from bed with flame and pitchfork. Hate swirled in his gut, slick and choking as tar. His hand reached out of its own accord, enveloping his slumbering beauty’s slender throat. Why should such enthralling loveliness exist in this world if he, alone, was barred from ever possessing it? What had he done to deserve such bleak cruelty? Your parted lips, fluttering lashes, and even the way your chest rose and fell with every soft breath were nothing but torture to him now. 

However, something unexpected happened that made him pause. Even with your eyes closed, your hands reached out and held fast to his shoulders. He was… being embraced—or at least the closest thing to an embrace he had ever experienced. At once, his hand flew away from your throat, and with a plaintive groan, he let his lips trail upon your form. He sipped the sweetness of your flesh in both indulgence and as if to apologize. Shame flared in his gut for the dark deed he had considered carrying out, followed only by a consuming wave of lust. Even in sleep, your form opened and accepted him, it seemed, and you even murmured a thanks. How could he harm the only being he may ever feel love's embrace with, however stolen?

“Sleep, little one. Let this remain but a pleasant dream…” he beseeched your sleeping form, a trembling hand pushing away some hair from your brow before kissing you there, too. 

And all the while he was pressing closer, slotting his hips against yours. A soft growl reverberated through his chest as he began to rock instinctively, his cock swelling in response to the sweet warmth and pressure your beautiful form granted him. He knew not exactly what he was doing–his rhythm a crude imitation of what he had ascertained from books and long, heated, jealous stares at entwined couples in the dark alleyways he traversed–but it felt oh so right.  

 He quickly deduced what a bother your skirts were, and pulled back enough to gently glide the fabric up towards your hips. 

He hummed, curious at the sight that lay beneath. Long cotton bloomers reached down to your calves, starch white, frilled, and held shut by a neatly tied bow at your waist. Gentle fingers traced the inside of your thighs, trailing along the seam of the bloomers, only to snap back as if burned when his fingers reached the apex of your sex, only to find that the fabric ended there. Upon closer inspection, he noticed the open seam, and with trembling fingers, he parted the fabric properly. 

A soft, strangled sound left him. His cock pulsed in his trousers at the sight, so different from his own anatomy and yet so wondrous. He felt like Adam, properly beholding Eve’s naked form in all of its sensuous sin after consuming the forbidden fruit. But it was not shame that overtook him, but a raw, primal hunger for more. 

He stroked the glistening folds with the tips of his fingers, his touch becoming ever bolder as you began to twitch and soft sighs left your lips from his curious exploration. Touching you there must have been pleasing to you, he figured, especially the soft, swollen bud nestled near the top that made your hips press into his palm, seeking more friction and pleasure from his scarred hand. 

He was breathing heavily now, panting as he kneeled, transfixed, between your parted legs as the sound of soft squelches began to mix with your deepening sighs. You had grown warmer, wetter, and before long, his curiosity had overtaken him, and he pulled his fingers from your sex to observe the slick that coated his digits. They glistened in the dark light of the barn, illuminated only by the weak glow of the rising sun that made it through the rafters above. His nostrils flared, the intoxicating sweetness spurring him to tentatively lick at the syrupy substance. 

He groaned, his lashes fluttering as he shut his eyes to savor the taste. He knew then, deep in his bones, that he had coaxed this nectar from your body. Just like when his fingers delved for honey in the hollows of trees, this was his reward for the gentle caresses he had bestowed upon your delicate form, and he relished in the knowledge that he had been the cause of it.

Blood rushed in his ears, overwhelming if not for how strongly it pulsed between his legs, too. He needed release; his curiosity about your form would have to wait. Slowly, he reached down and began to unlace his trousers, the worn fabric falling away with ease to reveal his cock. Pale, with the faintest tint of blue that matched the rest of him, it bobbed to attention under his heated gaze, twitching as if it had a mind of its own. With agonizing slowness, he wrapped his fingers about his length, hissing as he spread his beauty’s release with some of his own pre that had begun to pool at his tip. 

He was painfully hard, and yet desperate in a way he had never felt before. With great restraint, he began to pump himself slowly, his teeth nashing in between intervals of ragged pants as the familiar knot of pleasure began to wind itself ever more tightly at the base of his stomach. 

His hips eased into a rhythm, all the while his eyes alternated between your face to your slick entrance. How he wished he could abandon everything and simply plunge into your warmth, and yet he used every shred of sanity to keep himself in check. Anything to not ruin this perfect moment with you there, spread before him. 

