(If no link is attached that means it’s an upcoming story! Keep a look out and you can keep track of upcoming projects and the like.)
(I know this masterlist is small, but I’ll hopefully find more time to write as often as I’d like. It’ll be huge before you know it!!!)
Ongoing Stories
Naga Boyfriend (Servio) 1, 2, 3
Vampire Boyfriend (William) 1, 2
Fairy Boyfriend (Siofar) 1, 2
Selkie Boyfriend (Erroll) 1, 2, 3
Android Boyfriend (Omi/OMI-0175) 1, 2, 3
Prompt-Fills (Completed)
Howling with Laughter (Oliver)
Monster Match-Ups
Grim Match-Up (Calibris)
Werecat Match-up (Quill)
Sceadungenga Match-Up (Orran)
Werewolf Match-up (Chase)
note: I try to write monster match-ups to be just like a more condensed story; if I end up really liking a story I might revamp it or add onto it to be longer in the future, the original will remain up though!
Words: 5K
Themes: Nsfw: knotting, penetration, oral
Full story over on Patreon! This will be a 3 Part story of Gnoll x Reader, one part every month.
Also the dice rolled this story and I got way too into it. It was meant to be a one-shot but the creativity wanted more. So enjoy!
The full moon was getting closer. Only a few more days until the meet-up would commence and the village elders would meet with the Matriarch and her lessers.
Tensions were high in the village. As they always were when the full moon was beginning to reach its peak.
You worked tirelessly through the day. Sowing the fields and working with the animals until you felt your muscles begin to give out. You were trying to exhaust yourself so you had an excuse to not linger with your father and mother at the kitchen table. As they worried about the Gnolls on the edge of the grasslands.
It was the same worries.
The same tensions.
The same damn hate that you had lived with for most of your life.
You’ve heard the same conversations over and over again. Going to bed super early and waking up before your parents did, was all you could do to keep your sanity.
Your friends and the other “youngsters” of the village were dealing with the same problem. You and those the same age of you, born in the same year, were the eldest heirs to the village. Before the raids had stopped and the treaty agreed on, you were all just babes in the cots. Unaware of the slaughter that happened every night outside your windows. You grew up with the hate and sorrow of the losses those raids had brought.
You were the first generation in this unsteady peace between the village and the monsters in the forest.
Old enough to hold a sword and work the fields and possibly marry, but apparently still naive enough to be scoffed at when you tried to suggest more than a pact of untrusted ceasefire.
“They’re monsters.” Your mother would snap. “They know nothing but blood and slaughter. This is the best we can do with those beasts.”
“But what if we can help each other.” You would try to say. But your words were met with a scornful eye and dismissal back to the fields or to your room.
It was very frustrating.
Especially when your village needed resources only the forest had.
Herbs and heavy wood from the thick trees that sprouted there. When the sun baked the ground, the shade of the canopies would aid in keeping the livestock alive until the heat passed. Through the dry seasons, the fresh water from the mountains that passed through only the forest would keep the village alive until your own rivers filled with water again.
And your little world of corn and wheat and sheep, could aid the Gnolls in the forest. Your mutton would keep them fed until prey returned to their hunting grounds. The wool could help keep pups warm during the winter and be used as wraps for their wounds.
You could aid each other!
Thrive under the cooperation of the homes each faction had carved into the fields and forests.
But you stayed your tongue with this knowledge. You could already hear the panicked questions and terrified accusations.
“How would you know what they needed?”
“They’d take every ounce of meat until we have nothing left.”
“You cannot trust a Gnoll to honor a trade.”
But you could trust a Gnoll. You’ve been trusting them not to stick a knife in your back ever since you first met with the Matriarch’s pup.
Her last pup. A male Gnoll of considerable size and strength. The same age as you and with the same mind as you.
‘Kordoc’
Like you, he bore the same weight of being a leader’s last heir. He would one day lead his pack when the Matriarch fell in battle or Kordoc overthrew her.
