#ofteethandtenderness

[of-teeth-and-tenderness]

Sweet Tooth

M Vampire x F Reader (NSFW)

Summary: A desperate vampire uses you to satisfy a craving.

Warnings: Mind control, manipulation, nonconsensual cunnilingus during reader’s period

The scents of baking bread, pastry, vanilla, and lemon fill the air. Soft dough rolls between your fingers as you knead and shape. A large mixer whirs to your left and flour puffs into the air in little white clouds when the bell above the front door jingles.

In your chest, your heart stutters. Hadn’t you locked it behind you when you’d arrived? The bakery is not yet open for the day. The sun hasn’t even risen yet.

Swallowing your unease, you pray it’s just an early riser as you move from the prep area to the front. You sidestep the oven and round the corner to find a man in the waiting area. His head is tilted back, black curls falling away from his face as he…sniffs the air?

He must spot you moving out of the corner of his eye because he whips around to face you directly. Your shoes squeak on tile when you slide to a halt, momentarily startled by the intensity of his stare. His eyes are so dark you cannot tell where iris ends and pupil begins.

“Morning, Sir. I’m not quite open yet. I must have forgotten to lock the door, but is there something I can help you with?” On your neck, your hair prickles. He looks clammy, sick maybe, and his skin is incredibly wan. Has he blinked since he saw you?

“You’re…” he gulps and takes a tentative step closer to the counter, “You’re menstruating?” Your mouth falls open in shock. He did not just ask you that question. You must have misheard.

But…how did he know…?

“E-Excuse me?” you splutter, unable to form a coherent retort as your mind races and shocked mortification twists your stomach in a knot. The man closes his eyes and gives a little shake of his head like he’s trying to clear his thoughts.

“I’m-I’m sorry—look at me,” he says softly. Instantly compelled, your eyes lock on his. Scrambled thoughts slow and you can do nothing but focus on his black eyes. “Is anyone else here?” he asks, his gaze never leaving yours.

As though you cannot control your body, you give a small shake of your head. A distant voice in the back of your mind screams at you not to tell this random man you are working alone. Half shuffling closer to the counter, you try to tear your eyes away from his and reach for the little red panic button under the counter, but then he speaks again and you must stop to listen.

“Wait, it’s okay,” he murmurs, holding up a placating hand. His words are low and soothing, like how one would speak to a nervous animal. You freeze in your tracks, arm outstretched. “I won’t hurt you. Just….” He moves around the counter and comes to stand before you. Chilly hands cup your cheeks and tilt your head back so he can keep your eyes on his.

“I—god—you smell so, so good, I’m sorry, I passed you on the street and I had to follow….” Your eyes burn, vision going out of focus the longer you stare. His chest heaves as though he can’t catch his breath and sweat clings to his pale brow. “I won’t hurt you, I just want…. I’m going to touch you.”

Dazed, you nod. Your brain feels disconnected from your body somehow, like you’re floating just outside it. Then, icy fingers dip into your pants to drag along your bleeding slit. The sudden contact pulls a startled squeak from your lips.

When his hand resurfaces, his digits are bathed in scarlet. A fat drop rolls down his pointer finger and you think you should probably feel something other than mild curiosity. Then, your eyes bug out of your head when he sucks the bloody fingertips into his mouth. A wanton groan sounds in the back of his throat and his eyes flutter closed in apparent euphoria. Embarrassment burns in your chest, you feel it now, but you can’t seem to force your body to respond accordingly. At your sides, your arms hang limply.

“Christ, I’m-I need…” he stammers, hands returning to your pants to fumble with your zipper. He rolls denim and cotton off your hips, kneeling as he goes, and all you can do is watch in bewildered silence. Hastily, he rips off a shoe so he can free one of your legs.

Your lower back meets the counter when the man’s palm presses against your belly. When he lets his tongue unfurl from his mouth, you glimpse white tips of pointed teeth before he dives between your legs. Concern, fear, disgust—all logical thought vanishes when a cool tongue laps between your bloody folds and lips close around your cunt to suck.

The noise that spills off your tongue is somewhere between a whine and a cry. Your fingers sink into soft waves of black and you feel his groan of relief against your palms. You feel it between your legs too, the vibrations making you twitch and buck and gasp.

The stranger wiggles his head and wedges himself deeper, buries his tongue in your crimson heat and whimpers like he’s never desired anything more in his life. Some far-away place in your mind is aware you should push him away or at least protest, but pleasure arcs through your gut and you mewl noisily instead. Wet slurping and panting breaths fill the small shop. Soon, you shamelessly hump his face like you can’t control yourself.

Can you? Can he?

Climax wracks your body in startling waves of sticky warmth. Your surprised keen is choked, half-lodged in your throat and your back bows as though a hand on the back of your head forces you forward in supplication. Thighs quiver violently and you think the man between them will pull away, but all he does is dig his fingers into the meat of your ass to pull you closer.

He laps and suckles and moans around mouthfuls of blood like a man possessed. The gluttonous obscenity of it finally jars you enough to speak. “It’s—it-“ but his eyes open again to gaze up at you and you forget everything you wanted to say. Fog settles thick in your mind and you let your vision blur, focusing instead on the way his tongue feels laving against the slippery walls of your cunt.

You aren’t sure how long the two of you stay this way. All sense of time is lost in the mist of your hazy mind. You’ve cum at least three times, maybe more when he finally resurfaces with a contented inhale. Vivid gore coats the lower half of his face and little rivulets of red trickle down his neck to soak into the collar of his shirt. His breath reeks of iron when he stands and grips your face again.

You wonder if you should consider it odd that his once frigid hands are now warm. His previously pale cheeks blush pink. Metallic breath ghosts across your lips as he murmurs, “You’re—thank you. Thank you for being so good. I…I would stay, but the sun will be up soon. Uh, let-let me—

He drags his dripping mouth along his sleeve before crouching to help you back into your pants. He rights your shirt and apron before planting a grateful kiss on your crown. “Forget I was here,” he tells you earnestly and, absently, you nod as though this is the obvious next step.

In a blink, the newfound heat of his body leaves your side. The bell over the door jingles. You blink furiously, wondering why your knees feel like they are seconds away from buckling.

[of-teeth-and-tenderness]

Bound

M Werewolf x F Reader (NSFW)

Summary: A planned encounter with a supernatural captive tethers the two of you together in more ways than one.

Warnings: Kidnapping, drugging, body horror, complicated noncon for both parties, fuck or die scenario, painful sex (and not painful sex), forced breeding, multiple orgasms, knotting, blood, gore, minor character(s) death.

~~

The echoing tap of boots on stone brings you to the surface of consciousness. Chain mail jingles in time with the dizzying sway of your heavy body. Your ears seem as though they are stuffed with cotton, every sound muffled and distant. Painfully, you swallow, your parched throat crying for water.

Slowly, pure sound returns. Keys rattle. A heavy lock thunks. Rusting hinges squeal. The stink of rotting iron, mildew, and heady musk assaults your senses. Snuffling, frantic inhales bounce off a low ceiling.

“W-What are you doing?” a deep but tremulous voice inquires. The fear behind the words gives you the strength to crack your eyes open.

Darkness is all you can see at first. Momentary panic grips you—have you lost your sight—but rapid blinking brings a stone floor into focus.

Before you can even begin to orient yourself, you’re slung from the shoulder of the man who had carried you here like a sack of goods. Pain erupts in your shoulder and hip when you crash to the floor, a weak cry tearing from your chapped lips.

A strained groan sounds from across the room, followed by gasping breaths and frightened begging, “No, no you can’t do this, you can’t do this! Please, for god’s sake, please—

“Quiet, dog! Isn’t this what you wanted?” a second voice snaps, condescension dripping from every word. “All that moanin’ and blubberin’ I’ve had to endure. Finally gettin’ your way and now you turn your nose up at it? Oughta be thankin’ me.” Cruel laughter ricochets off the ceiling. You wince and curl in on yourself. Darkness pulls at the edges of your vision, unconsciousness yearning to claim you once more.