Instead, he found himself imagining how he'd like to fuck you. You were so small compared to him, so innocent looking. He thrust into his hand slowly, carefully. He would love you properly, he convinced himself, if given the proper chance. But this is all he was–a beast taking what he could in the shadow of your sleep and dawn's darkness. 

And that is when he began to thrust harder, a spark of bitter resentment flaring in his chest and adding a punishing edge to his movements. He growled then, low and quiet, cursing his creator once more for condemning him to such a debased existence. When his attention snapped back to you–a sweet, forbidden creature–his desire fanned higher. 

One, two, three more harsh pumps were all he needed to unravel completely in an explosion of maddening pleasure. Thick, steady ropes of cum spilled across his palm, splattering against your cotton bloomers and the soft flesh of your thighs and slit that were exposed. 

He shivered at the sight, his burning gaze tracking his seed as it dripped between your thighs. A small, yet triumphant smile graced his scarred lips. In some small way, he had claimed something beautiful from this world that sought to deny him of everything. You were his now, he decided, as he gingerly tucked himself away into his trousers. Sunlight had begun to stream through the cracks of the barn, illuminating the space in a golden glow that matched the hay that filled it. Afar, a rooster screeched, proud and piercing, announcing the commencement of another day.

He reached over then to lower your skirts and set you to rights when your eyes began to flutter.  Your body writhed, your brow furrowing and your lips downturned. 

He froze, feeling as though a bucket of cold water had splashed over him and sobered his thoughts. He had to flee. Immediately. Lest what pleasure he experienced tonight transform into horror as it always did. A scream, a farmer with fire and a weapon at hand. The bloody massacre that he was sure to wreck.

In a rapid flourish, he tugged your skirts down and slipped into what shadows still clung to the lid of dawn. 

You bolted awake, the morning sun stinging your eyes as you sat upright, your breath uneven and every inch of you positively buzzing. A soft, disgruntled groan escaped your lips, sleep still clouding your mind as you tried to rationalize what exactly it was you were feeling. 

You were covered in a cold sweat, your dress wrinkled and otherwise clinging to your form. When you tried to move, you whimpered, immediately sensing how wet you were, your bloomers soaked through. It was then that memories from the previous night flashed in your mind–the warm weight, the kisses, the gentle caresses between your thighs. You rubbed your legs, hoping to ease the incessant need pulsing between them, but it only made you moan. Blood flushed your cheeks in embarrassment, shame bubbling in your gut, and yet it was somehow still dwarfed by how desperate you were to cum. You thought briefly about lifting your skirts, quickly and quietly addressing your needs as you oft did at night, but you didn't dare risk it. Not when farmhands were surely on their way to work at this time in the morning.  

Instead, you forced yourself to clamber upright, shaking straw from your hair and dress. Then you gave yourself a moment to compose yourself before opening the splintered door of the barn and descending towards the village.

[liliacsdelight]

Freakshow

Freak(s) x Ringmaster's Daughter!Reader

    ꙰  2,867 words, Blackfem!reader, smut/explicit sexual content(18+), riding, doggy, throat fucking, exhibition (the mime watches while the other freak shaboings you), masterbation, creampies, size kink, multiple rounds, jealousy, degradation, name calling, ect    ꙰ 

You weren’t supposed to be here.

Midnight had long settled over the tents like a heavy veil, trapping the scent of buttered popcorn, sour sawdust, and animal dung in the air. The crew was lost to a collective, drunken stupor, leaving the lot to the sound of chirping bugs and the low, rhythmic thrum of the generator. The ringmaster—your father—was passed out in his private railcar, whiskey on his breath and the keys to the main attraction locked in his coat.

But you’d stolen the spare weeks ago.

You stood before the main attraction, the spare key a cold, jagged weight against your palm. The gilded cage loomed thirty feet high, its gold-painted bars peeling to reveal the rusted iron beneath. Above it, the hand-painted sign groaned in the wind. It read: BEHOLD THE BEAST THAT EATS SIN AND BLEEDS DESIRE!

Your father called it showmanship. He called the thing inside a "composite"—part man, part experiment, a monster they found in the dirt somewhere far off, drugged up and dressed in chains for the crowd in a bording town. But you’d seen what it did to the others. The way it tore through steel. The way it only ever looked at you.

It was looking now.

Two spheres of molten gold stared from the shadows of the cage.

“You came,” he rasped. The voice wasn't human; it was a resonate bass, gravelly and wrecked with a hunger that sounded like it had been decades in the making. “You smelled like you would.”

Your hand trembled, the key scraping against the lock with a sharp, lonely click of metal.

