He’s always done his best to help you in any way that he can, whether that be helping you in or out of your coat, taking care of meals, or cataloguing every book and notebook you have (and their location he so painstakingly returns them to every time you leave something lying around) so you don’t have another almost-meltdown when you can’t find any of the materials you’ve written up about him. He’s assigned himself a role in this household, in your life.

It’s… nice to be taken care of, you’ve realized. It makes your chest feel warm.

You find him in front of the stove. The house is full of aromas, rich and warm and delicious to the senses. He spent the entire day there yesterday, chopping and dicing and keeping an eye on the slow cooker. Which kind of defeats the purpose of a slow cooker, you think, but hey, it’s his free time.

“I thought we could have lunch in the sunroom today,” he says, ladling stew onto the plate, “radio said it was going to rain for the next week or so.”

You glance outside, at the deciduous trees lining the property that have shed their leaves for the winter. You swear they were full of leaves just a week ago, yellows and oranges and reds fluttering in the wind. Maybe you should plant more evergreens in the spring. There was that store — something gardening-related, you think — in town when you drove down to stock up on groceries the other day. You file it away for the future.

“Yeah, okay. Sounds good.” You rummage through the drawers for utensils and mugs.

You follow him to the sunroom, lingering a few steps behind him. His tail swishes back and forth, right to left as he walks. To his credit, he’s agile with it and very mindful to keep it close to his body so you don’t trip over it when you’re moving around. It had taken a while for him to get the hang of it when he was still adjusting to his body (and maybe part of it was your fault for trying to force a griffin’s hind legs to be bipedal and substituting inefficient parts with ones from a bipedal werewolf) but hey, who in this house hasn’t fucked up more or less severely?

A broken vase here, a dent in the wall there, an egregious misconduct of the moral and ethical variety — it’s all the same in the end.

The Creature (you really should give him a name but he hasn’t asked for one and it would feel like a weird overstepping of boundaries if you decided to just start calling him by some random name) places the tray holding your bowls of stew onto the small square table in the middle of the sunroom. He makes quick work of setting the table as you offer him the utensils and napkins. It’s good for his motor controls, is your justification for not overtly helping.

You eat in silence. There’s really not much to talk about if you spend every single day together. Everything experienced in a moment is more or less likely shared with the only other living soul inhabiting the house.

The fall chill bites at your exposed fingers and you flex your free hand to get the blood circulating again.

“Oh, we need to take a look at this when spring comes,” you say, motioning around the room with your spoon, “might need to re-apply some insulation in the rest of the house, too. Good stew, by the way.”

“Thank you. Should we seal it off for winter?”

“Maybe. I don’t think there’s any exotic or super rare plants in here, anyway.”

Then, it’s quiet again. You spoon the stew into your mouth and pick a few grapes from the bowl he’d grabbed from the fridge. Dessert and main course all in one.

“What…” The Creature speaks up only after he’s finished his food, bowl placed back onto the tray meticulously. He’s rolling a grape between his fingers, brows furrowed at the floor.

“Take your time.” You crack open a can of soda. It’s sweet but doesn’t linger on the tongue like these stupid new-age sugar substitutes.

“What does a vagina feel like?”

“Warm… like… yeah.” It’s all you can manage at the moment. It’s pathetic and also… yeah, pathetic is the word for it. You take another bite of your quickly diminishing bowl of stew. Its warmth is finally kicking in and you shove the blanket off your shoulders. The cool air in the sunroom feels like a balm against your skin. “Do you mean like temperature or…” you clear your throat, “texture?”

“Either, I guess?”

You open your mouth to — you don’t even know what you want to say. So, you gape at him like a fish for a few moments. And then,

“Do you just want to try it out?”

You don’t know what compelled you to think of it, hell, to say it out loud. But if you’re going to hell for making him, might as well make it worth the ride.

He stares at you, eyes flickering from your eyes to your lips, to your cleavage. You see the flash of sharp teeth when he licks his lips.

You stand abruptly. “Lube, need lube. Uh, sit. Stay. I’ll…” you motion towards the door and take off, nearly sprinting through the house and taking two steps at a time on the stairs. “Sit?! Stay?!” You hiss at yourself as you rummage through your underwear drawer, grabbing handfuls of underwear and socks and bras and tossing them onto the floor. “What is he, a fucking dog?” You pause abruptly. Right, werewolf parts. So, technically?

Lube in hand, you make your way back down. At the double-doors to the sunroom, you pause and straighten out your hair, shirt. Fuck it, you think and shimmy off your pants and underwear before you can change your mind, kick them away. You steel your nerves and enter the room.