This was the man you were meeting tonight. Alongside his trusted inner circle.
Under the bright moonlight, you and your friends tip-toed out of the village and past the vast fields of wheat and corn. Sheep bleated at you as you passed. And your best friend, Cassa, hushed them as you all snuck through their grassy fields.
“We’re going to get caught,” Cassa hissed. Glancing back at the stables that sat on the edge of the village. Where a few of the village guards were passing with flaming torches and talking so loudly, you could make out their conversation from where you crouched beside a sheep.
It was nothing interesting. Just some talk about the upcoming winter storms.
“Why are they out in number tonight?” Your other friend Petre wondered. Also crouched behind a sheep that was happily licking his boots. “I almost ran into Hector and two others on my way here. And then Ashley and Brenn were patrolling the grain silo. I thought for sure they were going to see me.”
“I don’t know.” You replied, keeping your voice down. “Maybe they’re on edge because of the meeting tomorrow?”
“They’re always on edge.” Mary scoffed in a whisper. “But this? This is ridiculous. Mum was in the kitchen with a damn sword, sitting facing the baby’s room like some psychopathic guard. I had to spin a story about going to meet up with Tyler…”
And like his name summoned him, Tyler arrived, huffing and clutching his chest. “Fuck sakes, why is everyone walking the streets?”
“Did you get caught?” You asked. And Tyler shook his head, joining Mary by a cluster of lambs.
“Nah. Went through the barn and out the back through the pumpkin plot. But had to wait for two different patrols to pass. It seems like everyone is out tonight.” Tyler grumbled, then gave a kiss to Mary’s cheek. “Sorry, I’m a little sweaty.”
You glanced behind you, over the rolling hills of the grasslands and to the terrifyingly dark edge of the forest beyond the fences.
The silvery moonlight gave you plenty of light to see the sheep grazing under the cool night air and the cluster of rocks and shrubs that dotted the fields. You kicked yourself for not going through the corn. It would be great cover from anyone watching the fields. But last time, a few of you got lost and had to be found before heading into the forest. It took an embarrassingly long time to find your way out of the field you worked in everyday.
Kordoc had laughed so hard he choked on his own spit.
“We could sprint across.” Cassa suggested.
“The fast movement will catch someone's eye.” Mary replied. She scratched the chin of a lamb that tried to scramble into her lap. “If we crawl, we could make it.”
“I dressed very nice for tonight. I am not getting this shirt ruined.” Tyler hissed playfully. And Mary gave her partner a once over, suddenly realizing that his chest was exposed through a nice cotton shirt and a few buttons that were left open. She cooed quietly and Cassa jokingly gagged at the show of affection.
“We’ll have to risk walking. Once we get past the first hill, we should be fine if we stick to the valleys in between.” You said. And Petre nodded, beginning to move when you did.
Every second you expected the village bells to start chiming and shouts of alarm to ring out from the people holding torches.
Thankfully, that didn’t happen. Your small group picked their way through the fields. Using clusters of sheep to hide your shadows and diving into thick brushes when someone spotted a torch on this side of the village.
But again, nothing happened. And your pounding heart was for nothing as you climbed through the fences and onto the dirt road that separated the forest edge to your village fields.
You waited by the twisting roots of the towering trees until another group showed up. More of your friends scrambled over and under the fence to join you by the shadowy edge.
They also told stories of their trek here. Avoiding patrols and their families that were weirdly alert tonight.
“I still think it’s because the meeting is tomorrow.” Cassa mumbled.
“I hope that’s all it is.” Sally, the one who brought the second group, replied. “Otherwise, we’ve missed something very important.”
You nodded in agreement. It wasn’t uncommon for the village elders to keep information from them. Last time this happened, a plague had ripped through the village. No one had informed you and your friends that they needed to stay away from each other.
Too scared to cause a panic, the elders merely gave you all jobs that you could do on your own. Adding a curfew into the mix to ensure you went home and stayed there.