“You’re not supposed to talk,” you whispered.

“I do for you.”

You swallowed hard. His presence was a physical weight in the shadows—all heat and silent want. You were pinned by the sheer, dark intensity of him.

“I-I shouldn’t—”

“But you will.”

The lock surrendered with a heavy thunk.

Your breath hitched.

Chains clanked. ​

As you stepped inside, the atmosphere changed. The air near him was hot—unholy and thick with the scent of musk, old blood, and a strange, metallic sweetness. He didn’t lunge. Didn’t snarl or growl. He just rose with a terrifying, fluid motion.

He's a mountain of stitched muscle and dark, marble-slick skin. Veins like black rivers branched across his chest, pulsing with every heave. His dick—god, that thing hung heavy between his thighs, a thick ridge of thing that looked far too large for any human anatomy already half-hard from scenting you, already weeping pre-cum.

“You smell incredible ” His nostrils flared. “Come closer.”

You walked closer.

His hand closed around your wrist—massive, calloused, and shockingly careful. You expected the bite of claws, but his touch was… reverent, almost desperate. He caught your waist, his fingers digging into the meat of your hips as he lifted you. You felt like a doll, light and fragile against his strength.

“Let me taste you,” he said, voice shaking. “Let me worship what I’ve only been allowed to watch."

You straddled his lap, and the contact was an electric shock. He was a furnace. You felt the thick, heavy length of him against your folds, a hot weight that made your breath hitch, and when he dragged his split tongue up your throat, you shuddered.

He growled at the sound.

“You’re so soft,” he whispered against your skin. “So breakable.”

“You won’t break me,” you challenged, your fingers tangling in the thick, dark hair at his nape.

“I want to. I want to see if I can fit."

Your hips rolled slick against his cock and his head dropped back. His hands gripped your thighs, then your ass, then your ribs like he didn’t know what to touch first.

“Use me,” he begged. “Ride me. Fuck me. Come on, make me yours.”

You sank down slowly—agonizingly—the friction of him stretching you until your vision blurred. Your body protested the invasion, your muscles tight and weeping as they tried to accommodate the sheer scale of him, like your body wasn’t built for it. And maybe it wasn’t. Maybe no human should take him this deep, but you did. You pushed through the burn, bottoming out until your pelvis slammed against his with a wet, heavy thud.

The Beast moaned, his head snapping back as his clawed hands gripped your ass, kneading the flesh like he was trying to memorize your shape through his palms.

“You feel good,” he choked. “S-so good.”

You rode him slow, grinding deep, your nails drawing red lines across his massive, scarred shoulders. Every thrust was jarring. A rhythmic, heavy rutting that filled the cage with the sound of slick skin and your own jagged moans.

“I dreamed of this,” he panted, his hips bucking upward to meet you. “Every night. You... on top of me. Calling me yours.”​

“Say it again,” you gasped, your mind a white-hot haze of lust and adrenaline. “Say whose you are.”​

“I’m yours,” he groaned softly, his voice a broken prayer. “Yours to ruin. Yours to fuck. Yours to cage.”

The orgasm hit you like a physical blow, a violent convulsion that left you sobbing into his neck. The sensation broke him. He thrust one last time, deep and brutal, his whole body turning to stone as he came. You felt the hot, thick ropes of his release flooding you, an endless, scorching stream that made you feel permanently claimed.

​He didn't pull out. He stayed buried in you, his heavy breathing the only thing breaking the silence. His hands, still shaking, stroked your back with a strange tenderness.

“I’ll stay in the cage,” he whispered, kissing your throat. “I’ll be good. I’ll behave. Just… come back. Let me have you again.”

You kissed him—a deep, filthy claim that tasted of salt and greasepaint—and left him in the dark.

⋆ ˚｡

One Week Later...

It had been a week since you last saw him.

Seven days since you unlocked the cage and let him split you open like you were made just for him.

You hadn’t gone back. Not because you didn’t want to—but because you couldn’t. Your father had tightened security after he’d noticed the silence. The Beast hadn't roared; he hadn't fought his chains. He had simply waited, and that stillness terrified the crew more than any rage.

But tonight, you walked the grounds with a different monster.

“Nice arms,” the knife thrower murmured, leaning into your personal space. His grin was boyish, practiced—all charm and calculated mischief. “You ever think about joining my act? I could teach you how to handle sharp things.”​

You laughed, a light, flirty sound that felt hollow in your chest. You let him stand too close. You let his hand brush your elbow.You didn't notice the golden eyes watching from the cracks in the canvas. You didn't see the way the shadows in the tent seemed to thicken and coil as he watched the knife thrower touch what he'd been missing.​

But the Beast remembered... and he was done being good.