A heavy door slams. The lock clicks.

“No, no, no, no….” the first voice chants, a despairing whisper. Deep, shaking inhales, then, “M-Miss…darling…I—please look at me, there’s no time….”

Groggily, you groan and force your eyes open. Focus, you will yourself. You push to your elbows, eyes quickly scanning the small room—a prison cell—before they fall on a man shackled to the far wall.

A small, barred window set high up into the wall allows just enough weak starlight into the cell to make out his features. The soft glow falls on dark, shoulder length hair. It’s wild and disheveled; that combined with the dirt on his skin and the thick stubble peppering his jaw tells you he hasn’t seen a bath or a razor in some time. He’s gaunt, like he’s been starved, and a sheen of sweat covers his body and glistens in the low light. His skin…. It’s completely unmarred, not a blemish in sight save for the thick purple scar covering his right shoulder. It is in the shape of a semi-circle, but you can make out nothing else in the low light.

You realize suddenly the man is naked, save for a thin cloth covering his groin. Even in the darkness you spot the erection straining under fabric. You gulp, bewildered and embarrassed, and meet his gaze. He regards you with wide, startlingly golden eyes. They dart to the window and back to your face. His nostrils flare like he’s scenting the air.

The question of how and why you’re here in this cell with this poor prisoner burns in your mind, but you remain quiet. You have a feeling this man will be your answer.

“That’s a good girl. Tell me your name?” he asks. His voice is strained, like he’s forcing himself to stay calm, or to calm you. You bite your lip hesitantly, your gaze flicking to the locked iron door and back again.

Your own voice breaking when you speak, you tell him your name as you push up to sitting. The room spins and you clench your eyes shut as nausea churns in your belly.

The tea.

They’d taken you—two soldiers in armor, armor with no sigil. They’d abducted you on your way home from town. They waited for you on the path you take through the forest, like they had known your route.

It was planned.

They took you to a nameless fortress hidden on the mountain. The dingy stone walls had oozed despair. They held you prisoner for several days in a room similar to this cell, though you’d been given a bed and a table and food. One night, flanked by soldiers—different soldiers, how many were there—a wizened old man had visited your room.

The old man told you he was a doctor. He made you drink a cup of foul tasting tea….

It was drugged, you realize now. Why? Are you still in the fortress? Why are you here now with this shackled man? And why is he so scared?

He repeats your name with a nod. “I am Callum. Listen…. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry there isn’t more time to explain. You—

Callum suddenly grits his teeth and tenses, his back arching away from the wall. You watch his toes curl and rake through the straw covering the floor beneath him. He whimpers and slumps forward, the shackles catching against his arms and digging bleeding groves into his skin.

Alarmed, you push to your knees, intent on helping in some way, but his eyes fly open and he shouts, “Don’t! Don’t, please don’t come near me. Your scent, gods, your scent….” He trails off, shaking his head and flexing against his bonds.

Audibly, Callum swallows and lifts his head to fix you with his intense stare. “The full moon is rising. I can feel it. I’m—I’m about to transform into…into something you’ve only ever heard tell of in stories. Something….” He trails off and shakes his head. “They…” he glares toward the door, “They left you in here with me as-as an experiment. I told them! I told them what would happen but they don’t listen. He has to see it for himself”.

Heart hammering against your ribs, you watch him, trepidation and confusion only increasing with his words. “I-I don’t understand,” you stammer, trembling fingers clutching the front of your dress.

“You will.” he whispers, eyes raising to the window again. They gleam in the light, tears brimming in his lashes. They trickle down his cheeks when he blinks and looks back to you. “I might hurt you, but I won’t kill you. Not this time. You’re-you’re going to be used for something else. I can’t control it. I wish—oh—how I wish I could. I’m so sorry, I wish it wasn’t like this, I’m sorry—

Suddenly, Callum stiffens, his body going ramrod straight. Golden eyes fix on the window, unblinking. He’s frozen in place, a statue. He doesn’t even breathe.

An agonized scream erupts from his mouth. You jolt and scurry away, your back hitting the opposite wall. Callum bows forward, more cries and groans leaving his quaking form. Joints snap, bones crack, and your eyes widen in shock at the sickening crunch.

With one, brutal tug, Callum cleanly rips the shackles from the wall. A shriek leaves you as he falls to his knees, dust and twisted metal raining down around him. His back curves when he falls forward and looses another blood-curdling scream.

Flesh tears. Terror sticks a scream in your throat when you watch the skin of Callum’s back split along his spine. Instead of bloody tissue and bone beneath, black fur emerges. More snapping, more shredding. Limbs elongate. Fingers grow heinous claws. Legs contort. Screams turn to snarls, sounds so deep and guttural you feel them in your chest.

Feverish panic surges through your muscles and you scramble off the ground to race to the door. You bang your fist on metal, frantically pleading through the small window with the man standing guard on the other side. He merely chuckles and shakes his head.

“Get comfortable, Missy. You’ve got a long night ahead of you. He’s in his rut, that one.”

Rut…?

Long, bony fingers wrap around your ankle and yank your leg out from under you. You squeal in surprise, barely managing to catch your weight and stop your face from smashing into stone. Hastily, you whip around, your entire body seizing in abject horror at what you find.

Staring back at you through the darkness are two golden eyes that burn with unnatural fire, glowing in the gloom. Black fur covers a monstrous snout. Moonlight glints off long, dripping fangs. Pointed ears flick to and fro, listening to your frenzied breaths.

It is a wolf, mostly. The long arms and legs and the ten grasping fingers, however, are unnervingly human. And the sheer, hulking size of it…. No normal wolf is this big. You know of this creature, heard your father speak of it once with the other carpenters.

He spoke of entire flocks of sheep slaughtered on a full moon night, their shepherds eviscerated and torn limb from limb. Yet, nothing was consumed. The culprit had only craved the hunt, the carnage. You had nightmares for weeks after, the name this man turned monster ever present in your fears:

Werewolf.

From the creature’s maw comes a rumbling growl, one that spills icy fear into your blood. You thrash and claw at the ground, but the monster easily captures your other ankle and pulls you across the floor.

Hot, viscous drool patters across your bare thighs, your skirts having bunched up around your hips during the slide. The wolf looms over you, its nose twitching this way and that as it scents the air. Scents you.

Shakily, you whimper when the wet snout dips to your neck—the teeth are so close, one bite and you’re dead—and snuffles along your skin to your ear. Its breath reeks of carrion, of death. You can’t stop your trembling as it travels down your chest and your abdomen before nuzzling into the apex of your thighs.

You yelp and squirm, but fall still when the beast growls again, more insistently this time. Claws catch in the fabric of your undergarments and tear, the sound of ripping fabric merging with your startled screech.

You’re bared to it now and can feel its hot breath ghosting across your slit. Drool spills from its mouth to drip onto your mound. Clawed hands leave your ankles to grip your thighs so it can wrench your legs further apart.

Pink tongue lolling from its mouth, the monster dips down and drags the slippery muscle across your folds. You’re so shocked you arch and gasp, unexpected pleasure jolting through your belly. Any attempt to twist your hips away only digs the creature’s claws further into the flesh of your legs. You’re trapped, a prisoner to its ministrations.

The werewolf begins lapping away at your cunt, its golden eyes slipping closed as if in rapture. Every pass of its rough tongue has your toes curling and your nails scraping against stone. You clench your jaw, mortified by the sounds aching to escape.

Distantly, through all your racing thoughts, the memory Callum’s words float to the forefront of your mind: “You’re-you’re going to be used for something else….”

Something else…. Did he mean…?

Climax hits you like a runaway horse. The tight coil of want deep in your gut snaps and pleasure rolls through you in molten waves. A strangled cry spills from your lips, your thighs twitching in the wolf’s grip.

Panting, dazed, you stare in disbelief at the low ceiling and curse your traitorous body. Later, think later. Get out, get away.