A curfew and shoveling rocks out of the ground never stopped you from seeing Cassa in the afternoons. And very quickly, a dangerous flu spread through the village because no one explained that you needed to be quarantined from Cassa’s family.
Who you thought was merely sick from a cold. Not something with a fever that caused body aches and sores.
Pushing the thoughts aside, you took the first step over the boundary of the trees. Everyone followed. There wasn’t an ounce of fear in your friends.
The only worry here was tripping over your own feet until the thick trunks and dense foliage blocked the remnants of moonlight. Here you could finally remove the lantern from your satchel and light it up.
Sally retrieved her own and Tyler removed a torch from his pack. Petre helped him light it up and soon a blazing circle of light surrounded you all.
With a nod, you picked your way through the trees. Pushing ferns aside and stepping over gnarled roots that burst from the ground.
The cool night air had turned almost cold under the canopy of the trees. And you shivered as a breeze rustled the leaves around you, brushing over your bare arms as it passed.
“Winter is going to be hell this year.” You heard Issac say from the back of the group. “It’s already so cold!”
You continued on until you found what you were looking for. On the bark of a tree, above head-height was five deep grooves made from claws. Anyone passing would assume some animal was merely marking the tree.
But you recognized it. And the next one that had four claw-marks some distance behind the first. Then a third with three marks, then another with two. It was quite a walk in between markings, but it led you into a clearing. Where a roaring fire was blazing in the center and some tents made from furs and hides were set on the edge of the light.
Surrounding the fire and chatting amongst themselves, were Gnolls. Lupine beasts that stood on their hindlegs and were covered in beautiful thick fur. Their paw-like hands clutched large cups or skewers of roasted meat.
And then their ears perked up when you closed the distance. Your group was probably making alot of noise than the Gnolls that were accustomed to within the trees.
Before you managed a step out into the clearing, loud howls and yips and barks of excitement broke through the camp. You smiled and returned the cries with your own. Your group rushed forward doing the same, and the Gnolls leapt to their feet. Hurrying over to welcome you and your friends.
Your hand was swallowed into the pads of a gray Gnoll's hand. You recognized Marass as soon as he grabbed your hand, but you gawked up at his darkened snout. Staring at a fresh scar that hadn’t been there in the last meeting.
“Oh my Gods, Marass! What happened?”
The Gnoll laughed and touched the scar with a shrug. “A scrap with some beast in the woods. Looks good, huh?”
Cassa almost balled you over to throw herself at Marass. Her arms wrapped around the massive creature, but she also stared up at the Gnoll, eyes wide. “Oh my Gods! Your beautiful face!”
“What?!” Marass’ ears slammed flat against his head as Cassa touched the scar with gentle fingers. “No, no, tell me I’m still pretty. Don’t you dare say this scar turns you off.”
“What? No! It looks good, it just looks so painful.” Cassa replied. Her gaze still locked on the red flesh that carved through Marass’ fur. Full of concern. “Gods, it almost took your eye, Marass!”
You left the two to their doting. Greeting some of the other Gnolls as you made your way into the encampment. A drink was shoved into your hands and your nose was assaulted by the strong smell of ale. You immediately passed it onto the next person. Who happened to be Tyler and he drank deeply as he and Mary joined some Gnolls by the fire.
“You still don’t like our ale, huh?” A chuckling voice said from behind you. And you turned to meet the deep green gaze of Kordoc. He towered over the rest of his clan-mates. Shoulders wide and chest bare between the straps of leather from his armor.
His thick fur was mottled brown and black. Thicker around his neck that almost gave him a mane. His ears were perked towards you, and you didn’t dare bring attention to it, but his tail swung lazily behind him when you smiled.
“No. It’s…well, you already know my take on it. It’s so bitter.” You laughed.
Kordoc chuckled and shrugged. “The orcs we trade with have only one type. It does the job for celebrations.”
Your chest squeezed when Kordoc stepped closer and leaned down to brush his nose against your cheek.