⋆ ˚｡

You visited him again later, just before midnight, but the guards were gone, replaced by a silence so heavy it made your ears ring.

The cage was already open.

You froze. He stepped out of the shadows before you could run—barefoot, bare-chested, wild hair sticking to his temples. His golden eyes burned, they tracked you with a terrifying, possessive focus.

“You smell like him,” he said.

“Who?”

“The one with the blades." He closed the distance in a single stride. “You let him touch you. I smelled his steel on your skin before you even reached the lot.”​

You straightened your spine, though your heart was hammering against your ribs. “So what if I did?”​

His reaction was instantaneous.

He moved faster than a man should—slamming you into the bars with one hand around your throat. He didn't squeeze, but the weight of his palm was a promise. He held you there, his thumb resting over your pulse, feeling the frantic skip of your heart.

“You’re supposed to be for me,” he growled, his face inches from yours.​

“You didn’t come find me,” you gasped, the metal of the bars cold against your back.

“I didn’t need to. I thought you’d remember where you belong.” His mouth dragged over your jawline, his breath a scorching, unhinged heat against your skin. “Let me remind you.”

He spun you around with effortless strength, bending you over a weathered equipment crate. The wood was rough, smelling of old pine and dust. Your skirt was hiked up in an instant. No panties. You were bare and weeping for him, the cool night air a sharp contrast to the temperament of his body pressing into your back.​

He let out a low, vibrating growl that hummed through your spine. “Still wet for me. Even after touching him.”

His dick pressed thick and hard against your slit, already leaking, already twitching. You could feel how angry he was in the way he grabbed your hips—like they were handles made for his hands.

“You want me to ruin you again?” he rasped. “Stretch this filthy little cunt until it remembers my shape?”

You pushed back against him, your voice a wrecked plea. “Do it.”​

He slammed in.

The air left your lungs in a ragged scream. Your fingers clawed at the splintered wood of the crate, your whole body jerking forward as he bottomed out in a single, brutal thrust. “Fuucck,” he moaned, his forehead dropping against the nape of your neck. “Tight little hole forgot how to take me.”​

He didn't give you time to adjust. He began to fuck you with a deep, ragged rhythm. The silence of the night was shattered by the obscene, wet sounds of flesh clapping against flesh and your own high, jagged moans. His hands were everywhere—bruising your hips, gripping your ribs, claiming every inch of you as his territory.

“Bet you let him look at you like this,” he snarled, his thrusts turning erratic and violent. “But you didn’t let him have it, did you?”​

“No,” you sobbed, your head lolling back.​

“Didn’t let him stretch you out. Didn’t let him spill inside. That’s mine.”

He leaned down and bit your shoulder—hard enough to draw a sharp, iron-tasting bead of blood. You cried out, your thighs trembling as he licked the wound clean.​

“Mine."

He was relentless—a heavy, driving weight that learned your internal limits only to force its way past them. The friction was a white-hot burn, turning your mind into a hazy fog where only the weight of him existed.​

“Ughn... I should—mmghn—finish inside of you,” he grunted, his pace reaching a frantic, feral peak. “Breed you full. Stuff you so deep you never even think about another man. Your internal muscles clenched around him, a desperate, rhythmic pulse of approval.​

“Oh, you like that?” He let out a dark, breathless laugh. “Want me to fill this sweet little body until it’s dripping? Want me to fuck a baby into you?”

​“Yes—yes—ahn—!”​

He let go of your hair, his hands anchoring deep into the crate as he roared. He slammed in one last time—deeper than you thought possible—and came. It was a monstrous, messy release, hot ropes of cum gushing into you until you felt heavy and overfilled, the excess running in a thick, white stream down your inner thighs.​

He didn't pull out. He stayed buried, his body twitching with the aftershocks of his climax, his heavy chest heaving against your back.​

“I’ll kill him,” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear. “If he touches you again, I’ll snap his neck.”

You looked back at him over your shoulder, your lips swollen and your eyes heavy with a dark, satisfied exhaustion. “You really think anyone else could take me now?”​

His grin was wild, his golden eyes obsessional.​

“Try me again, girl,” he murmured, dragging his length back—slow, agonizingly thick, and still rock-hard. “See how many rounds I can go before you break.”