You move to wriggle away, but claws seize you around the waist. The room tilts as you’re flipped onto your front. One paw between your shoulder blades keeps your chest pinned to the floor, while another on your hip raises you to your knees.

Heart slamming against your ribs, there is now no doubt about what comes next. Straining, you peer back over your shoulder and catch sight of the creature’s thick red cock, hard and free from its sheath. The size of it renews your struggle, desperation to escape overriding the pain of claws pricking your flesh. It’s pointless, you realize, as the tapered head, slick with desire, slides down your rear and prods at your entrance.

“C-Callum, please don’t,” you plead, praying to the gods above the man inside the monster will hear.

Pointless.

The beast’s length eases past your opening and burrows into tight, slippery muscles. The incredible stretch takes your breath away and leaves you wide eyed and slack-jawed. Uncontrollable shaking wracks your form and you whimper pathetically, filled to your limit.

“T-Too-too much,” comes your tremulous gasp. Your nails carve bleeding divots into your palms. Behind you, the wolf rumbles in satisfaction. The fur of its chest brushes against your back when it curls over you, bringing with it the scents of earth and musk.

You feel its powerful thighs tense for the first, hard thrust, but just one is not enough. There is no slow start, no paced rhythm until you’ve adjusted. The creature snaps his hips with fervor, battering you into the floor. Wet slapping fills the tiny cell, the sound only overshadowed by your screams.

The screams, however, are not ones of pain, at least not completely. There is discomfort in the stretch, in how deeply and thoroughly your cunt is pummeled. Yet, there is no denying the pleasure, the ecstasy that takes control of your voice to make its presence known. You can’t contain the mewls, the moans, the high pitched keening.

“Please, p-please, please,” you whine, no longer certain if you beg for it to stop, or for more. Your knees ache and your cheek burns where you’re repeatedly pressed into the floor, but you hardly notice over the hot, sticky rapture spreading through your core.

The next climax takes your breath away. Your mouth falls open in a silent cry as your cunt squeezes the girth within you, demanding payment. The wolf snarls, drool splattering onto your back to soak into your dress. Something hard and bulbous, thicker than its length pushes against your slit.

What—

With one vicious thrust, the beast’s knot pops into your spasming channel. Its cock tunnels deeper still, deeper than you could have imagined possible. You shriek and arch, eyes crossing, overwhelmed tears spilling down your cheeks. You cum again, your vision whiting out, euphoria roiling in your gut.

More warmth floods your insides, so copious it overflows and leaks down your trembling thighs. Through the pleasure-haze you realize it is pumping you full of its seed.

Breeding you.

The werewolf slumps a little, pushing you further into the floor and covering your back with warm fur. It pants in your ear, its heaving chest mirroring your own. The great snout nuzzles your cheek, wet tongue lapping at your tears and sweat. An experimental twitch of your hips tells you you’re firmly locked in place where you are joined.

Those heinous teeth so near your head frighten you. You pray Callum’s promise about not killing you holds true. Even if it doesn’t kill you, it could still bite and pass its curse onto you.

Long minutes pass where the both of you simply breathe in the other’s air. The wolf hovers over you, its massive body and long arms like a protective cage. Weariness takes hold of your shaking limbs and your eyes droop despite the setting and company.

Gradually, the swollen base of its cock begins to shrink. The creature pulls free, a deluge of spend pouring from your hole and splattering to the floor. Your knees give out and you collapse, a sticky mess.

You expect the monster to retreat, to curl up and sleep, but instead it startles you by grasping you around the middle and rolling you onto your back. Your eyes go wide, your stomach dropping when you see it is fully erect once again.

“W-wait, wait I—

Claws dig into your hips and lift. The wolf surges forward and spears you on its cock a second time. The cry you loose burns your throat.

The frenzied pace starts up again, white hot jolts of arousal arcing through your belly with every thrust. Jarring movement causes your dress to slip off a shoulder, your breasts spilling free. Eagerly, the beast dives forward and laves its tongue across a nipple. You choke on a moan, fingers unconsciously tangling in coarse fur.

It becomes increasingly apparent as you are stuffed full of seed, flipped on your side, and fucked into once again that this ordeal, this long night is far, far from over.

You won’t rest until the moon does.

**

Your cheek nestles against thick fur. Blearily, you blink and realize you had dipped out of wakefulness for a moment. You’re still, no longer rocking with the movement of pistoning hips. You think you might still be seated on the wolf’s girth, but it is difficult to tell, numb as you are.

The creature beneath you stirs, a long whine leaving its throat. In your peripheral, faint light shines through the window bars. The sun….

The cracking of bone heralds the change. Claws retract, limbs shorten. Fur falls away to be replaced by skin and human body hair. Low growls morph into pained groans.

You don’t have the strength to lift your head. Your cheek, buried in fur not a moment ago, now rests on a sturdy chest. Callum’s heart hammers in your ear and his haggard breaths jostle you. No longer held inside by the wolf’s knot, spend pours from your abused cunt to coat the both of you.

Quietly, he sobs. Trembling arms wrap around your limp body and his lips find your crown. Timidly, he croaks out your name. You don’t know what to say, too dazed and exhausted to even think. You remain silent.

Carefully cradling you to his chest, Callum moves the both of you off cold stone and onto straw bedding. He gingerly fixes your clothing, pulling it back in place and covering you as well as he can. You sigh heavily, too weary to care. Your only desire is sleep’s comforting embrace, nothing more.

Rest comes, however lightly. You doze, drifting in and out of that liminal space between waking and sleeping. Perhaps it is the way your hips ache that keeps you from slumbering deeply, or the way you can feel your heartbeat between your bruised thighs. The more time passes, the more your body begins to twinge.

Voices rouse you. Your eyes flutter and you listen, focusing on their words. Both are voices you recognize.

“…took the poor wench, if all that screamin’ was anythin’ to go by.”

“Is she still alive?” You frown. It’s the old man, the doctor….

“Dunno. Haven’t heard her in a while. Maybe not.”

“Did he knot her?” Your cheeks burn at the question.

“How the fuck would I know? Wasn’t in there taking notes, was I?” The lock thunks. Your eyes fly open only to meet molten gold.

A thrill of fear races up your spine. Callum’s human eyes are identical to those of the wolf. You suck in a breath and will your racing heart to calm. He’s still human.

Callum holds a finger up to his mouth, hushing you. Hastily, you shut your eyes and pretend to sleep. Hinges squeal.

“You don’t understand! If he claimed her as his mate, you have no idea the danger you’re in!” Boots on stone, louder voices, rattling of chainmail and keys. “His protective instinct will be ferocious—

“Quiet down, old man. Looks to me like he fucked himself into a stupor.”

Instantly, the heat of Callum’s body disappears from your side. There’s a grunt of surprise, a wet gurgle, then shocked silence. You risk a peek and your hands fly to your mouth to muffle your horrified gasp.

The guard who had spoken so crudely—the one who brought you here—clutches wildly at his neck. Scarlet gushes from a chunk of flesh that has been torn from his throat, flesh that now rests between Callum’s teeth. Little drops of gore, crimson rain, patter onto the stone around their feet, more violent red peppered across the front of Callum’s bare chest.

The soldier topples over, the noisy crash breaking the trance of the second guard. He rushes Callum only to receive a powerful kick to the chest. The man crashes into the far wall and collapses in motionless heap.

Callum then turns his attention to the old man cowering near the door. Pathetically, he cries out and moves to scamper from the room, but Callum is faster. He grips the doctor by the throat, fury burning in his golden eyes. The old man paws at Callum’s wrist, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

Callum squeezes. A gut-wrenching crack echoes around the room and the old man goes slack in his grip, eyes rolling back into his skull. Unceremoniously, the doctor is tossed to the side, a lifeless rag doll crumpling into a pile.

Callum spits the blood from his mouth and hurriedly kneels next to the first guard. He strips him of his breeches and boots and dresses himself. Reaching for the sword, he pauses and peers closely at the handle. He must not like what he sees because he leaves it to stand.