Only in the last recent meet-ups did Kordoc start greeting you like this. He had explained it was an affectionate welcome. One between beloved clan-mates.
It made you a little giddy when he did it.
“I see you found your way here easy enough. Didn’t get lost this time?” Kordoc asked, a twinkle in those mossy green eyes of his. And you playfully shoved him. He didn’t budge but your attempt made him laugh.
“Are you going to remind me every time we see each other?” You asked, teasingly angry as you started to make your way to the fire.
“Yes. Because it’s a hilarious thought. You getting lost in your own fields.” Kordoc replied. Falling in stride next to you. But just before you joined the circle of chatting Gnolls and humans, Kordoc grabbed your elbow and you were jerked off course.
You yelped at the sudden change of direction and you heard a few of your friends laugh. But they were ignored as Kordoc shoved his way into a tent. Dragging you along until the sound of merriment behind you was cut off by the fur door falling into place and Kordoc pulled you against him.
Your hands greedily roamed through the fur covering his chest. Eagerly feeling the muscle beneath your palms as you tilted your head up and Kordoc swallowed your lips in an awkward kiss.
It was full of teeth and a large tongue that tried to push into your mouth. Hungrily trying to deepen the connection as Kordoc’s massive hands pawed at your clothed breasts.
“I could smell your scent the moment you stepped into the forest.” Kordoc panted, pulling away long enough to start unclipping the straps of leather. “I couldn’t wait through the formalities. I need you so bad, (y/n).”
There was a growl on the edge of his tone that sent warm shivers through you. You smiled and started to undress as well. Kicking off your boots and hurriedly unbuttoning your pants to shove them to your ankles.
Kordoc was on you again the moment the cloth fell away from your waist. You gasped as you fell backwards onto a sleeping mat. The weight of the beast on top of you knocking you to the ground as his tongue swiped over the top of your folds.
So desperate to taste you, his tongue swept over your thighs and lower stomach as he whimpered for you to open your legs.
You did so, and you removed your shirt to then rip off your bra. Totally bare in front of Kordoc as he ate you out. His nose pressed firmly against your clit and waves of pleasure rolled through you as his movements rubbed against the sensitive nub.
He rutted against the mat. Using the friction from the soft leather beneath him to provide some relief. His erection was painfully hard as he threw your legs over his shoulders and settled on his stomach.
Past layings with Kordoc schooled you both on the importance of foreplay. And how much easier it was for you to take him when you were plenty ready for his size. And this was the quickest way to relax your body and get you riled up.
His need was contagious. Filling you was a warmth that started to ache the more his tongue stroked through your folds. His jaws opened further and he encased your center entirely between his maw. Trapping you between his teeth as his tongue continued its assault.
You squirmed under him. Trying your best not to do so too much or else risk scratching yourself on his fangs.
Kordoc was a gentle, sweet partner in bed. But even he couldn’t control every inch of him.
With a twitch of your hips, his teeth left marks on your skin. You gasped as the burn of it heightened the pleasure, and you shoved him away. Only able to do so in Kordoc’s own desperation to be on top of you.
You rolled onto your hands and knees and Kordoc took position behind you.
However, he did something different. Usually, he’d mount you from behind and keep you on your hands and knees. Fucking you until you both collasped under the need to be crushed against one another, rutting like animals on the floor.
But this time he pulled you close. Your legs were guided to wrap around his waist and your stomach rested on his thighs that sat in his kneeling position.
You felt his hands roam along your bare ass, squeezing until you gasped. Moaning his name as a finger dipped between your cheeks and tested your slit.
Kordoc groaned a low pleased rumble when his finger came away slick and you felt him shift behind you. You glanced back, seeing his hand fist around the base of his cock and his hips tilted towards your entrance. Your center was already aching from looking at him.
Stretching out from under the soft fur of his underbelly, his cock carried the same dark brown that was speckled through his fur. Until it bled into a deep red at the rounded tip. He was thick. Thicker than any of the other Gnolls you used to lay with in the past.
