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hareofhrair · 3 days

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A Shadow In The Room - Shadow Creature x Fem OC 2POV

Reposting some of my old terato/xeno stories from back before the porn ban! This was a request for a shadow person boyfriend. eh, it's alright.

You've had a long day at work, but your shadow person boyfriend is there to make you feel better.

You can find more of my work on my Patreon!

Tags and Content Warnings: Established Relationship, Consensual, Shadow Person, m/f

You knew he’d be there the minute you shouldered the door open, exhausted from work and dragging your feet. The moment you crossed the threshold your skin prickled and the scent of damp earth and cool water filled your nose. There was a kind of chill in the air that followed him, a scent like darkness and rotting leaves. You’d found him out in the deep woods and no matter where he went now the air of the forest at night followed him.

Sure enough, you’d barely let the door close fully behind you before you felt his arms close around you from behind, pulling you against his broad, solid chest. You felt his lips, then his teeth at your throat, and his hands over your stomach, wrinkling the fabric of your work shirt. His skin was cold, his teeth sharp. His hands were deep, midnight blue and shaped like no human who’d ever lived, long and curved like dark talons. That was the most you ever saw of him. He was always behind you, that living shadow. You saw glimpses, glowing eyes in the dark, horns sometimes- but never more, not even after all the time you’d been together.

You weren’t sure if you could rightly call it a relationship. Certainly, he had his way with you often enough. You could feel him now, hard already against you, grinding into your backside. But you knew so little about him. You stumbled across him that night in the woods and made a joke in a shaking voice because you’d never had the most rational responses to fear. He’d laughed, and you’d kept talking because you thought it was all that was keeping you alive. He’d let you go, and a week later he’d been in your kitchen, wanting to talk again. And gradually, over these periodical visits, you’d stopped being afraid, realizing he was just bored or lonely, not there to kill you. And after a while he’d started talking back, telling you stories about years in the shadows, a strange life you couldn’t quite conceive of. He never gave you the full story, just bits and pieces, like your glimpses of his appearance. You weren’t sure if he didn’t trust you or if remaining always obscured was a condition of his existence. Both seemed equally possible.

Eventually, one lonely night, he’d touched you and your relationship had taken this unusual turn. You were hardly complaining. Except that now he was pulling away, leaving your skin even colder than his chilly touch. You knew better than to turn back to look at him. He’d know you were pouting without you having to. You felt the ghost of his kiss on the back of your neck.

“Go and bathe,” he said. “The outside world clings to you. I want to smell your skin.”

You laugh. It seems like you’ve been laughing around him since the beginning.

“I would be in there already if you hadn’t decided to jump me at the door,” you said, and you feel his hands on you again, squeezing your backside.

“But then I would not have been able to properly impress on you that you should hurry.”

You laughed again and slipped away from him, hurrying towards the shower. You washed quickly, your thoughts preoccupied with the memory of his hands on you. You were sure he’d be in here with you if he could, but he hated the bathroom. The lights were too bright and he despised mirrors. So you rushed, the exhaustion of the workday forgotten. His visits had been rare these past few months. You’d been tied up at work and he was always preoccupied around this time of year when “the burden of the ancient weird is commended once again upon my shoulders,” or so he said, whatever that meant. His language tended to get increasingly formal and archaic when he was being evasive. Regardless, it had been more than a week and you were eager to feel his touch again.

You scrubbed at your hair with a towel quickly, considered taking a moment to put it up or throw on some eyeliner. But you knew he wouldn’t care. Appearances were beneath his concern. It was a relief sometimes to remember that he would never judge you for not caring enough to shave your legs or enjoying cupcakes more than jogging.