He hauled you up, his fingers like iron clamps around your bicep. The air inside the bars was a familiar, suffocating cocktail of rust, old adrenaline, and the drying musk of his previous release. This was the dirt where he first unmade you, and the shadows here felt heavier, more permanent.​

He threw you onto the floorboards with a jarring thud that rattled your teeth. His grin was a feral line in the moonlight. "On your knees," he commanded. "Hands behind your back. Mouth open."

You obeyed without blinking, the splintered wood scraping your knees.

He loomed over you, his cock a heavy, veiny column, still glistening with the slick evidence of your last encounter. He didn't wait for your approval. He gripped your jaw—the pressure of his thumb nearly bruising—and forced himself in. Slow and tentive.

"Look at me while I fuck your throat, and don’t you dare hide from it."

Your eyes watered, the back of your throat protesting the sheer volume of him, but you held his stare. And then, you saw the shift in his focus.

His eyes didn't leave yours, but they sharpened, tracking something over your shoulder.

A silhouette detached itself from the midnight gloom outside the bars. A face of cracked porcelain greasepaint. A nightmare in black and white with four limbs that unfolded like a slow-motion prayer.

The Mime.

The oldest freak in the crew.

He stood there, silent as the grave, the red-painted tear marks under his eyes catching the faint moonlight.​

You tried to pull back, a spike of cold panic hitting your chest, but the Beast’s hand tangled in your hair, anchoring you. ​"No," he hissed, each movement stealing your breath. "Let him watch. I want him to witness every bit of this… You want him too. Isn’t that right?"

The Mime tilted his head, all four arms draped over the bars with an effortless, liquid grace. He was a statue of regal fixation.

"Show him," the Beast urged, slapping his pelvis against your lips with a heavy, wet thud. "Show him how well you choke on me."

​He pulled out, the sound of it loud and wet in the quiet lot, and spat into your mouth before hauling you up by your waist. "Get on your hands and knees. Face him."​

You trembled, your body a map of his touch. You turned, presenting yourself to the bars—to the silent, four-armed freak watching in the dark. The Mime’s eyes widened, a dark, glittering hunger reflecting the scene. Those ink-black pits for eyes traced the rhythmic shudder of your breath and the glistening trails of salt on your skin, never once blinking. Two of his hands gripped the bars; another slid down his own striped trousers in a slow, repetitive motion that needed no explanation.​

"See that?" the Beast whispered, lining himself up behind you. "He’s enjoying the show. Just like me."​

He slammed back inside, the impact wrenching a high, jagged yelp from your throat as you clawed at the floorboards for purchase. He began to fuck you with a renewed speed, his weight crushing you forward against the bars.

You were pinned in the heat of him, forced so close to the cage that the cloyingly scent of the Mime’s face powder filled your lungs, blurring the line between the body behind you and the silent observer in front.

"Louder," the Beast ordered, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your shoulder. "I want the whole lot to hear you."

You wailed his name, the sound bleeding into the humid night. He bucked with commanding, heavy strikes, his hands tightening on you. "You want them to hear? To know I'm breaking you in like a bitch in heat?"

​"Yes—yes—fill me—make him see—"​

The Mime’s black tongue snaked out, licking his painted red lips. His hidden hand moved faster now, a silent, frantic mirror to the Beast’s brutality.​ He seemed to savor the way you trembled, drinking in the frantic dance of your gaze as you struggled to keep both of them in sight.

The Beast flipped you onto your back, pulling your knees to your chest so you were completely open to the moonlight and the Mime's unblinking stare. He plunged into you over and over, his golden eyes blown wide, infatuated with your wreckage.​

"You like him seeing you like this?"

​"Yes—"​

He silenced you with a kiss that tasted of iron and salt. His tongue claimed your mouth as his length claimed your body. "Good little freak toy," he murmured against your lips. "Cum for the show."​

You shattered, the orgasm crashing you in long, violent waves that stole the air from your lungs. The Beast was right there with you. A low, guttural roar tore from his throat as his muscles locked into living stone, anchoring you in place. He came deep inside, a scorching, endless stream of heat that flooded your core and left you both trembling in the aftermath.

​You layed there, a wrecked heap of sweat and arousal.

The Mime stood slowly, his extra arms moving with sickening, bird-like grace. He pressed one palm to the bars, then raised his hands in a silent, mocking applause. He wiped his mouth, tucked himself away, and vanished back into the shadows without making a single sound.​

The Beast remained buried in you, his heart hammering against your spine like a drum. He kissed your temple, his voice a low, dark caress that promised no escape.​

"You liked that? Being our little show?"​

You nodded, unable to find your voice in the heavy air.