But after so many meetings with only him, you couldn’t imagine any of the others would bring the same pleasure.
You shadowed him. Your back arching so your hips could make the right angle for the tip of his length to slide in smoothly. And you whimpered as your walls welcomed him. Spreading you until an ache started to build and you reached back to grab his arm.
Without needing instruction, Kordoc pulled back. His mouth hung open, panting as he shivered with a wave of pleasure from your tight entrance. He left the tip of his girth inside you. Unable to bring himself to leave your warm body entirely.
You rolled your hips experimentally. Testing to see if the pain would come back. When it didn’t, you nodded and Kordoc’s body tensed as he cautiously pushed forward.
This dance carried on until you were sweating and moaning wordlessly. Still, Kordoc wasn’t fully seated inside you but you could feel his knot beginning to grow.
His own need kept at bay purely for the sake of your body not breaking around him.
You were so tight. After a month of nothing but your fingers you needed alot more preparation to easily take him.
Kordoc licked and kissed along your spine. Anywhere he could reach while in this position, his teeth scraped across and his tongue smoothed over the marks. He murmured sweet praises to you when your back arched and you squeezed around him. His voice took a deep husk to it as he slipped deeper and deeper.
“Just look at you. You take me so well.” He panted as he managed to push another inch inside you. A snarl ripped through him as your hips rolled in rhythm with his. “There’s no rush, (y/n), we have all night.”
His voice was the key to your walls giving in for him. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Kordoc was able to fully seat himself inside you. His knot pushed at your entrance, desperate to join the rest of him. But you gasped and shook your head.
“Not yet.”
“Not yet.” Kordoc repeated. Like a promise on his tongue as he curled his body over you and kissed your shoulder. You felt his teeth scrape against your skin and you tilted your head so he had access to your neck.
There, as his hips gave their own experimental roll, he took your throat between his jaws and growled softly. A noise that only you could hear as it rattled your ears and filled your body with a deep resonance of the sound.
Kordoc then braced his hands on either side of your body and his hips started to move more frequently.
You used his wrist to brace yourself against his thrusts. Your body was rocked forward and you pushed back against him in tandem.
Your eyes rolled back as pleasure ripped through your body. Your moans turned to cries as the tempo picked up. The sound of skin slapping fur filled the tent. Soon drowned away by Kordoc’s own moans of ecstasy.
Your arms started to shake from the strain of staying in this position. Your legs were locked around his waist, as if trying to keep him from pulling too far out of you. Before he slammed back into you.
Your hand slipped from his arm and you were sent sprawling onto the sleeping mat from a particularly strong thrust. Kordoc chased you. Crawling over you and tilting one leg so his hips snugly fit between your legs.
He crushed you against the mat. The vast expanse of his chest pressed firmly against your back as he fucked into you. You were trapped. Unable to do anything but cling to his fur as Kordoc continued at a ruthless pace.
Then with a spike of temporary pain and a flood of burning pleasure, Kordoc’s knot slipped between your folds. You screamed his name as Kordoc snarled viciously above you. His claws digging deep into the mat as he rutted against you. Greedily chasing the blinding pleasure you gave him as you squeezed around his knot.
His rhythm faltered. The snarl broke into whimpering growls and Kordoc slammed into you so hard you felt a future bruise begin to form.
Seed spilled into you. And your own finish crashed down on you like a tidal wave. Blinding you as you buried your face into the sleeping mat, pushing hard against Kordoc so you felt every inch of him inside you.
Your hips rolled in time with his as Kordoc milked himself inside you until there was nothing left. Panting hard, Kordoc tried to press a kiss to your shoulder. But in this position, with how tall he was compared to you, he could only reach the top of your head while he was on top like this.
After a moment of catching your breaths, Kordoc attempted to pull away. Testing to see if his swollen knot would release you. But it didn’t. It was still locking you both firmly together.