Then, he turns to face you, face bloodied and eyes alight with righteous fire. You’re momentarily frozen in half-formed panic. He won’t hurt you, will he?

But you couldn’t flee if you tried.

His expression softens and he races to your side. Gently, he grips you under the arms. “We must hurry. More will come soon. Can you walk?”

You steel yourself and push your fears aside. Escape must take precedence. “I-I can try.” Wrapping your arms around his neck, he hauls you to your feet. You stagger into his side, your knees buckling, the deep ache between your legs growing unbearable.

Callum wraps an arm around your waist and ushers you from the tiny cell. You stumble along as well as you can, every step reminding you of your list of hurts.

Before you lies a hallway. He lifts his head and sniffs the air. “This way,” he murmurs, steering you to the right. Together, you rush, stepping as lightly as you can, your padding footsteps and labored breaths like a cacophony in the quiet hall.

Over the rush of blood in your ears you hear voices up ahead. Your heart leaps into your throat. Frantically, you look up at Callum.

He wastes no time. As though you weigh nothing, he lifts you clean off your feet. Backtracking, he slips into a nearby stairwell and presses flush against the wall. Callum crushes you to his chest and the both of you hold your breath.

A pair of guards approach, boots stomping, chainmail jingling. They laugh about some shared joke, their chortling filling the hallway and echoing down the stairwell. Please pass by, please pass by….

You slowly release the air trapped in your lungs as the soldiers continue forward past the stairwell. Though, you won’t have long before they discover the grisly scene in the cell and sound the alarm. Callum must understand this too.

He darts back up the stairs, sets you on your feet, and continues onward, more urgency in his steps. You stumble along, fingers digging into this shoulder while your other hand clutches desperately at the arm around your waist.

Down a set of stairs, through another corridor you go. Ahead lies a heavy wooden door. Callum shoulders it open just as a bell begins clanging from the guard tower.

Daylight blinds you both. You nearly tumble down the short set of stairs in your rush to throw a hand up over your face. The arm on your waist steadies you.

Hurry, down the steps, hurry.

You grit your teeth, every step jolting sore limbs. Dull aching becomes sharp stabbing. Push it down, ignore it you tell yourself as you rush through the grass. Just head is tree cover.

Your knees buckle. You crumple, a strained cry leaving you as you crash to the ground, grass dirtying your palms and your dress. Morning dew still clings to the blades to soak your clothing.

“I can’t, just—

Callum doesn’t let you finish and instead scoops you up off the ground to carry you bridal style. How he can run right now, carrying you and exhausted from the previous night is beyond you. Still, he sprints into the trees, gracefully leaping over brush and fallen branches.

Soon, however, he begins to slow. Sweat beads along his brow and his chest heaves. There is such weariness etched in his features; in the light you can see the dark circles under his eyes, the sunken cheeks.

“Callum, stop,” you urge, your palm gently resting on his chest. He blinks and looks down at you as though he’d been in a trance. He staggers and falls to his knees, dead foliage crunching beneath. You clamber from his arms and help him lay on his side as he sucks in laborious breaths through his teeth.

Hastily glancing about, you find a moderately sized branch. Using your remaining strength, you haul it behind Callum, half concealing his shivering frame. It will have to do. You can manage no more.

Next to him, you collapse, your body riddled with pain and fatigue. Never have you experienced weariness down to your very bones.

You don’t think anything of it when you curl up against Callum’s chest. It seems the natural place to be. The arm that wraps around your body and pulls you close is meant to be there. Your vision blurs, merciful darkness encroaching.

Finally, sleep takes you.

[of-teeth-and-tenderness]

Coneflower

M Scarecrow x GN Reader

Warnings: Creepy situations, mentions of blood and minor hand injury.

Crisp, November air stings your cheeks and sneaks between the gaps of your clothing. You hunch deeper into your jacket as a shudder ripples along your spine. It’s still Autumn, but winter makes its approach known, its reaching, icy fingers combing through the air and dusting the rooftops with frost.

The soles of your shoes tap, tap a quicker rhythm along the sidewalk. Your destination lies just ahead, a respite from the chill. A new cafe has opened at the end of the block. Several friends have praised their coffee. You’ve succumbed to peer pressure, it seems.

The freshly-cleaned brick facade is welcoming, and a frilly sunshade protects a quaint seating area to the left. Through the big front window you see fairy lights and greenery lining the sill—adorable—but what sits on a bench near the front door makes you slow your hurried advance.

It’s…a scarecrow. It is perched precariously on the seat, straw hat about to tumble off its gray head with how it’s tilted. More hay peeks out of blue overalls and scuffed boots. Its legs are crossed, its gloved hands folded in its lap. Even its fingers are interlaced.

Frowning, you timidly approach, your hands leaving your pockets to reach for him.

It.

Gently, you grasp its shoulders. The straw under the plaid shirt gives a bit when you squeeze and shift the prop upright, but quickly you recoil, your fingers curling protectively against your chest. It’s warm, as though you had touched the shoulders of a person. You’d felt the heat even through your gloves.

Goosebumps prickle across your skin as you take a tentative step closer. Its face is strange and made from some mottled gray material. The texture looks…fleshy. Dark, frayed eye holes—bottomless pits—stare back at you as a crudely slashed mouth grins too wide across its face.

The hair on the back of your neck standing on end, you hastily turn away from the scarecrow and hurry inside. Warmth envelops you in a reliving embrace and you sigh. Absently, you peel off your gloves and scan the room—it’s completely empty? You’re the only customer—before your eyes raise to the menu written in chalk above the counter.

“Good morning!” You smile and nod in response to the barista’s greeting. “What can I get you?”

You pick your favorite from the menu, curious to see how it compares to other cafes. As you pay, the urge to ask about the prop sitting on the bench outside overpowers the social anxiety of conversing with a stranger. Such a bizarre occurrence demands explanation.

“Hey, what’s with the, uh, scarecrow?” You receive a blank stare in response. Swallowing, you attempt to clarify, “Out front? Old Halloween decoration or something?” You jab your thumb toward the door for emphasis.

The barista shakes their head, shrugs, and asks, “What scarecrow?”

Your frown deepens. “The one outside—

You turn as you speak, the words dying on your tongue when you find the bench vacant. It’s gone, vanished into thin air.

What in the hell…?

Heart slamming against your ribs, you turn back to the cashier. “Uh, sorry, nevermind,” you murmur, accepting your change and your coffee and hurrying from the cafe.

You’re too unsettled to notice the cold biting at your bare fingers. Head bowed against the icy wind, you hurry down the street, mind frantically trying to rationalize the situation.

Someone was playing a prank, surely. That’s all this was. You’ll see a video of it on social media a few weeks from now, teenage boys snickering in the background as they film you in secret.

But how did they make those black eyes so…lifelike…?

Out of the corner of your eye, across the street, you spot a straw hat.

You skid to a stop, head whipping in the direction in which you spotted the tall, gangly creature with a straw hat perched atop its graying head.

Nothing. Only a few people hurry down the opposite side walk, coats hiked up around their necks to stave off the chill. They’re oblivious to the way your chest heaves, your wide eyes search the sidewalk in barely contained panic.

You’d seen it though, you’re sure. The scarecrow had been standing just across the street, staring directly at you.

No, this is ridiculous. Your mind is playing tricks. It’s impossible.

Hands trembling, you grip your untouched coffee a little tighter, your steps holding more urgency. You keep your eyes on your shoes, not willing to see more conjurings from your anxious mind.

A pair of black dress shoes pass by, striding in the opposite direction. You spot a pair heels as they click down the sidewalk, someone headed to work. Sneakers next, a jogger. Then a pair of worn boots, hay poking out between the laces….

You yelp and whirl around, stilling in shock and terror when you come face to face with the scarecrow. He—it—towers over you, dark eyeholes peering down at you, leering maw curled up alarmingly at the corners.

It’s a costume, it has to be. But you’d felt it, felt the straw stuffing give under your hands. There isn’t anyone inside. How is it standing on its own, how is it smiling like that?!

