#dark!creature x reader

“I have come to collect what is mine.” You narrowed your eyes, gritting your teeth in hopes of concealing the tremor in your voice.

His lips twitched, a strange ripple across the topography of his face. “Yours?”

You forced your chin up, the movement restricted by his grip. “Let my father go. Your quarrel isn’t with him.”

The Hunter’s head tilted a fraction, a movement that was eerily avian. “My quarrel,” he rumbled, the vibration humming through the tree and into your spine, “is with the world that fears what it does not understand. A distaste for the unknown—a preconditioned animosity. He forms part of that world.”

“He came to save me!” you cried. “To risk his life in hopes of preserving mine!”

He let out a humorless chuckle. "And you," he continued, his gaze dropping to the blood on your sleeve; the small, still-weeping cut on your palm. "You came to save him. From me? A circle of sacrifice…How quaint."

"There is nothing quaint about it," you snarled, finding a sliver of courage in your fury. "It is called love."

A ripple passed over his features—a subtle tightening, a shift in the shadows between the patches of mismatched skin. An emotion you could not quite place.

His hand finally loosened its grip on your throat, though he did not release you. It slid down, his fingers closing gently around your wounded hand. He turned it palm-up, exposing the self-inflicted cut to the weak moonlight filtering through the branches.

“Love?” he echoed. “You spill your own blood as a weapon, and you expect me to believe that this,” his thumb brushed the edge of the wound, a shiver, violent and unwelcome, tore through you, “was wielded because of love?” The Hunter’s thumb pressed down, not enough to reopen the cut, but enough to make the tender flesh ache.

His touch was not cruel. It was the touch of a thing that understood the mechanics of flesh, but not the language of tenderness. The cold of his glove seeped through your skin, a chill that reached deeper than the night air ever could.

You hissed sharply at the fresh sting, your eyes watering.

He stilled, and just as quickly as he took hold of you, he released your hand and stepped back suddenly, as if your skin had scaled him.

The sudden absence of his touch was a shock to your system; the cold night air bit the space where his hand had been. You pressed yourself to the tree, cradling your wounded hand to your chest. With your movement no longer restricted, you could now examine the Hunter fully.

Your eyes scanned him, taking in every detail. This close, the stories of an abhorrent and grotesque demon disintegrated like old cobwebs. Sutures and thread merged to bear the weight of this lonesome creature. Each seam a silent scream of the blasphemy that made him.

It was monstrous…It was fascinating.

You shook your head to rid yourself of those thoughts.

"Love," you repeated, and this time your voice did not shake, “can take many forms.” His gaze drifted from your face to the distant glow of firelight through the trees—the direction of the camp.

“And what kind is this? A love that lies and cheats, wreaking havoc in its wake?”

Your throat tightened. “That was—”

“Strategy,” he finished for you. “A deliberate choice. A pack of cowards in exchange for one life.”

You flinched, the accusation wounding you more than you’d like to admit.

“I did what I had to,” you croaked, the protest sounded weak even to your ears.

“As did your father,” he replied. “As do I. We are all creatures of necessity.” He let out a small huff. “Funny, is it not? How intent can change the nature of a man. Yours led you here. It made you cunning. It made you cruel.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, to defend yourself, but the protest died before it could form. You had led those men—foolish, frightened, useless—straight to their demise. 

“They would have used me,” you heard yourself say, the words tumbling out unbidden. “They were never my companions.” The words came faster now, bitter and hot. "They weighed the value of my life and found no worth in it. So yes, I used them. I purposefully made the decision to throw away their lives, and I would do it again."

The Hunter’s gaze was transfixed on yours, his eyes piercing, as if they could see into your very soul. After a few moments of silence, you feared you had revealed too much, before his eyes darkened, and his lips quirked into a smile.

"Yes," he said softly, the word a rumble deep in his chest. "You would."

Your brows furrowed as you glared at him. “I am nothing like you.”

“I do not recall stating you were.”

An indignation rose in your chest, casting aside whatever fear you had left. “None of this would have happened had you not breached upon our peace!” Your fists clenched as your lip curled. “We led tranquil lives before you came to terrorize our town! I would never have done what I did, I—” your voice cracked as you cut off your rambling.

“And why, do you suppose, am I the carrier for such suffering?”

"Because you're a monster," you said automatically.

The words hung in the air between the two of you, a heavy silence spread across the clearing. 

He did not retort, nor say anything else for that matter. Instead, he laughed.

The sound was like broken glass and grinding stones.

“A monster,” he repeated. "You speak the word as though it were a revelation. As though I have not worn it like a brand since the first breath was forced into my lungs.” He stepped closer, the volume of his voice rising with each word. “Do you think you are the first to name me thus? That your fear is unique?” He towered over you, his large frame blocking the night sky.