“Are you alright?” Kordoc asked. His hands ran along your sides and down across your thighs. You nodded. Unable to properly speak as Kordoc carefully rolled you both over so he was on his side and you were pressed against his chest in a more comfortable position.
He then slipped his arm under your head so you had a pillow to rest on.
“I’m fine…better than fine. Just out of breath.” You managed to say. Sighing as you let your body relax against him.
“I got a bit carried away, I’m sorry.” Kordoc huffed. The pads of his paw-like hand were soothing against your heated skin.
“You always get a bit carried away.” You teased. Testing his knot’s size with a small twitch of your hips. Which made Kordoc gasp and his hand grip your hip tightly.
“Careful, I’m very sensitive right.” He murmured against your hair. Nuzzling against your neck as you relaxed your hips.
You reached back and ran your fingers through the mane of fur around his neck. While he happily tilted his head so you could reach as much as you could. Scratching along his spine and shoulder before sliding up along his neck to tickle the fur behind his ear.
He sighed heavily and you caught the green glimmer of his eyes searching your face.
“I missed you.” He said softly. Almost too softly for you to hear.
Your whole body warmed and you smiled. Unable to hide it. “I missed you too. I wish we could see each other more often.”
“You still won’t meet me at the edge of the forest?” Kordoc asked, almost like a plea. And you shook your head. As much as it hurts to do so.
“No. It’s far too dangerous for you. I won’t let you do it.” Your voice turned sharp. Pointed like a sword that would cut down any argument that Kordoc tried to make.
And the Gnoll nodded. Sighing with a heaviness that portrayed the hurt that coiled in his chest.
“One day. One day you will be waking up in my camp next to me. Or me in your village. Working the fields. Just…not yet…”
“Not yet…” You said in return. Like a promise.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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Themes: Servant & Employer Royal Addition / Mermaid/Merman/Mer-Hybrid / Missing You Prompt - oral (reader receiving), monster genitalia descriptions.
Pairings: Anemaris (Prince Merman) x F!Reader (Human Knight)
Words: 8.5k
Notes:
My first story from my new prompt list! This was was Mermaid/Merman with the prompt 'missed you' & 'royal servant x royal character'
And because I'm a sucker for a knight and royal person trope, I had to do that one. This might be continued, but we'll see. If the Mer prompt comes up again, I'll do a Part 2. Let me know what you think!
Please enjoy!
By the third day of the celebrations your patience was stretched so thin a butterfly's wing-beat could throw you into insanity.
It wasn't the party itself. Truth be told you were having quite the fun time watching the party-goers trip over their own frocks in their drunken stupor. You've never seen your royal charge, the Queen of the Blue Depths, laugh so hard until this gala. Her smile was constant. Not a single wrinkle was caused by stress or worry, but by her joy. It was refreshing.
But, no, it wasn't your Queen or the Human royalty - who was gracious enough to host the week long celebration - that caused your eye to twitch. It was the damn Ocean Prince and his constant begging.
"Please, my Pearl, I just need to feel you…" He would whimper against your ear whenever he managed to corner you away from the party. His hands would paw at your hips, tugging you closer until you would practically be on top of him - those pretty lips caught between his teeth, smiling up at you.
He was maddening. He was a distraction. And it was starting to become very troublesome.
Any other time you would have happily indulged in the Prince's sly antics. But you were on duty. Being one of the Queens-Guard rarely allowed you time to indulge in anything personal at the best of times. But now the Queen was out of her waters and surrounded by potential threats, you couldn't risk getting distracted by the Prince. No matter how much he begged.
Even now he plagued your thoughts! Here you were in the center of the party, by the Ocean Queen's side, and could only think about the Prince!
You were on duty! You couldn't afford your mind diving into the dark place that the Prince tried to pull you into.
You looked around the room, taking in the mess of colorful attires and spinning bodies as both Mer and Humans co-existed on the dance-floor. There was a clear distinction between the Humans and those from the deep.