Hay innards rustle as the arm slowly lifts and awkwardly twists to a 90 degree angle. The gloved hand shakes back and forth, movements strange and jerky.

A wave.

Terror grips your limbs, adrenaline spilling into your bloodstream and electrifying chilled muscles. A shriek erupts from your throat, paper cup tumbling from your hands, coffee splashing free to steam on the sidewalk. You spin on your heel and sprint down the street, heedless of the stares from concerned passerby. Drive to escape overrides all else.

Your feet slam on pavement as you fly around the corner. You take the side street, a shortcut. Your apartment is just one more street up. You’ll lock yourself inside and never leave ever—

Another cry lodges in your throat. Your shoes squeal on asphalt when you skid to a stop, the change so sudden you stumble backwards and fall right on your ass with a thud and a grunt. Your palms ache, scraped against the cold ground in your blunder.

The reason for your abrupt halt peers around the corner just ahead, fleshy grin startlingly wide. Worn gloves grip brick as the scarecrow pulls itself around the building. Legs stiff and uncoordinated, it hobbles down the alley toward you, the frightening pits of its eyes so dark and deep you feel you’ll be pulled in.

You’re frozen to the ground, your legs seized with fear and refusing to cooperate. It’s almost to you now, its boots scraping against the street with each strange, jerky step. A glove comes up, fingers digging in the breast pocket of its overalls. Dread strangles you, crushes your chest until your breaths only come in little gasps.

Its hand withdraws and pulls something undoubtedly horrible from its pocket. This is it, it’s right there, mere feet away, there’s no chance, you’re done for—

You blink, air leaving your lungs in a tremulous exhale. When you focus on its outstretched hand, you find a dried plant pinched between gloved thumb and forefinger. It was a coneflower, from the looks of it, it’s fuchsia petals long dead and gone.

Perplexed, you glance from the flower to the scarecrow. It’s bent at the waist in a half bow, arm outstretched, head tilted expectantly to the side. It’s…he’s presenting the flower. To you.

Tentatively, you raise a quivering hand, palm leaking scarlet from your fall. You pluck the plant carefully from his fingers. The scarecrow nods excitedly, the bobbing of its head erratic and unnerving.

You stare, bewildered, your brain failing to comprehend the impossibility of the situation. His intent in all this wasn’t to hurt you, but to…give you a flower?

The scarecrow reaches into another pocket to produce a white handkerchief. Gently, he cradles your hand in his and awkwardly cleans the scrape with the cloth. You wince, his weird movements more like “smacking” than “dabbing.”

Still, you can’t help the befuddled smile that tugs at your lips. “T-Thanks,” you finally murmur, shaking your head in disbelief. The scarecrow nods again, a hand reaching out to “pat” the top of your head.

The little dried flower wobbles in the breeze.

[of-teeth-and-tenderness]

Recipe

M Forest Guardian x AFAB Reader (NSFW)

Warnings: Discussions of food, very minor creepy elements, deep-throating (I guess), p in v sex, creampie.

(Tagging @when-the-sun-goes-dark )

~~

3/4 cup sugar, two sticks—wait two? Yes, two sticks of butter. Cream together—where’s the hand mixer…?

You dig through the cupboard and locate the mixer behind a stack of pie tins. They clang and grate together as you shove them aside to yank the machine free. You need to reorganize, apparently.

Huffing, you stand, move to the bowl, and connect the appropriate attachments to the mixer. As you cream together butter and sugar, your head bobs along to the song crooning through your headphones.

Switching off the mixer, you glance over at the little post-it note stuck in your recipe book, cookie ingredients shakily scrawled along the top half. Next is an egg. Perfect, your lovely chickens gave you several fresh this morning.

You turn to retrieve the egg, but movement in your peripheral makes you jolt. Sudden alarm turns to relief in a heartbeat; you recognize the creature looming in your kitchen. His white, lidless eyes are trained on you, observing.

A tremulous sigh rushes from your lungs. “You scared the shit out of me,” you chide, palm coming to rest against your chest to calm your fluttering heart.

Silence. The creature’s head—a massive bull elk skull—tilts slightly. When he speaks, the exposed jaw bones don’t move. Instead, his deep, rolling voice emanates from within, conjured from whatever resides inside bone.

“I…certainly hope not.” You snort and tug your headphones from your ears, hastily shaking your head.

“No, no, not literally. It’s a figure of speech.”

You receive a long, “Ah,” of understanding in response, the sound reverberating around the room. You feel the buzz of it in your own chest. Grinning and nodding, you finally retrieve the egg for your recipe.

The creature, currently crouched on four legs, pushes up to two. He’s hulking at his full height, antlers brushing the ceiling. Too big to fit in the kitchen at his current size, he simply shrinks to fit the space. You watch in amazement, no less astonished by his magic than you were the first time.

“What do you craft, child?” he asks. His curved, black toe claws click on linoleum as he approaches and curiously peers over your shoulder into the bowl. The coarse, dark fur of his torso tickles the backs of your arms when you crack the egg.

“Cookies,” you reply simply, glancing over at the recipe once again. You loose a quiet, “Oh,” of surprise when a long, black tongue scoops the eggshell from your fingers. It disappears into the mouth of the skull, but no crunching sound follows. You briefly wonder what became of it, thinking the creature must absorb it somehow.

“For the holiday,” he states—asks? It’s difficult to tell with the way his words seem to roll on forever at the ends. He lifts a spindly arm, a long, black claw pointing toward the decorated tree standing in the next room.

You chuckle, “Yes, exactly.” Carefully following the directions, you work together the rest of the ingredients, now under the watchful eye of the Creature of the Forest. As you work, you rest your back against the warm fur of his chest, his body heat relaxing the tense muscles of your shoulders, his petrichor scent filling your lungs.

You’re still not sure what he is or how he came to be. Any answers he gives about his origin are cryptic at best, nonsensical at worst. Even his name is a mystery. You’ve taken to calling him “Shepherd” for his apparent role as guardian of the great forest stretching just behind your home.

“It’s my grandmother’s recipe,” you tell him as you arrange the dough on a baking tray. “She wrote it down on half a sticky note—

You pause when you finally notice Shepherd pawing at your hips. His talons catch on the fabric of your pants and you glance at him over your shoulder.

“Are you liking this?” you tease, a grin tugging at the corners of your lips.

“Your…domesticity allures, little one,” comes the measured reply. The tugging at your jeans grows more insistent.

“Wait, h-hold on,” you urge, hastily setting down your baking tools and ripping off your apron. “Don’t shred these, please. I’m running out of pants.” A long, annoyed exhale sounds in your ear, but the claws relent, poised in the air and twitching impatiently. Very little of Shepherd’s mannerisms could be described as ‘human,’ but his impatience is certainly familiar.

Biting your lip to stifle your giggle, you fumble with the button of your pants. You only manage to shove them down to your knees before you’re gripped around the waist. Shepherd’s thick length pushes between your thighs. The honey-colored fluid leaking from the tip smears between your folds.

Your eyelids flutter. Reaching up and back, you tangle your fingers in his scruff. Languidly, you roll your hips, grinding against the ridges along his shaft. Shepherd’s appreciative growl is felt more than heard, a pulsing vibration that ripples under your skin and pulls a little mewl from your lips.

A clawed hand wraps around your throat, the other resting on your belly. Claws set against your skin with a touch so gentle it merely tickles, never slicing. Light pressure against your neck makes you arch and tip your head back.

Shepherd’s tongue returns, this time sneaking past your teeth to brush against your own. It burrows deeper, snaking into your throat until your moans become choked and garbled. Simultaneously, the drooling head of his cock eases into your heat, his girth carefully stretching slick muscles until his hips meet your rear.

A rumbling groan buzzes against your back. You hollow out your cheeks and suck on the tongue buried in your throat, earning you a sharp thrust. Your wanton cry is muffled, more following soon after with Shepherd’s rhythmic bucking.