​He smiled. "Next time, we’ll let the whole crew watch."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Dividers by @elleisdesigning and @cafekitsune

All works © liliacsdelight 2025. Do not modify, plagiarize, or repost my work. 

[msfantasy]

The Goblins Guide to Winning the Heart of a Human

Bf!Goblin x Bimbo!Reader

Summary: A one-shot headcannon smut on how your Goblin Boyfriend Kroh won the heart of his pretty Bimbo Girlfriend.

She’s just his sweet, pretty, ditzy girlfriend.

It’s obvious to everyone she’s in love with her goblin boyfriend Kroh

Monsters don’t know how the goblin managed to win a humans heart

He’s just a short common goblin coming up to her shoulder. There isn’t anything particularly special about Kroh

Other monsters would watch on in jealously whenever his cute, ditzy girlfriend would stumble after him

Always holding his hand, or the bottom of his sleeve

Always stealing kisses from his lips without a care of any on lookers

All eyes in the local Tavern would be on the pretty human woman

But her eyes were only ever set on Kroh

Never straying once to look at others the way she stares in infatuation with Kroh

Monsters would beg Kroh to spill his secret. Wanting a pretty human woman of their own.

Was it magic?

It wasn’t.

And Kroh would never share- he’s a gentleman after all

Kroh knew all too well that his darling girlfriend is a lusty little thing

All he did was share one heated passion filled night with copious puddles of sweat and cum for his girlfriend to become hooked

Never straying from their shared bed

Kroh’s sweet human worshipped his cock and mouth

It was the way his mouth riled up her sizzling nerves along her neck. His sharp teeth nipping along her skin to coax out those delicate moans.

It was the way he lips would wrap around her fleshy mounds as his finger pinches the other allowing want to pool between her legs.

It was the way his tongue would lap up her wet slit until her thighs quiver and squeeze around his head in ecstasy.

It was the way he would plunge his fingers into her core whilst she shutter and moans in unadulterated pleasure sending her over the edge

It was the way he would sink his surprising large cock between her sensitive folds until there is nothing left to sink in.

It’s the way he thrusts his hips hypnotically into her own until her eyes roll back into her head.

It’s the way Kroh would push, pull and tug her into new positions that send her mind spinning in a river of endorphins with his deceptively strong arms and legs holding her in any position the mind could conjure

It was the way Kroh wouldn’t stop until he was satisfied with the mess she leaves behind despite her embarrassed protests

Yes it was all that and the way he would hold her after a passionate fuckfest. Stroking her hair and pressing delicate kisses to her exposed skin

And the way Kroh would wake her up every morning to a delicious and nutritious breakfast to replace all of the fluids and energy lost in their endeavours

Well the monsters will just have to keep speculating

Because Kroh didn’t feel the need to explain how to be a decent lover

[satansthiccasscheeksreblogacc]

Ok I have to say if your a monster and your gonna kill me at least with enough decency make my insides explode like if your a 6ft fish creature with scales and sharp ass teeth and idk muscles or something you could at least slide whatever the hell your packing down there into me or if your like a some humanoid monster peice of shit you could at least drag me into the woods and like make me start mouth open drooling all over myself eye in the back of my head and just like that's so rude of you not to like I'm not saying you couldn't kill me after just let me go down in pleasure and hot steamy monster sex

[beautifullytragicmess]

Can I request pictures either 3 or 4 with either Andy or Ari. Writer’s choice for what it could be about (smut if possible).

There was no barrier between you. There was nothing to keep your body from being entangled in his, nothing to stop his tongue from claiming yours as his fingers ripped fabric free from the seams binding it together.

As scraps had become confetti, your back had arched with immense pleasure that was unyielding. The electrifying clutch of his hands upon your hips, his tongue battling yours and the thickening headiness of desire washing over you.

He was hovering above you, holding you between his body and the wall behind you, objects scattered and thrown around. Your clothes were no more held together than your ability to control yourself. And you were quickly devoured by the reality that you could inevitably become entirely consumed by him.

“I want to hear you.” His voice was a growl, something animalistic and aggressive as he thrust his hips, spearing you again with his thick cock. “I’m not fucking asking.”

Your neck craned and your head lolled back, nails scratching and clawing at the suit that hid most of his massive frame. His broad shoulders were a blanket obscuring your from view of anyone who could have spied you like this, and his hands had kept you incapable of running from him.

“You are mine.” His possessive claim etched against your neck was verbal while his need to fuck you to oblivion was entirely physical.