The Creature is sitting where you left him and if you weren’t half-naked and about to drop to your knees between his legs, you’d call him a good boy. Because he is, he’s so good to you. But the image of his cock rutting between your thighs has you dizzy and horny and fuck, you need to get laid.

You drag your fingers along the length of his thigh as you settle between his legs. The bulge in his pants stares back at you but you’re not a coward, because you made him like this. Not a coward. Hands trembling slightly, you undo his belt and pull the waistband of his pants down. His cock, thick and long and holy shit you don’t remember it being that big, springs out, already hard and seeping precum at the tip. You can’t bear to look up at him from between his legs, so you uncap the lube bottle and drizzle a more than generous amount into the palm of your hand.

You pointedly ignore the way the bottle you drop onto the floor is almost empty.

His cock jerks at your touch as you lather it in lube and you realize you have to find a way to unhinge your jaw if you want to give him a blowjob. You file it away with everything else for now as you wrap both hands around his cock to spread the lube.

His breathing is loud in the quiet room. There is no wind outside, no birds singing, no rain droplets pelting against the glass. You can’t fight the impulse to lean in and press your tongue against the slit at the head of his cock and he whimpers, high-pitched and needy. Your cunt aches.

His head snaps up, eyes bleary when you pull away and stand. You just place your hands onto his shoulders and shimmy onto his lap. The Creature’s hands hover around your waist and then slowly, carefully find their place on your body. His vampire hand is cool against your skin. A shiver runs up your spine and settles at the base of your skull as a pleasant buzz.

You reach between your bodies until your fingertips graze the tip of his cock, let your fingers slide down his shaft to drag the lube across it. Its thick and long and holy shit, how the fuck is it supposed to fit inside you? But you dug this hole yourself and now you have to dig your way out of it. The Creature shudders beneath you. If you stall any more you’re going to explode.

“I’ll be slow, okay?”

“I’m more worried about you,” he says, avoiding your eyes, voice small. His grip on your waist is more firm now, the pads of his fingers pressing into your flesh. His claws scrape at your side but you don’t want to spook him.

“Oh.” You clear your throat and angle his cock against your entrance. Slowly, you ease your weight down. And holy shit, he’s so goddamn thick you have to work to push him past your entrance. Your throat is tight as you press down against him, lungs burning as you try to level your breathing. There’s a fog in your brain and all you can make out through it is the lust, the urgency of stuffing him inside yourself. You exhale slowly, relax your cunt and take him half an inch at a time. Your thighs burn and your face burns, skin on fire.

You almost want to curse at yourself, find a way to punch past-you in the face for obsessing over anatomy, over size, over the proportionality of him. It would be so much easier to take him if he was smaller but you did this to yourself and you don’t hate it.

He’s in your goddamn throat by the time your clit hits the bulb at the base of his shaft. It’s so much and you’re dizzy from the size and a little from the fact that you actually did it, you fit that monstrosity of a cock inside your drooling cunt.

He’s so warm, so goddamn snug inside you but the stretch is easing as you breathe through it. You test it, try to clench around him and fuck, you can barely feel your cunt contracting. His breathing stutters in his throat.

“Please —” his voice wavers. Claws dig into your skin.

He feels like he’s melting. You’re so warm around him and his cock aches and his entire body is hollow and insides twisting at the same time. His hips have a mind of their own as they buck into you, try to push deeper inside to chase the heat of your cunt wrapped around him. His head is swimming and he’s so hot all over, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

He bucks into you and a small whine leaves your lips and fuck, you want to take all of him, swallow him whole, that goddamn knot and all. You can do it, you think, half-delirious already, you could take him, all it’ll take is some practice. You’ll take it even if it splits you in half.

Slowly, you ease your weight onto your knees and, thighs shaking under the strain of accommodating him, sit up. A gasp catches in his throat, his eyes shooting open. There’s a tinge of panic in them but he feels so good buried inside your cunt, you just want to keep him there. You can make him feel good and you can feel good and maybe he’ll never want to pull out.

His cock twitches, you swear you can feel the blood flowing inside of him, down the thick vein on his shaft. And then he spills. Hot, hot, so hot, your insides are on fire, your skin is on fire. There’s so much, you’re so full of him and his cum. You sink your nails into his shoulder and sit up, pull away from him.

His cum gushes from your cunt with a wet pop. It splatters onto his pants, onto the lumpy sofa, dribbles down your thighs. His softening cock flops against his stomach, glossy and sticky. You don’t think, just act on instinct, like a goddamn animal and grind down on it. The coil in your stomach is tight, but he’s so slippery and you want to cry.