The drag of his cock makes your knees tremble, each pass off those delicious ridges sending waves of pleasure rolling through you. Unable to swallow, saliva pools in your cheeks and spills past your lips to drip off your chin. Shepherd presses his palm against your lower belly, holding you in place so he can thrust into you more forcefully.

“My beautiful mate,” he purrs, his voice cascading from the skull to wash you in toe-curling vibration. “I feel your soul like this.” Eyes hazy, face hot, every nerve humming with bliss, you nod in understanding. If you could speak, you would beg him to never stop, to keep you both forever entwined.

With the tongue stuffed in your throat, you can’t warn him you’re close so you dig your nails into his fur. You’re certain he knows with the way your cunt clenches and flutters. He’s nearly there himself if the frantic driving of his hips is anything to go by.

Ecstasy claims you together. Warmth floods your insides as you stumble over the precipice, every muscle in your body seized in rapture. A rushing breath like wind through the trees ruffles your hair, Shepherd’s arms possessively wrapping around your quivering form.

With a squelch, the tongue withdraws back into the bony maw. You suck in a deep inhale and pitch forward, catching yourself on the counter. Shepherd moves with you, curling over your back to rest his bony jaw on top of your head. You leak from where you’re still joined, sticky essence trickling down your thighs.

You utter a shaky laugh, fingers clumsily patting his jaw in appreciation. You’ll form words when they return to you. Shepherd trills, claws tenderly stroking through your hair.

His hips twitch. You blink, shoulders shaking with your incredulous laugh. He’s still hard, his flesh still heated and wanting within you.

It seems the cookies will have to wait.

[of-teeth-and-tenderness]

Blood Oath

- Chapter One -

M Demon x F Human Reader (NSFW)

Warnings: Kidnapping, discussions surrounding virginity, minor self injury, nonconsensual frotting, blood, brief descriptions of gore, minor character death

~~

Awareness returns gradually, grains of sand trickling through an hourglass. Sticky eyelids crack open one at a time, but grogginess spoils your awakening. The dimly lit room may as well be completely dark for all your bleary eyes can see. You close them, rub at them, clutch your aching skull.

Beneath you, the surface is hard and bumpy. The scent of damp earth reaches your nose as you shift and you realize you’re lying on a dirt floor, not unlike the one in your grandmother’s cottage.

Groaning, you force your eyes open once more, pushing up onto your elbow. Blinking slowly clears your swimming vision and finally you’re able to push to your feet without staggering.

Now the question remains: Where are you? Little are the clues as you look around the room. To your left sits a small, wooden table covered in tattered parchment, next to it a single rickety chair. Old, dusty tomes are piled in corners and on shelves. A single candle burns low, the dancing flame throwing reaching shadows across the walls.

You hook your finger in the candlestick and cup your hand around the little flame so you can move about the room. You search for exits; windows or—

A door!

Under your fingers, the worn brass doorknob is freezing, like it was crafted from ice. You must tug and heave to haul the door open. Hinges squeal and the bottom edge drags an indent through the dirt floor.

Your face falls. Instead of an exit, you’re met with a staircase descending into yawning blackness. Icy air reeking of musk and a sharp, stinging odor pours from the open doorway, so overpowering you must throw and arm over your nose and mouth.

Disappointment turns to confusion. How could there be a room below this one? It must be dug into the very earth. But why?

And…. You hold your candle aloft, searching your tiny room—tiny prison—once more. This portal is the only doorway. Where is the exit? How did you get here?

Too many questions assault your aching head. You swallow the dryness in your throat and turn back to the ominous blackness.

The only way forward is down, so down you go.

Your small flame flickers with the trembling of your hand, your worn leather boots tap, tapping softly on stone steps. Your free hand grips the dirt wall, dried bits of mud flecking away and speckling the steps as you move. You can see nothing past the small circle of light provided by your candle.

As you descend, the strange stinging scent grows stronger. Your nose wrinkles, skin prickling as frigid air rushes past, chilling the sweat on your neck, brushing damp hair from your brow. How much farther could this channel go? The impossibility of it leaves you astounded and terrified.

The change is so gradual you don’t notice at first, but finally you realize you can see further ahead. A faint glow reaches you from the bottom of the earthen staircase. As you move closer, the color of light changes from pale white to sickly green.

Now a rich blue.

Gold.

Cautiously you tread as you reach the end of the staircase. Another room opens up beyond the threshold, its vaulted ceiling disappearing unfeasibly into the gloom above. Though, what draws your attention are the long, wooden tables littered with vials, tubes, and bottles filled with various liquids. One such bottle sits atop a flame, the bubbling substance within changing color seemingly at random and lighting up the surrounding space.

You approach and discover different stones and curling parchment littering the places not occupied by glass containers. Your fingers hover over a pearly white crystal, tempted to touch, but you think better of it and quickly withdraw your hand. Who knows what magic could be contained within.

Remembering your mission, you turn your attention to the other end of the room. Glowing coals sit in a brick hearth, a cast iron pot suspended above. As you approach, the evil, sharp smell grows stronger, stinging your eyes until tears gather in your lashes.

Using a nearby rag, you remove the pot from the hearth and set it on a table. Immediately, the smell begins to dissipate, the air around you growing cooler until you can take a full breath once more. What in God’s name is in that pot?

Each new encounter brings more questions than answers.

Wiping your eyes on your sleeve, you renew your search, lifting your candle to illuminate the far wall. You must be close to the way out by now.

What you find instead sticks your heart in your throat, forces a scream off your tongue, and makes you stumble back in terror, your little candle tumbling to the ground, flame dying in the dirt. Raising your trembling hands to your face, you stare, open mouthed and wide eyed at what is splayed on the wall.

The inhuman beast hanging limply before you is enormous, 20 hands at least. It possesses two arms—human-like if not for the curved, obsidian claws at the ends of its digits—and two, thick legs covered in curling fur. Instead of feet are massive cloven hooves, as wide around as a draft horse. It’s skin and fur are pure white as fresh fallen snow. Inky black cracks run here and there along its skin, like chasms carved into flesh. Stretching away from the beast are two great, rubbery wings, like those of a bat. Several steaks have been driven through the thin skin to keep them stretched wide and on display.

Morbidly fascinated, you take a step closer and raise your gaze to the creature’s head. Two dark horns curve out from a mess of white hair. Instead of a human face is a white snout, not unlike a goat’s. The eyes are closed. You wonder what hellish qualities they could possess.

The creature is motionless. It hangs limply, its stillness familiar to you, akin to that of humans who have passed on. It is dead, then, but why is it displayed on the wall like game?

It is then you notice the inscriptions encircling the monster, carved into the very wall. You squint and inch closer. They were runes once, you guess, runes for capture and imprisonment. Though, these have been warped, twisted during their creation. You wonder if they needed to be changed to hold such a creature captive.

One more step, just to see the inscriptions more clearly. Your mind whirs. The magic within the runes is still active. Why, though, if the beast is truly dead—

Something wraps around your calf, something muscular and serpentine. Heart stuttering in your chest, you screech and stumble back. Your leg slips free of whatever holds it and you retreat to the opposite wall, chest heaving, pulse galloping.

Your wide eyes meet solid black; iris, pupil, and whites are indistinguishable from one another in such wicked darkness. The creature’s snout opens, a dark chuckle sounding around pointed teeth. Flicking back and forth below its feet is a long, white tail, a tuft of black fur at the tip.

“Forgive me, little human. It has been so long since I had a visitor. I fear I have forgotten my manners.” It speaks in a thundering baritone, quiet growls rumbling between its words. “I thank you for removing that blasted pot from the hearth. The stench of it dulls the senses, you see.”

You open your mouth to speak but your voice cracks, air lodged in your throat. Swallowing, you try again, “W-What…what—

“What am I?” it suggests playfully, mouth curling into a smirk. Trembling fingers grip the front of your shift. Tentatively, you nod once.