You were unable to stop yourself from grinding down on his cock, from whimpering his name. The walls of your pussy were stretched as you were filled completely by his shaft and as his balls smacked against your ass cheeks, you had been reminded exactly of the primal being fucking you.

You were not meant to be here. This was a circumstantial event that had started when your desk-mate had asked you to take her place since she had double booked herself in a meeting with HR. All you had to do was get a single form signed and you should have been in and out, it should’ve taken less than five minutes.

And now you were being fucked against the wall of his office.

“You think you’re going to leave me? You think I’m going to let you walk back out without staining you with my seed?” In a moment you are turned, your chest pressed against the hard wall as he continues to rip and pull at your clothes before settling his mouth directly on your cunt.

“You are mine. You will always be mine.” His tongue plunges into your pussy, another pleasured scream falling from your lips as you lose your balance, knowing full well that he is the only reason why you’re standing.

Just as you know this is permanent, you also know that it all started when he spoke the one word that changed the trajectory of your life: Mate.

[stargazing-enby]

Anyway because tumblr won't let @fleetofshippyships be kinky in my askbox...

I feel like I'm constantly tumbling and struggling when I write smut, but if/when I get better at it? UMM, you can bet I would 😂

Actually, does vampire count as creature?? Because I haven't exactly written vampire!Harry smut, but I just remembered I've written pre-smut twice 👀 and I most definitely want to come back to this idea. I may also be very a bit obsessed with that convo we had about merman Draco smut... 👀

[gwenore]

Creature from the dark lagoon.

A creature fic prompt for @iguessifinallygotone. This is a sort of a continuation of the drunk drabble I did for @dekujin here: Creature from the dark lagoon.(Not needed to understand this, but the picture Dekujin did is so amazing!)

Summery: Belle and the creature enjoys the sunny day.  Creature smut

The young ichthyologist was wandering down to the waters of the lagoon. She had moved to this place in order to do studies on the interesting biotope that this lagoon inhabited… or at least that was the explanation that she had given to her university when she put in her application to study this area. This was however not the only reason.

The major reason was the creature that she had discovered living in the darkness of these deep waters.

She had gotten close to him, and she was almost certain that he saw her sort of like himself. He had come to the call of her flute which she had made from the mold of what she had thought was an extinct creature.

He was also clearly male, showing his golden glowing scales and flaring his gills in a colorful display each time she saw her. At first she had thought it was a display of aggression, much like in the betta fish, yet she learned that this was actually more a display of affection. She had named him Gold because of his beautiful coloring.

Belle found him incredible dear, and when they were relaxing on the bank of the river she would constantly lift the fin on his back and then watch it fall back down. He did not mind this even if he let out a slight huff like laugh at her antics.

He was still clearly annoyed at her leaving each evening… and spending so much time on land. It was clear to Belle that he thought that she was a really silly for doing that.

However, now it was a really warm day, so swimming in the lagoon would be really nice spending the day swimming. Leaving her towels and her things at the bank she waded into the water and started to swim.

It did not take long until she felt his shape brush against her body. Belle smiled as she dived under the water, able to see his golden colors shimmer even through it was rather hard for her to see under water.

He reached out his arms, wrapping his arms around her, she feeling those webbed fingers against her skin, resting against her. Luckily he had learned quickly that she needed a lot of air, so he brought her to the surface and allowed her to breathe.

She slowly ran her fingers across his scaled cheeks as she looked towards him.

“Hi Gold,” she smiled happily towards him before she proceeded to lean her forehead against his. Gold let out a pleased sound as he nudged gently towards her.

“Missed you too,” she said softly, running her hand down his neck on his back.

“I am happy to see you again,” she said, looking into those large golden eyes which stared back at her.

She had so many times wondered what he was… he was so… human, yet not. The thing was that she did not really dare to do tests on him… not unless she was able to analyze the results herself.

If he was discovered…

Belle shuddered at the though. If he was discovered they would surely take him to some lab and experiment on him and make him live in a tank. Belle was certain that he would die if that were to happen.

And the last thing she wanted was for him to… die… trapped and alone in some cold sterile environment. Not only that… she would be the cause of it. She would be the reason for his suffering.

Belle closed her eyes. That was something that she could never allow to come to pass. It would cause her far too much pain and heartache.

Gently she felt him nudge her cheek gently and looked at her with a question in those soulful eyes. Belle simply smiled softly, before she shook her head.

“Don’t worry… just bad thoughts…” she assured him, petting him softly and felt how he was leaning against her hand, letting out soft pleased sounds at her attention.