You forwent clothes entirely and dropped your towel at the bathroom door, barely taking two steps towards the bed before he was behind you, sweeping you off your feet in a flurry of shadows. You felt the chill of him against your back as your face met the cool sheets of your bed. His kisses, chilly and sharp with the scrape of his teeth, roll down your spine like a shiver. His hand is on the back of your head, and another on your hip, keeping you in the position he likes best. There are other hands, because of course he has others, on your thighs, your wrists and ankles, running nails over your ribs. He only seems to have one mouth from what you can tell however, and mores the pity, because it’s slipped over the curve of your ass now to press cold against your burning lips. His tongue slips through your folds like a chip of ice and makes you gasp for more than one reason. It’s a good thing you always enjoyed temperature play. He can’t help being cold as a winter night. He says, in his sentimental moments, that you melt him.

You grip the sheets and muffle your moans as he teases you, icy tongue and cold fingers working you up to the edge of what you can stand. When he feels you shaking one of his hands takes your throat and pulls your head back so that he can hear your hoarse cries as he finishes you. His cool hands rub circles over your shoulders and thighs as you come down, head spinning. He’s patient as the night, and he waits until your breathing evens and you begin rocking back into his touch before you feel him loom over you.

He slides against your lips, cold and stark against your heat. For a moment he only rolls against you, making you wait, until you’re almost desperate to feel him inside you. When at last he presses in, he’s so cold it almost burns, but you love it. He cools your fever as he spreads you open with a cock that is never quite the same size or shape, that changes every time you’re distracted by his hand on your clit or his lips on your throat.

It’s frantic at first, as it usually is. He seems to have a hard time holding back when he first gets inside you, and the rapid, pounding pace quickly dissolves any self-control you had either. But just when you think you’re close to your limit, he pulls back. His movements slow, his once wild thrusts becoming long, lingering slides, grinding deep within you, taking his time, drawing it out. You love this part the most, when he’s tender with you, even though you know it’s not in his nature. You ache, desperate to return to the peak you’d so nearly achieved, but you’d never rush him, not when he’s laying cold kisses on your neck and rolling his hips against you that way, more hands than you can keep track of drawing soothing circles over your skin. When he takes you like this, it feels like you’re coming apart at the seams, just puzzle pieces in his hands. You love him in these moments, though you’ve never said the words. Neither has he, though you suspect sometimes. You think he knows, despite your silence. You hope he knows.

He begins to pick up speed again, though he remains gentle. He’s close, and you shake, tightening around him. Suddenly, you feel a cool touch over your eyes. You’d had them closed anyway, but now you sense only darkness beyond your closed lids. You feel his hand on your hip, turning you over. You gasp, reach out to stop him. Visions of Cupid and Psyche come to mind. You fear seeing him, not because of his appearance, but because not seeing him has become some kind of nebulous rule of this arrangement and you fear breaking it means losing him.

But the cool hand remains over your eyes, blinding you. He turns you on to your back and you feel suddenly exposed in this position, vulnerable, your feelings and insecurities bared to him. He kisses you, deeply and properly. You don’t think he’s ever kissed you on the mouth before. You accept his kisses with the fervor of a worshiper and feel him slide back into you, rocking into you with quick, short strokes while you discover the cool darkness of his mouth, the icy clarity of his tongue. Another tiny fragment of him, a gift. You remember the Blind Men and the Elephant, putting together the shape of a living thing from small pieces. Your head is full of stories tonight. Full of him. You don’t mind if you never see all of him at once. Everything he’s willing to give you is more than enough.

You feel him pulse and swell within you and you wrap your arms around something like shoulders, press your face to something like his chest, feel fur against your cheek and scales under your fingers and feathers brushing the trembling skin of your stomach. The disparate pieces of him seem further apart than ever. Have you done this to him? Scrambled him this way? You don’t think he minds. He moves faster, pulling your mind back to the present as he squeezes your hips and buries himself deep within you. You feel a coldness like ice spill within you and you shiver and smile. He stays within you, rubbing his thumb over your clit, until he feels you tighten around him again and tip over the precipice of your own orgasm. Your darkened vision goes briefly white as you arch up into his touch and come down shaking and dizzy.