“Many things, many names I have earned, but you, little human, may call me Orneth. I am—

“A demon,” you breathe. Realizing you spoke aloud, you clap a hand over your mouth. Orneth hums inquisitively, head tilting to the side.

“You know of me? I am flattered. Though, most humans do not have knowledge of my kind.”

Your palm slips from your face to anxiously twist in your dress once more. “I…there is a…a page about you in one of my brother’s bestiaries.” You wonder if you should be divulging all this, or if you should even be talking to him at all. However, you are woefully short on answers. Perhaps this demon can help you.

“A human who reads runes and bestiaries. I thought there was an air of magic about you, little witch.” You attempt to keep your expression passive. It becomes apparent you will not be able to hide anything from him.

Indeed, magic runs in your veins. You learned the healing arts from your grandmother and a little alchemy from your elder brother. Though you never met your mother, you’re told she was a skilled healer.

“Your perception is legendary, Demon Lord,” you praise, your voice more tremulous than you hoped. Courage fails you in the presence of such a beast.

At the title, the demon’s tail flicks. You take it to be a good sign. Perhaps his ego can be leveraged.

“Such a charming little creature,” Orneth purrs. “A refreshing change from my usual treatment.” You watch closely as the muscles of his outstretched arms flex against the magic holding him. Now is your chance.

“Please, Lord Orneth, will you tell me where we are? I awoke in a room above this one with no memory or how or why I came to be here.” The demon grins at your question and the back of your neck prickles. Intuition tells you he is planning some deception. You must navigate this exchange carefully.

“Indeed, I can tell you these things, little witch, but I will require something in return.”

“Name your price, demon, and I will do my best to meet it.”

“You must free me.” At his words, you balk. You knew this would be his stipulation, but the prospect of loosing him upon you and the rest of the world above chills you to the bone.

“What reassurance can you give that I will not be harmed?” The demon chuckles, the growling sound of it bouncing off the earthen walls and high ceiling.

“Harming she who aided me in my weakest moment? There’s no honor in that, pet.”

“And…others? My kin…I fear for them,” you tell him honestly. There is some truth in his words, you sense, but his tone carries an undercurrent of trickery.

“My quarrel is not with you or yours, child.” You bite your lip. Fear grips you, but desperation wins out. Free the demon and he can free you too.

“I…I will do my best to free you, Lord Orneth, if you will help me in return.” The demon rumbles in excitement at your promise.

“An honest little mage. Come closer. On the nearby table is an athamé. Prick your finger and let me drink of your blood. Then, a deal we will have.” Your breath falters. You know very little of blood magic, but giving your life essence to a demon is most assuredly forbidden.

“I-I do not intend to deceive you—

Orneth’s booming laugh interrupts your stammering. “And the blood will make sure of that! Come, human, time is not on our side. We must make haste, lest our captors return.”

You close your eyes despairingly. You have run out of options. The magic of this place is beyond your skill. You cannot hope to escape without Orneth.

Steeling yourself, you make your way to the specified table. The knife is cold in your palm, blade glinting in the low light. You set the tip against the finger, gritting your teeth at the sting. Blood wells under the metal point, black in the darkness.

Cautiously, you approach the demon. He watches intently, obsidian eyes trained on your leaking finger. You push to your tip-toes and raise your arm over your head to reach his mouth.

A forked tongue snakes from his toothy maw. It is slick and warm as it wraps around your wrist. A startled gasp leaves your lips as it drags up your hand and laps at your cut before disappearing back into the demon’s mouth.

Hastily, you back away once more. Orneth’s eyes flutter closed in apparent rapture as he tastes you, but they suddenly fly open to fix you with an astonished stare. You’re frozen to the spot, terrified of whatever it is he has discovered.

“You continue to surprise, pet. I see now what they wanted with you. A virgin witch is a rare find.”

“W-Who…who do you speak of, demon?” Your thoughts jumble together in your race to speak them, the shock of his revelation overshadowed by your need for answers.

Orneth’s lip curls up in a snarl. “Wizards. Wicked conjurers intent on more power, no gratitude for what they’ve already been given. Thankless heathens.” He spits on into the dirt. “This prison, these spells are their doing. They sought to control me and use my abilities for their gain, but their magic is unrefined. It can only hold me. I will not give them what they seek.”

He looks to you and studies your stunned expression a moment before continuing, “I suspect they wish to try once more with another of my kind. Another ritual of that magnitude would require a virgin sacrifice, one with magic of her own.” You stare back at him, speechless, body wracked with fearful trembling.

Now, you remember. Memory spills into your awareness like water rushing from a broken dam:

The stonemason’s son was weak with fever. You were traversing through the woods, making your way home from the village after treating the child. Hooves thundering down the forest trail made you look back in alarm. Armored men on horseback barreled toward you. There had been no time to flee. A blow to the head trapped your memory and submerged you in darkness.

In the hearth, charred wood snaps. Furiously blinking away tears, you come back to the present. You fill your lungs with air to calm your racing heart. Across the room, Orneth watches, ever observant.

His thoughtful hum pulls your attention. “It seems you and I are more alike than not, little one.” Your brows draw down in confusion and the demon chortles. “Both of us cursed in our own way.”

“Speak plainly, demon, I beg of you.” You grow tired of his riddles. There is urgency now, much more than when you first entered this chamber. Your life hangs in the balance.

“Virginity, young witch. It is nothing more than a burden. Lecherous sinners covet the maiden above all else. Men and magic folk alike are eager to abuse her flesh for their gain in one way or another. There will be no peace for you until you free yourself.”

At first, you’re too taken aback to respond. It discomforts you, the way he speaks so freely. Yet, there is an earnest quality to his words, a truthfulness.

“Of course, this could be included in our arrangement. An additional stipulation.” At your quizzical expression, Orneth smiles wide and adds, “It has been quite some time since I bedded a human. You would make a delectable treat, whitchling.”

Confusion instantly morphs into mortification. Your eyes grow wide and your face burns as you indignantly splutter, “C-Control yourself! Gods above, this is…I am not agreeing to this-this indecency!” You contemplate turning yourself over to the wizards. Dying would be preferable over this gut-wrenching shame.

Orneth’s boisterous laughter fills the cavern. You glare daggers at him, your eyes burning with unshed tears. Huffing, you turn on your heel and stomp back toward the staircase.

“Wait, wait little witch! I merely jest,” he shouts between guffaws. “We have a deal, if you recall.” You slow, scrunching up your face in ire. You are tempted to keep walking and deal with the consequences of breaking a blood oath, but sense prevails.

Sucking in a breath, you square your shoulders with purpose. Slowly, you turn to face the grinning demon, ignoring him as you tentatively approach. You remain hyper-aware of that swishing tail.

First, you tug free the steaks holding his wings aloft. The demon flinches with each and a small part of you relishes in his pain. He sighs in relief once the last spike is removed.

Next, you turn your attention to the runes and study each closely. Lifting your fingers, you bring them inches away from the symbols, careful not to touch. The power of them buzzes against your fingertips, a warning.

Your brother would be better for this, you tell yourself. This magic is old and powerful, something that takes years to master. Doubt overwhelms you and you draw your hand back. What if you falter and your error kills you both? Your grandmother cannot be left alone, old and frail as she is.

Then, one of the symbols catches your eye. You lean in and trace its shape with your gaze. You know this, know how to craft it…and how to undo it. You remember the book. The specific page floats to the forefront of your mind and you carefully recall the steps.

“There is a sequence, I think.” You speak more to yourself than the demon. Orneth is blessedly silent, to your relief. “They must be undone in the appropriate order. So, it should be…,” your eyes dart up to the symbol near his left hand, “…this first.”

You whisper words of unbinding. Magic rolls of your tongue and gathers at the tips of your fingers. The air crackles, the hair on your arms standing on end.

You press your fingers to the rune. It fizzes, the outline of the symbol glowing bright white, so intense you must squint. Then, it snuffs out and crumbles to dust at your feet.

One.

You move to the rune between his great hooves. Then to the one at his right hand. One by one they fall until you come to the last, the symbol between his horns.