“H-hand,” you manage to stutter out, already prying the wrist of his cold hand from your waist to shove between your thighs. You’re rutting your hips down on him, the shape of his fingers against your clit. He fumbles, not sure what to do but you’re so goddamn horny he doesn’t even need to do anything.

You come with a stifled whine in the back of your throat, teeth digging into your bottom lip.

The room spins as you blink. The Creature yanks you forward before your knees can give out, your chests flush together. Your skin is sticky with cum and sweat. The fall chill presses against you. But his body is warm so you press into him, tuck your head under his chin. He adjusts himself, reaches over and drapes your fleece blanket across your shoulders. You feel his cum slowly ooze from your spent cunt.

“So,” you ask when your breathing has evened out and the world is no longer spinning around you, “same time tomorrow?”

He jolts under you, already trying to string together a sentence of stutters and you giggle.

The bell rings and everyone stands, merging into a single crowd as they descend the bleachers and head towards the exit. You stand, adjusting your skirt.

“I’d like a word, miss.”

You nod and follow Mr. Thunderhorn. The walk through the crowded school hallways is silent. Other teachers greet him when they pass.

He holds the door open for you, and you slip inside, pressing between his wide body and the door frame. Your stomach grazes the bulge in his slacks. The door slams shut behind him and the lock springs into place.

“Sorry,” he says with an awkward clear of his throat as he fiddles with the lock, “they said they’d get someone to fix that. So,” he begins, stepping around you to pull up his computer chair and turns on his computer, “I heard you’re repeating the year.”

“Yeah. Pneumonia. Great way to celebrate your 18th, by the way. Other people are drinking so hard they need to get their stomach pumped, and I got to cough my lungs to shreds.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He puts on his glasses and squints at the computer screen. Fuck, you think, he looks even hotter now. “It says here you missed most of the autumn semester last year. If it’s fine with you, I’d say if you consistently show up during this semester, I could excuse you from the spring semester.”

“Yeah– yeah, that’s great. Thank you.”

That should be the all clear for you to take off. Instead, you linger where you stand, hand a white-knuckle grip around the handle of your bag.

“Is there anything else?”

“So, you’ve never had human pussy?” You blurt it out like an impulsive thought because it is one. “Just— the things you talk about and the way you have the whole class segregated like that…” You set your bag down and lean against the edge of his desk. “Why?”

Mr. Thunderhorn adjusts his tie. “The school district decides on the programs.” His beady eyes do their best to avoid you, instead flickering about the decorations in the room like he's never seen them before. “Like they do with dress code. I don't think you're quite up to standards there.”

“I beg to differ.” You hike down your skirt until it just barely reaches your fingertips, then hike it back up to where you like it, peeking out from underneath your long oversized sweater. “Do you want to try?”

“I–what?”

You step between him and the desk, gently push the papers and personal items littering the surface to the side, then lean onto your elbows. Your skirt rests at your lower back as you reach behind and pull your underwear to the side. “C'mon, give it a try.”

Mr. Thunderhorn exhales slowly. You feel his warm breath on your bare thighs. “This–” his voice cracks and he clears his throat, “is highly inappropriate.”

“You don’t want to know what human pussy is like? Warm and tight?” You let your underwear and skirt drop to the floor and kick them away. “C’mon. Ready and waiting.” Your teeth dig into your lip so hard you taste blood but he’s so close, so close to giving in and fucking you right there on his desk and your cunt aches for his cock. To give minotaur cock a whirl — your cunt clenches at the thought.

The wheels of his office chair squeak as it rolls away. The clink of a belt and the hiss of a zipper.

Two large warm hands rest on your ass. He slides his cock between your cheeks, slowly dragging it back and forth. It’s thick, heavy — long. For a moment you wonder how all of it is going to fit inside but then he pulls back too far and the pressure on your back is gone. The length of it slaps against your clit suddenly and then the veins and ridges as he moves his hips. You whine low in the back of your throat. “Just put it in already.”

“Wait.” He doesn’t pull away completely, but takes a step back. You hear the rustle of a wrapper and then he’s really gone. You take the time to adjust yourself onto your back and yank the sweater over your head. The cool air feels nice against your heated skin. And then he’s back, tip pressed against your entrance but the ridges on it aren’t as pronounced. “I’m not a hypocrite.” You want to laugh and tell him that he kind of is but you want him to be inside you so much more. Your heart (and cunt) can’t take any more waiting. “Is it okay to move?”

“Y-Yeah. Go for it.”

You breathe in slowly at the intrusion, at the feeling of the flared head of his cock pressing into your dripping cunt. Your body is on fire, sweat beading on your back, skin sticking to the surface of his table, cunt stretching around his girth, doing its best to accommodate him. He just keeps going, sinking into you inch by inch until you’re so full you swear you feel him in the back of your throat. You don’t want him to stop and just give you everything he has but…

“P-Pause.”