He doesn’t usually linger long beside you in bed, though he often waits just beyond it, sharing idle conversation while you recover if not his touch. But tonight when he pulls away from you, what he left inside you becoming frost on your thighs and melting away, he lays down beside you. You roll onto your side and he presses into your back, his favorite place. His arm around you is cold, but all you feel is warmth.

“Did you know I used to be afraid of the dark,” you said, laying your hand over his. “When I was little. It terrified me not to know what might be there in the room with me.”

“And now?” he asks, his grip loosening a little, as though afraid he is about to have to let go.

“Now?” You consider your words carefully for a moment, but his chest against your back makes you feel bold. “Now, if you asked me to, I might blind myself to be with you.”

He holds you tighter, and for a moment you think you might feel the whole of him pressed against you. Not just the part touching your back, but far beyond it, more than your eyes would ever be able to understand. He’s as vast and unknowable as a forest from the dawn of history, where some ancestor of yours might have stood on the edges, looking into that deep unfathomable darkness. What might you have felt, looking at an ocean of trees that have been growing since before your earliest ancestors walked the earth? Since the moments when what we might tentatively call a tree first came into existence? The first forest, untouched. That’s what he is to you. The spirit of that lost place, untouched by time.

“You would regret it,” he says. “The novelty would wither with time and you would resent me for taking you from the light. In the darkness, you would only see all the other lives you might have lived.”

“Maybe,” you agree. “I think that happens to everyone eventually, though. I think that’s just getting older. Working through it is part of being alive.”

“It’s not a part I’m familiar with,” he confesses.

“Don’t worry,” you reassure him, and bring his hand to your lips to kiss the backs of his cold black fingers. “We have all the time in the world.”

#my writing #terato #xeno #shadow person #monster x reader #monster x human #monster x you #monster x female #monster romance #monster lover #monster fucker

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thenightmarketofdathomir · 6 months

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Trick or Treat!!

Do you remember that time in Wrath of Darth Maul when Talzin took a little nick of Maul's blood, then later used it in the Talisman of Finding given to Savage to retrieve his lost, unhinged brother from Lotho Minor after some jerk Jedi cut him in half?

What if that's not all Talzin used Maul's blood for?

Pairing: Nightsister Reader x Shadowperson Maul Rating: Explicit Word Count: 2,534 words Warnings: Grief mention, dub con, power dynamics, dps, necromancy, horror imagery Notes: A current knowledge of Star Wars: Ahsoka is required to best understand the insinuations here. The "Reader" character plays with perspective to put you in the driver's seat, but she exists in canon.

Summary: Alone on your ancestral homeworld, Dathomir, you call to the spirits of your long-dead sisters, but something else answers instead.

Black spheres are an omen, you remember, staring up at Dathomir’s twin moons for the first time, your feet firmly planted on ancestral soil:

A cryptic portent writ into the book of Gethzerion by another of your kin before the tome was lost, but what was lost can be reclaimed. The thought harries you, tugging at your skirts like the spirited winds that trundle through Dathomir’s peaks. The air tastes of ash and dirt, humid with the bog reek of the endless grave thorn forests whose silent, empty pods sway above your passage towards the mountain.

Your ship is mired in the swamp behind you.

There is no way out. No way back. Only forward into an uncertain future.

The cold breath of opened graves breathes new life into everything that slumbers when your footsteps lead you into the temples of your fallen sisters.

You’ve never been here before, but the spirits that plague your dreams mapped the way across the stars from core worlds to the Quelli sector, beckoning you back to red shores and silent peaks on a pilgrimage to find nothing at all —

Nothing save the dead.

The carved effigies to the ancient mothers await, staring down at you with dark eyes and distended mouths, and everywhere, everything is at unrest. The Force churns. Nothing lives here but the memory of the old ways persists.

You hear it in the echoes and whispers, disembodied and powerless.

The mountain is a mausoleum.

Bones everywhere.

Trampled.