Even on the tips of your toes you cannot reach. Hastily, you retrieve a chair and clamber onto its seat. This brings you eye-level with the demon. He stinks of sulfur and the last embers of a fire.

Orneth smirks at your proximity but says nothing, apparently unwilling to break your concentration. Cheeks heating up under his scrutiny, you focus on the last rune. Silently, you pray the demon will keep his word. You hope you aren’t making a mistake by unleashing the beast.

Under your fingers, the final symbol collapses. He is free, whether you like it or not. Hurriedly, you leap from the chair and drag it away as Orneth begins to tip forward. He lands on his knees with a resounding thud, loose earth raining down on you from the ceiling.

A beat of silence passes. In your ears, your blood rushes like a great river. Should you flee? Should you stay?

Then, one massive wing lifts, stretching to its full breadth. The other follows soon after. You watch in awe as the slashes left behind by the steaks mend themselves, thin flesh knitting together until each wing is whole and unmarred once more.

Gradually, the demon lifts his head to gaze at you. You freeze, the knowledge that he can move about as he pleases reminding you of your helplessness. What will he—

Orneth darts forward so quickly you do not have time to react. Thick hands seize you around the middle and you gasp when the room tilts. A grunt forces itself from your lungs when your back meets wood. Jars and crystals smash to the ground, knocked from one of the long work surfaces when the demon pins you to the table top.

You’re stunned, air refusing to enter your chest. The room spins as your mind desperately attempts to orient itself. Against your palms, the skin of his chest is so hot it almost burns.

“Now then,” he rumbles, settling between your legs. With growing horror, you discover your skirt has bunched up near your thighs in the tussle. The heat of him so near your center leaves you reeling. “This is much more comfortable.”

Finally, you cough and inhale, lungs filling with blessed air. Frantically, you push against his chest. “You…you swore—

“Swore no harm would come to you. And none shall. There are more things I can do to you like this than hurt you, little one.” He leans in close, close enough to feel the warm rush of his breath against your ear. “Unless you ask it of me.”

A shuddering exhale leaves your lips as you furiously shake your head. “No, n-no, I didn’t agree—

Orneth shift his hips and something thick and turgid slides against your inner thigh. You squeak in alarm, legs thrashing when you realize what touches you so intimately.

“Such a clever mage. So resourceful. You brim with more power than you realize. It would be an honor to spill my seed in your untouched cunt.” Your cheeks burn with his whispered praise.

Before you can scream curses at him, he moves again, this time sliding his heated length between your folds. Pleasure shocks you at the contact and the lascivious mewl that sneaks from your throat has shameful tears pricking at your eyes.

The demon groans deeply in response, the sound shuddering in the depths of your own chest. He continues to roll his hips, grinding his cock along your slit until it is slick with your want. You bite your lip so hard you taste iron, so desperate are you to conceal the lustful noises begging to leave your tongue.

Never have you felt this pleasure before or even imagined anything could feel this way. Every second that passes chips away at your resolve, more baser instincts itching to take over. Though…could you let…a demon…?

A snout nuzzles against the shell of your ear. “What say you, pet? Shall I split you open and free you from that wretched curse you carry?” You whimper in response, your nails digging crescents into his flesh. The temptation…it is….

A shout from behind startles you both. Your eyes snap open and you let your head fall back. There, upside down from your viewpoint, stands a man, his long, gray beard reaching down to his leather belt, a pointed hat clutched in his white-knuckled hands. Embroidered in the hat are symbols, descriptions of his status and rank.

A wizard.

A rolling growl shakes the glass jars above your head. Fear races up your spine at the sound and you quickly look to the demon. Orneth’s lips pull back in a vicious snarl as he regards the magician frozen in terror at the base of the stairs.

Then, the demon drops his gaze to you, his expression softening. “My apologizes, sweet one. It appears our pleasure must wait.” The sound of frantic footfalls reaches your ears. Orneth’s hateful gaze returns to the staircase. “I have wizards to kill.”

Sudden wind whooshes around you as powerful wings beat once, twice. The demon raises into the air and launches himself toward the stairs. The abrupt absence of his body heat leaves goosebumps prickling across your skin.

You slide from the table to land on trembling knees. Embarrassed, you hastily straighten your shift, your thighs still damp with desire. You drag a hand down your face and shake your head. How could you have nearly let a demon defile you in this hellish place?

Screaming shocks you out of your reverie. It’s distant, likely near the top of the stairs, but there is no mistaking the agony in it. Hesitantly, you follow the sound, afraid you’ll be trapped here forever if you don’t take your chance.

The cries grow weaker as you climb the endless staircase. They die off completely as you near the top. Faint light glows through the doorway ahead. Moonlight.

A way out.

You ignore the burning in your calves and your haggard breaths to sprint up the last few stairs. At the top is the little room in which you awoke. Beyond is another door. Fresh air smelling of spruce and aspen billows through the opening, bringing with it the promise of freedom. You race across the room and burst outside, but quickly skid to a halt in the grass, your hands flying up to clap over your mouth in revulsion.

The wizard’s shredded body…or what remains of it…litters the clearing before you. Innards, sinew, and bone are spread haphazardly across the ground, blood painting the grass in inky darkness. At the center of the carnage stands Orneth, his snout and chest covered in gore, the contrast of the vital fluid splattered against his pale skin stark in the moonlight.

Over his shoulder, the demon quietly regards you. Fearfully, you meet his dark gaze. His lips quirk up in a grin, his long teeth dripping with ichor. With one, powerful beat from his wings, he shoots up into the air to vanish into the night sky.

Above you, stars twinkle. A cool breeze rustles leaves and chills the sweat beading along your brow. Gathering up your skirt, you pick your way through the grass and return to the trees.

Home awaits.

[of-teeth-and-tenderness]

Can I get a little sum fluffy for callum 🥺

Anything at all.

The slip of a blade over wood disturbs the hush of the shaded clearing. Sunlight trickles through foliage and warms practiced hands, whittling knife expertly clutched in a calloused palm. The little wooden figurine twists and turns this way and that, new life taking shape with each pass of steel.

Quiet scraping pauses when light footsteps pad through the underbrush. Callum glances up from his work, golden eyes following the sound until they meet yours. His tender smile mirrors your own.

“I can never sneak up on you,” you tease as you approach.

“This was supposed to be a surprise,” he jokes back, mock disappointment in his tone. Curious, you rest your hands on his shoulders and peek at his work.

“Oh…is that a wolf?” you question excitedly, reaching down to touch the intricate details of the snout. Callum nods, a wry smile tugging at his lips

“A real one, though, not…whatever I am.” You give him a reassuring squeeze, your lips brushing over the stubble of his cheek.

“You feel pretty real to me, love.” At your words, he chuckles, shoulders shaking under your grip. He rests a hand, sticky with sap and sawdust, on your own. It’s silent, the ‘thank you,’ but it’s one you understand all the same.

[of-teeth-and-tenderness]

🌟 Of Teeth and Tenderness Masterlist

✨ One Shots ✨

Coneflower - M Scarecrow x GN Reader

Recipe - M Forest Guardian x AFAB Reader (NSFW)

Sweet Tooth - M Vampire x F Reader (NSFW)

~~~

✨ Multi-Chapter ✨

Blood Oath - M Demon x F Reader

Chapter One (NSFW)

Bound - M Werewolf x F Reader

Chapter One (NSFW)

[of-teeth-and-tenderness]

🌟 Welcome 🌟

I’m Sights, a 35 year old writer of all things creepy and monstrous. I am a patchwork, gender-fluid curiosity, so please apply which pronouns you find most fitting. You cannot misgender me!

Here you will find my stories of beasts, love, and horror. At the beginning of every fic, appropriate warnings will be listed, so please heed those before reading! There isn’t much I won’t write, but I will keep the darker themes at a minimum.

My fics are not safe for minors! All blank and ageless blogs will be blocked.

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MASTERLIST

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Darkfic/Slasher blog: @thesightstoshowyou

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