“You build your homes and lives upon the shallow soil of the familiar," he continued, "mistaking the comfortable silence of ignorance for serenity. And when something dares to exist beyond the boundaries of your understanding, something that does not fit within the neat little categories your priests have carved into scripture, you reach for fire and blade and title it righteousness.” 

He paused, his grey eyes catching the distant glow of firelight. "You call it piety, but it is fear wearing a mask of faith.”

Your eyes widened, your lips parted, but no sound emerged.

The fire in the distance crackled and popped, sounds of nightlife filled your ears before you heard a shout emerge from the trees.

“My father.” The reminder cut through whatever feelings of torment had been building within you. “Where is he?”

You pushed off from the tree, your legs steadier now despite the lingering tremor in your hands.

For a short moment, he simply watched you. His eyes raked over your whole figure, observing you—studying you. Then, without another word, he turned, blending once more into the shadows of the forest.

You automatically followed, pushing past the undergrowth where he had disappeared. Your feet carrying you in the direction from which you had heard your father’s voice come from.

Eventually, the trees gave way, and there, slumped against the base of an ancient oak, was your father.

His coat was torn, the exposed skin full of scratches. His face was streaked with mud and dried blood. The sight of it was almost enough to draw a sob out of you.

“Father!” You stumbled forward, dropping to your knees in the cold, damp leaves beside him.

His eyes fluttered, his pupils becoming more focused as they found your face. His eyes widened and a tremor ran through him. “What are you doing here!” His voice was weak despite the severity of his tone.

“I’ve come to take you home.” Your eyes inspected every inch of him, hands hovering over his body, afraid he might break if you touch him. “Can you stand?”

His hand, trembling and cold, closed around your wrist with surprising force. “Forget me. Leave me and go,” he rasped. “Turn back before it is too late.”

“I did not come all this way to leave without you!” Your injured hand gripped his arm as you stood, attempting to lift him with you. “Come now, we have a long journey ahead.”

“Let me go, child,” he begged, his voice cracking. “Please. The creature—”

“Hush.” You pressed your hand to his chest, feeling the weak thud of his heart beneath your palm. “Save your strength for walking.”

His arm draped across your shoulder, and you drove your heels into the earth to prevent his weight from toppling you over.

You focused on placing one foot in front of the other, walking towards the outskirts of the forest, occasionally stumbling whenever the weight of your father suddenly became too much. 

You had no idea where the Hunter could have gone, and you can't find it within yourself to worry in the slightest. You found your father. All is right in the world. You sneak a glance to your side and are met with your father's disheveled state, his eyes fluttering and his breath uneven.

Had I not found him, he would not have survived the night. You shuddered at the thought.

You kept pushing forward, ignoring the growing unease in your stomach, a feeling that warned you someone was watching.

The moon had begun its slow descent toward the horizon.

Your father's weight against your side grew heavier with each passing minute, his feet dragging through the Earth like an anchor. 

You had continued this way for hours, so long that the strain in your muscles subsided to a more tolerable ache. Neither of you spoke a word to the other, not that either of you had any energy left to do so. Instead, you stared straight ahead with the occasional glance towards your father.

“Rest,” he mumbled, the word slurred. “Just... need to rest a moment.”

“No.” The word came out sharper than you intended. You hissed as you adjusted your bloody hand on his waist, feeling the chill of his skin through his torn coat. “You rest now, and you won't wake up. Keep walking, we've almost made it.”

He made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. “So like your mother. Stubborn as the day is long.”

“Then you should be used to it by now.”

Gradually, the oppressive closeness of the trees eased, the familiar shape of the hills emerged from the darkness. Dawn crept over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of rose and amber.

The forest fell away and, in its place, stood the familiar image of your village in the distance. You breathed out a heavy sigh of relief.

Smoke from chimneys rose into the morning air in thin, dark ribbons. The scent of animal manure wafted through the air. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. These small evidences of the mundane, of normalcy, made your eyes burn with unshed tears.

You crossed the final stretch of open field, the tall grass wet with morning dew soaking through your already ruined boots. The moment your feet touched the packed earth of the main road, your father's legs gave out.

The sudden shift in his weight nearly sent you both sprawling. You caught him, just barely. Your knees buckled as you took the full brunt of his collapse, and the two of you sank to the ground in an awkward heap.

“Father? Father!” Your voice shook as you leaned over him. “Father, look at me!” 

His eyes were open but unfocused. You placed the back of your hand to his forehead, and your heart sank when you were met with burning, hot skin. “Help!” The scream tore from your throat, raw and desperate. “Someone help us!”

Heads peered out of homes, and within minutes, hands were reaching for you. They lifted your father from your arms and carried him toward the healer's cottage at the edge of the square.

You tried to follow, but your legs betrayed you. They folded, and you found yourself on your knees in the road, watching as they took him away.