Piled and burned otherwise by soldier’s hands. Men. Handling the bodies of sacred warriors who should have been dressed and placed with care into their hanging coffins to rise again when beckoned to their fulfill their duty:

Death is not the end.

Death is a threshold.

You know this.

But you’ve never understood dishonour until you see the bones of your sacrificed sisters scattered and piled and broken and charred. They died defending Dathomir. They died with honour. Disgraced in death.

You feel their loneliness.

Their rage.

Their hunger to be avenged.

Empty eye sockets stare from all corners of the old lair, bones bleached and flesh desiccated. No power here. Nothing left. Not a drop of the ichor for your dry hands, dusted with their ashes and their dead flesh so lovingly caressed.

Arise.

Awake, you beckon them —

No one listens.

They were never properly prepared.

You sink to your knees.

You lie down.

The Force drifts in eddies, but the dead offer no wisdom and no answers. Alone and abandoned without answers or even solutions.

You find stillness among your dead kindred, curled there on the dusty red floor of your ancestral home, awaiting a sign that your journey has meaning and that not everything is lost —

Not the books, nor the legends, nor the voices of the fallen, hours passing as gloomy day drifts to dreary night while the ghasts creep from their cave dwellings and the feeble light finally wanes.

It takes everything in you to rise from the hard stone cavern where you’d slumped, curled into yourself, fingernails raking through red dust with your cheek to the dirt as if your tears alone might offer relief where there is none. The ache runs deep. Grief is a bottomless well. The Dark Side offers only anger to fill the empty places.

On Dathomir, nights are long and the darkness remembers an older world, where the sounds of distant predators creep from their hiding places to hunt the weak beyond the mountain.

You build a fire so you can better see what lurks in the little crannies. Beyond it, the shadows splay up the cavern walls, pulling long streaks of graduated black from the shrines and braziers, the windows where the Nightsisters dwelled little better than a columbarium.

All is silent, the flames flickering red and orange and yellow. The mists shift across the water but there is no ichor. You wish you could feel it — that archaic power spoke of in the sacred texts.

You’ve never understood loneliness. The Force has always provided, its unerring presence a constant in your life, but maybe there is a lesson here: in order to understand what you’re missing, you must first face death in all its many acts of decomposition: what you’ve found in your dismay is a civilization buried.

Wasted.

You’ve never felt anything like it. It creeps into the hollows of your being with little black tendrils, the shadows surrounding you breathing closer as the flames flicker, emboldened by your inaction.

You can’t feel them, and distracted by the way your power strains around you at the discomfort of so much nothing, you don’t feel the interloper’s presence until it’s too late.

You don’t belong here, it whispers, rising the down on the back of your neck. Your kind is dead, my dear.

Your voice echoes through the chamber. “Who’s there? Show yourself, stranger.”

Laughter trickles; disembodied and floating to the ceiling, from the crevasses, across the river. It’s everywhere — he is everywhere.

No Nightsister would dare threaten one of their descendants.

The warmth of your body beneath your ceremonial wrappings attracts it, maybe, or the blaze of the flame after so long without light in dark places. The fire gutters — little better than a candle when the wind rises like a breath moaning through the ancient cavern.

The fire shivers, ash and cinder scattering. You feel it finally:

The old. The forgotten. The rage that drives it.

Unfamiliar.

Embers bank the walls, sending up sparks revealing nothing at all as you twist to look over your shoulder. Nothing there. No spirits. No magicks.

But how easy it was to forget the first lesson as the cold slither that passes your toes and ensnares your ankles in dark tendrils:

Some shadow things persist even when you remove the light that casts them.

The fire dies, and you’re plunged into darkness as your body jerks forward through the dirt, a swirl of embers revealing the after-image of a figure that wavers before you feel the smothering heft absent a body. He’s on top of you: an impression of broad shoulders, a smear of limbs that might’ve once been a man flinging you onto your stomach, the elongated spears stretching from the crown of his head, the weight of your face is pressed into the dirt where you left tears like offerings but not your scraped skin.