Mr. Thunderhorn pauses, fingers flexing on your hips.

“I think,” you say, trying to breathe through the stretch and the heat and the amount of cock buried inside your pussy, “won’t fit more.”

“Oh,” he says. “Okay.” His hand leaves your left hip. “Can I move? I’ll take it slow so neither one of us gets hurt.”

“Huh?”

He clears his throat. “I’m… only halfway in.”

You sit up to lean onto your elbows, try and catch a glimpse and yeah, he’s wrapped the hand not on your body around the part that doesn’t fit into you. But it pales in comparison to the outline of his cock bulging from your stomach. “Oh.” You suddenly don’t know what to do when faced with the monster buried in your guts.

Slowly, as if he’s facing a spooked animal, Mr. Thunderhorn takes your right ankle into his hand and lifts your leg. He rests it on his shoulder and wraps your left leg around his waist. He pulls his hips back carefully and then slides forward again until his tip presses against your cervix. You lay a hand on your stomach, feel the bulge of him underneath your fingertips and it sends your pulse into a flurry.

His pace is slow, languid but you swear you’re ready to cum already. The stretch of him feels so good, the way the ridges and grooves and the veins on his cock drag against you with every thrust. He’s so goddamn thick, bullying his way deep inside every time moves and your cunt is so greedy, swallowing him down. You dig your heel into his waist. Mr. Thunderhorn huffs out a breath against your bare skin and it has your nerves on fire.

The half-gasp half-moan spills from your lips involuntarily and Mr. Thunderhorn’s hips jerk. And that’s it, you’re ruined and you’ll crawl back to his cock because your own fingers will never give you this kind of high as he thrusts into your cunt, laid bare on his office desk, gaping around him. You’ll crawl back again and again until you can take all of him and he can spill inside your pretty pussy and shove it back in with those strong, thick fingers of his.

He settles into a rhythm, pistoning in and out of your cunt and all you can do is stare at the way his cock plows under your skin, how far it can go before retreating. It’s almost hypnotizing, the way it moves and the way you can pinpoint where it is from the inside and out. Your body is on fire and the coil in your stomach is tightening. You plant your arms against the desk and try to meet his pace, but you stick to the wood. Your thighs are wet, pussy drooling around his size, dribbling down your thighs and onto the desk. There’s a tightness in your chest and a sob on your tongue when he releases his hold on his cock and your hip and moves.

Large warm hands are on your waist and your world spins, gravity tipping as he hoists you upwards. You scramble to grab onto something and find his horns for balance, tightening your thighs around his waist. He’s deeper — how the fuck is he even deeper, there’s nowhere left to go — hands on your waist, pulling you down onto his cock like his personal fleshlight. Your tits bounce with every thrust, already sensitive nipples dragging against the fabric of his button-up. You can taste him in the back of your throat, too much, too deep and so, so close.

You let your hand drop to your clit, rubbing hurried circles into the nub. So, so, so close —

You come with a ragged gasp, breath knocked from your lungs as your vision whites out. Your ears ring and your pussy clenches around his cock, sucks it back in when he tries to pull away. You blink rapidly, try to focus your vision. His hot breath fans your chest and something long and hot and wet drags across the expanse of your skin, flicks your nipple. Vaguely you hear your own voice swear and he hasn’t stopped plunging his cock into your cunt, still working his way in and out. Too much, too much, too much.

He stills for a fraction of a second and then buries himself inside as deep as he can. Hot, hot, hot — it floods your cunt and you’re so full, so full that he dribbles out of your puffy cunt, slides down your thighs. Now you hear his voice swear something and he pulls out in one movement and you almost want to cry because your cunt feels so empty all of a sudden. You want him back in right now, to use you as his personal cum dump for another round, maybe two, three, until you pass out and even then he could keep fucking into you.

His cum dribbles from your pussy and splats onto the linoleum floor. Your body is angled, bent and handled until your ass comes into contact with his desk again. His cum pools around you as you sit, thighs sticking together and against his desk. You can’t help it, reaching between your legs to feel around, try to press some of it back inside. It’s thick, sticky. Your fingers are coated in white and you stuff them back into your pussy.

By the time your head clears and your ears start working again, he’s fussing over you with paper towels in his hands, mouth running a mile a minute. It takes a moment for your brain to catch up with what he’s saying.

“— sorry, I didn’t realize the condom broke and I would’ve stopped if I did. Let me clean you up and then we can —”

You can’t help but giggle. “I can cross getting creampied off my bucket list.”

“Please be serious about this.”