Looking like that… Belle wondered, wondered how he would react. If he would think it one of her silly actions which she always did, or something more…

Slowly she moved her hand further around her neck before she brought him close to her, she noting a slightly confused look upon his eyes, her lips now only inches from his, before she placed a gentle kiss upon those scaled lips.

She could feel him kick his webbed feet slightly lifting both of them higher in the water for a moment.

Belle moved her head back, looking at him, daring to give him a shy smile, even as he was looking at her with an utterly confused expression on his face.

“I am sorry…” Belle attempted to excuse herself, yet before she could continue her apology he leaned closer towards her again, cocking his head slightly before his lips brushed against her.

It was clear that he was confused by the action, yet he desired more.

His gills were splayed out even further, catching the sun’s rays in their golden sheen, pulling her body even closer to him, his scales sliding across her bare skin. Her small bikini only covered a very small part of her, so she was able to feel all of his body against her own as she let out a gentle gasp in pleasure.

She had in truth never thought of him like this… having simply seen him as… beautiful. Yet… there had always been a connection there that she could not deny.

In truth… perhaps she had always desired him… but just did not know.

Belle swallowed her hands slipping down, feeling against his sides and his large interlocking scales, tracing gently the top of his hip, down between his legs. Moving her hand she heard a gasp press its way out from his sharp teeth.

Looking down she saw his cock move out, hard and erect and the same golden color as his gills. Belle could not keep from letting out a slight gasp as she saw it.

He was quite big…

Their eyes met and he leaned his head closer, Belle feeling his graying hair brushing against her cheek.

Those webbed hands continued to move over her body, feeling her smooth skin which was so different from his own. He would never want to change that… he adored everything about her. She was so wonderful…

He wanted her to stay forever…

Her soft hands on his member was… the creature moaned heatedly in her ear. Slowly he moved her further up on his body, Belle’s arms wrapping around his neck to steady herself. His forehead rested against her chest and licked her skin gently, tickling her breasts gently as he held her. Belle was clinging to him, caressing his hair, willing him on.

She could feel that member rub against her pussy making her pound even faster.

Could she… could she really with such a creature…?

However passion soon took over for rational thoughts, as she grinded against him, feeling how the water became heated with the two creature’s passion.

Curling his fingers, caused his claws to scrape her skin, making her hiss softly from the pain that she felt… but she simply to moved against him, caressing him along his length as her hips rolled softly.

In the water she felt weightless… almost as if she was dreaming.

She desired him more… her lips once again pressing against his as that large golden member pressed itself against her body, making her gasp with pleasure.

It filled her with desire as she gently rubbed against him, moaning her desires as she glanced at him. He gasped, the gills flaring as he was inside her.

Never had the creature felt such pleasure.

Belle had to gasp slightly, feeling a slight strain due to his size before she got used to the feeling of having him inside. But after a slight gritting of her teeth she felt her body adjust, and she let out a slight moan at feeling him inside.

Her nail started to scrape against his scales as she felt how he rolled his hips, pulling slightly out of her before moving back in.

His movements were slow, deliberate, taking his time as he moved within her, moaning softly. The desire for her simply grew… he needed her more… wanted to feel her more.

The waves were moving steadily against the two warm bodies.

“Mmm… Gold…” she moaned softly, the creature letting out a rough purr in her ear. He was the one that kept them up in the water as her legs had wrapped around his body.

She felt his teeth run across her skin, making her let out a slight laugh as it tickled slightly, mingling with the pleasure.

Gold continued to caress her smooth body… her skin was so soft… so delicate. His claws could rip through her skin, her neck so exposed to his sharp teeth. He adored her. She was his mate. Though she was different and odd… he would not change anything about her.

Belle felt herself reach blissful ecstasy as he came within her. The young ichthyologist rested her head against his shoulder as he gently swam them to shore where they rested upon a smooth rock with the light still glowing down upon the two lovers.

“This feels good…” she murmured as she looked up at the blue sky and felt the sun warm up her wet skin.

The creature gazed upon his mate, letting out happy purrs as he watched her. Then it noticed something odd.

Along her neck were… wounds…? He hadn’t hurt her had he? No… they weren’t wounds… no bleeding.

If anything there were more like… gills.

But his mate did not have gills. The creature worried slightly, but she hugged him close, resting her head upon his chest, delighting in the warm sun.

Gold looked at her, she seemed alright… his mate was the same as ever. But…

He could not help but to feel… uneasy as a long forgotten memory was clawing at the back of his mind.  

He did not want to think of unpleasant things, instead bringing her even closer as the water of the lagoon was moving steadily against the rocks.