Horns, you think.

A Nightbrother, or what’s left of him.

This is my world now, the voice growls into your ear.

He jerks you forward, intent on instilling fear where you only feel indignation.

Let this be a lesson from an old Master: no one trespasses.

A tongue of shadow licks across your chin and down your throat into the folds of your robes. It’s cold. And the shadow creature is a pervert. You shiver against the intrusion, flesh pebbling against the sensation.

“Dathomir is not your inheritance, demon,” you tell it, your muscles rigid and straining against the strength in those shadowy tendrils that brace you against the floor.

His voice reverberates, humming through your skull. My claim is stronger. I was born here.

He could beat you until you broke beneath him. He could suffocate you with darkness. But he doesn’t.

Perhaps you already know the answer why.

A flicker of shadow coils up your thigh, licking over your backside and around your waist. Finger of shade raking through your hair. Investigating. Seeking something familiar from the foreign. Perhaps it’s power he craves — dominion over the matriarchs that kept him subservient. Perhaps revenge.

Despite your resilience, your breathing hitches when the sensation tickles over the shell of your ear. You grimace.

“You’re trapped here,” you tell him. “All alone in the darkness. No living soul to offer you entertainment.”

The spindles of shadow wrapping you tighten, rising you up to your knees and binding your movements. Like ropes, they notch closer, squeezing your flesh into contortions that make it difficult to draw breath. It’s uncomfortable, and meant to threaten, but he’s toying with you in a way that makes you think he’s interested… or perhaps it’s been too long since he’s touched anything living.

Maybe he misses it.

“If that’s all you can accomplish, then I suggest you remember your place.”

His laughter reverberates down your spine, curling around your bones as easily as if he could sink into your body through your clothes. The fabric flutters, plucked by so many invisible fingers that you realize the lack of substance doesn’t mean he can’t choose for himself the form he takes.

Witch, your threats are misplaced. I am no servant. I do not obey.

Prideful thing. You remember the old ways. The old teachings. The efforts to power that maintained equilibrium.

“What’s your name?”

A glance at your pinned wrists reveal a slant of shadow across your skin — the strength in his grip unyielding. This was a warrior, once. You are certain. You remember the vitriol, the rage.

I — he falters.

The strain in the silence ripples into waves that break across your body, and then in shivers.

Anger threatens. I do not remember.

“Perhaps you weren’t given one.”

No. I had a mother.

“You’re a spirit, then.”

An echo. A collection of impressions absent memory to bind them.

“A shadow.”

A shadow, he agrees. Whatever is left when the body dies and the soul cannot evanesce.

Interesting. Nightbrothers believe in something different — lands of plenty. A place steeped in bounty.

“Have you no body? No anchor to resurrect under the right conditions?”

The hesitation costs him, because there is much revealed of longing through silence.

You have no such power over the ichor.

“That was not my question.”

A lilting hesitation. In another place, perhaps. A long way from here. Bones are brittle, but the mechanics — he trails away. I do not know why that preoccupies me.

Dust trickles across the floor, like sand flittering over dunes at a distance — pulled in glittering, dark waves that dance in swirls as he stirs them with his near-translucent fingers. He’s the wind. He’s everywhere. He is nothing.

And more:

He is lonely.

You understand it as surely as you sense the feeling that lingers: wasted potential. A wasted life. Pushed around by forces greater than him. But you can sense him. You feel him, as sure as the nexus. Intriguing.

“Perhaps it is purpose you’re missing,” you suggest, a plan formulating.

Destiny.

The sound shudders around you, trilling down your arms and across your belly, notching between your legs to puddle with the vibration. The air around you moves with the word, and you know it’s significant to him, even if he can’t remember the particulars. You shudder with the tremulous air, your bindings loosened just enough that you can feel how his grip has left you tender. And, heartbeat throbbing in the places where he touched you, you find enough slack to turn your head.