Someone's arm wrapped around your shoulders. You couldn’t bring yourself to care who it was. “Child, child, you're shaking. Come inside, come warm yourself—”

“My father—”

“They'll tend to him. Someone’s already gone to fetch for the healer. Come now.”

You hesitantly nodded your head. Your own eyes fluttered as you dragged your feet, allowing yourself to be pulled in the direction of another cottage.

The warmth of their hearth hit you like a wall as you were sat by the fire. A blanket was wrapped around your shoulders that smelled of bread and yeast, and a cup of something hot was pressed into your hands.

“Drink, dear.” A voice came from far away. “Some chamomile will steady you.”

You drank. The liquid burned your tongue, but you didn't taste it.

The heat of the fire pressed against your skin, coaxing the tension from muscles you hadn't realized were still clenched, but it could not reach the cold that had settled deep in your bones.

You stayed staring at the flames, pondering over the events that had transpired over the last couple of hours. You closed your eyes, but the darkness behind your lids was worse. It brought with it the images of sewn skin and predatory eyes. Eyes that had looked at you not with hatred or hunger, but with something far more unsettling.

Recognition.

“The healer says he'll live.”

You startled at the voice, turning to find the baker's wife standing just a few feet away. Her face was drawn, shadows carved deep beneath her eyes.

“Your father is strong,” she continued, crossing to stoke the fire. “Fever's high, but the healer's done what she can. A few of his ribs are cracked. Exposure took its toll. But he's breathing.” She paused, glancing at you. “He's asking for you. When he's lucid, anyway. Most of the time he just... cries out. Warnings. Tells us to run.”

Your throat tightened. “I should go see him.”

“In a moment.” Her voice was gentle but firm. She straightened, studying you with an intensity that made you want to look away. “First, you'll let me tend those hands.”

You looked down, almost surprised to find your palms raw and blistered, nails broken, the cut on your palm still weeping beneath a crust of dried blood. You hadn't felt any of it.

She clicked her tongue softly and retrieved a basin of water, cloth, and a small jar of salve. She worked in silence at first, cleaning the wounds with shaky hands, her pulse a testament to her years. Her eyes kept flicking to your face, and you could feel the questions building behind them.

“How did you separate from the other men?”

“We were attacked,” you swallowed thickly. “The creature found us in the dark. I…I ran as fast as I could. Fortunately, I heard my father’s voice and managed to find him. It was a miracle, truly.”

She nodded slowly. The salve stung as it touched the cut on your palm. You hissed through your teeth, but did not pull away.

“Strange,” she murmured finally, turning your hand over, “This one's clean. Deliberate.”

You pulled your hand back before you could stop yourself. “I fell on a rock. It must have been sharp.”

She held your gaze for a long moment, she did not believe you. You could see it in the set of her mouth, in the way her eyes narrowed slightly. Still, she said nothing. Simply wrapped your palm in clean linen.

"You should know," she said quietly, her voice dropping low, "a small group of men returned, about an hour before you arrived.”

Your blood went cold.

“They came stumbling out from the trees, screaming that the Hunter materialized out of thin air, before he was upon them all like lightning.” Her eyes turned glossy, her mouth opening and closing multiple times. “My son…was not among that group.”

Your gaze turned downward, unable to meet her eyes. “Your son is bound to return. I’m sure of it.”

Her lips spread into a thin line. “No. I don’t believe he will…”

You should say something, anything. Some word of encouragement or solace, a gesture of comfort, of truth.

“I’m going to go see my father.”

She sniffled as she nodded, turning her face away, though not in time for you to miss the stray tear that fell.

You stood quickly, your hand already on the door handle, before her voice interrupted you once more.

“The group that came back…They…” Your hand froze on the handle, the worn brass cool against your raw palm. “They kept repeating ‘It was her. She led him to us.’” Her voice had dropped to a whisper now, “a group of 15 men went out, and under less than half came back, one of them being a frail girl with no fighting or hunting experience.”

“I don't know what you're suggesting,” you said carefully.

“I'm not suggesting anything. I'm only telling you what they said. What they're all saying.”

“And you believe them?” You turned, slowly, to face her. The kindness had drained from her face, her expression became hardened as her brows furrowed.

“I don’t believe anything. But know this, if my boy died as a result of some scheme or plot of your doing—”

“I did not kill your son,” you retorted. No, he killed himself. “I am very sorry for your loss, but don’t misplace your anger by taking it out on me. Your son knew the risks, like all of us, and chose to come anyway.”

Her mouth parted to form a reply, but before she could even get a sound out, the door flew open.

You stumbled back, barely catching yourself just in time to see the cluster of men crowding the door. 

“There she is.” Their breath plumed in the cold morning air, and in their hands, they clutched a variety of weapons: knives, shovels, axes. Before you knew it, two of them descended upon you, each one holding one of your arms in a vice grip. “By a number of accusations being made against your name, you are hereby being detained on suspicion of conspiracy, treason, and murder.”