“Yes.”

The Force stirs, the nexus restless. Everything churns and you know, somehow, that this moment was fated. He did not bring you here, but perhaps the Mothers wished you to find him — this lost son of Dathomir — to give him new purpose.

You watch him, visible only on the periphery of your sight as his density gathers strength, layers sliding together like sheaves to create form from nothing. So powerful. So eager.

“Shadows shouldn’t have strength,” you tell him. “But you are more than that, aren’t you?”

He hesitates again. Perhaps he is trying to remember.

“Would you like to be, stranger?” you ask him.

Carefully, you tug a hand free. Lifting it, you raise your fingers in a familiar gesture — a curve of your digits and you slide into that in-between where green flickers edge the darkness.

Something lingers.

Something special in this one.

Tread carefully, witch, he murmurs. You’ll find this form isn’t so receptive to your tender ministrations.

Ichor shimmers along the outline of his figure — nebulous and uncertain, but bearing markings of a life half-remembered, obscured by tragedy and distance.

You strain, the effort leaving sweat beading along your brow, but the sensation catches all at once, and tugs him into you, dissolving on a breath that rains ichor around you in delicate, green shimmers.

Magick lives on in him, even without form or substance. You feel the being’s shudder. It warbles on the air around you, landing like an unsteady hand on your shoulder as if to brace himself.

“So many would shatter without a Nightsister’s blessings. You must have curried great favour from the clan Mothers,” you murmur, appreciative of the show.

Quiet punctuates his hesitation.

“I can help you.”

The words hang.

Presumably if I extend the same courtesies, he murmurs.

A smile threatens. You bow your head, acquiescing.

Indeed.

“There is a word in old Dathomiri I think might suit you nicely,” you tell him.

To what purpose?

“Something to call you, if it suits. A courtesy.”

Another hesitation.

“It is tradition that to Name something confers power to it. A grace of not forgetting that it is known, and appreciated.”

A squeeze, and tendrils slither — a myriad of serpentine limbs drawing you closer into the offset where his edges blur and deepen, a form coming together without details or features, only the rough timber of his voice to guide your chin upward as if he’d crooked a finger beneath your chin.

I will not call another ‘Master,’ he murmurs.

The soft viciousness of the assurance leaves you wondering.

“A gesture of our partnership,” you offer again.

He likes that better, you think.

“I cannot subdue a creature that I cannot grasp in my fingers,” you explain. That small smile again. You let him see it.

I am not partial to subjugation, he says. But perhaps, with persuasion, I might be willing to negotiate on the particulars of our arrangement.

Invisible fingers stroke over your shoulder and down your chest, steady and curious as they dip into your bellybutton and between your legs. You part your knees a little as if welcoming his exploration.

The air hums with his interest. Your skirts lift and flutter, everything inside you roiling at the feeling:

Power beyond measure threads through your fingertips when he takes your hands in his, lifting your arms overhead to hold you in place. Who was he, you wonder?

A lick of cold curls against the heat of your sex, resting there as if he knows he belongs there.

Then perhaps the second order of business is a body, my Lady.

“What is the first?”

Against your ear, you feel the shape made by his lips, the trail of a tongue tasting your sweat and the barest trickle of fear as fingers split into tongues to burrow deeper into the warmth of your body. Curious. Or maybe controlling, because you gasp a breath as those fingers grow firmer and thicken.

What will you call me under circumstances where I’d prefer you to scream it?

Fingertips shiver against your lips, begging to seal your bargain with a kiss.

“Marrok,” you whisper, your breath hitching as another tendrils presses against the pucker of your ass, the one in your cunt throbbing larger with every second that passes, stretching you to fit every part of his ichor-infused being.

You sigh at the feeling of fullness as your body succumbs, letting him cradle you as you sink into his darkness.

“Marrok,” you say again before the word is stolen with the press of his tongue to yours.

‘Shadow,’ he murmurs, appreciative of the translation. How fitting.

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