In their humanoid forms, the Mer shimmered like diamonds. Their scales couldn't be hidden entirely by the magic that shifted their bodies to their two legged forms, leaving trails of beautiful iridescent colors along their skin. Poking out from under their elegant attire and sparkling like stars in the bright ball-room light.
The Humans attempted to match them by layering themselves in silk and jewelry, but nothing truly could replicate the beauty of a Mer's scales.
You spotted the other Queens-Guards circling the dance-floor, watching over the party-goers alongside their Human counterparts. There was a sense of peace here tonight. After the first two awkward days, the ice had seemed to melt between the two races and they finally started to mingle properly amongst themselves.
The Queen had been welcomed by the Human royals to their high table. Enjoying a lavish dinner while watching their people celebrate their third year of the signed treaty. The royals chatted amongst themselves. Laughing and gossiping like friends. You were still deciding if the Human royalty were actually kind or if they were playing a role to get into the Queen's graces. They were at least protective over their guests. That you were thankful for.
You stood by the end of the table, closest to the Queen's side, assigned there by Her Majesty herself. And it was this proximity that allowed you to spot the small gesture she sent your way. Pulling your attention to her and her need for you to approach.
You hurried over, leaning down so you could hear her voice over the opera singers that filled the room with their voices.
"I have noticed my son isn't in attendance." The Queen cooed in your ear. Her gaze was like sea foam - pale and playful. A rush of heat burned along your neck when she gave you that look. "Do you know where he is?"
Nothing passed your Queen's gaze.
Your little tumbles with her son? She spotted the side-long looks right away, apparently. After the fourth time you and the Prince rolled around in the shadows of the Ocean Castle, you had tried distancing yourself from the Prince. You were a knight. A Human soldier given to the Mer-Kingdom as a sign of trust between their people and yours. You were not permitted to touch the Prince like that. It would have been treason in the Human Realm.
But that sacrifice of affection for duty from you ended when the Queen pulled you aside and asked why you thought her son wasn't a fitting bed companion.
The mortification of being put on the spot like that doubled when she asked you to keep making her son happy, if you were interested in doing so, of course.
You had to have a long and humiliating talk with the Queen about your adoration for her son. And she scoffed when you had explained the Human laws and traditions circling the royal families. She had practically shoved you towards her son afterwards. Smiling as her son dragged you away to spend the day together.
Now, not only was your duty to keep the Queen safe, but you'd somehow become the Prince's chaperone. He had his own knights and guards, but everyone came to you now whenever they needed to know where he was.
It was rather annoying.
"I'm not sure, Your Majesty." You whispered in return. Searching the crowd for the bothersome Prince.
"Did you wake with him this morning?" The Queen asked.
You tried very hard not to glance at the Human King that sat only a few feet away from the Ocean Queen. You weren't under his control anymore but you were trying your best to keep up appearances while you were in their halls. That includes keeping your relationship with the Prince a secret.
"I did not, Your Majesty." You replied and you tried not to leap into an explanation of why you and he didn't sleep in the same bed last night. The Queen wouldn't understand that you got caught up with a bunch of old friends from the Human Realm and when they walked you to your room, you couldn't exactly go to the Prince's chambers.
Gossip was as deadly as swords in these corridors. You refused to give the Human Realm anything that could hurt the Ocean Royalty. They've been kind to you. Accommodating and understanding. And you repaid them in loyalty that ran so deep you were more than willing to betray your own race for them.
You refused even something small like a difference in royalty-subordinate relations to spin through the gossip wheel here.
The Queen's frown made her delicately lined face lose all joy from it. She possessed an ethereal beauty. And when she frowned, it was as if the Heavens were crying for her. "Go find him. And see why he isn't celebrating with his people."
You nodded, bowing deeply and retreating from the table. Another Queens-Guard took your place by her side and you walked briskly out of the ball-room.
You started your search at the Prince's chambers. A fire was gently smoldering in the mantle and candles had been lit to chase away the shadows that plagued the large room. But it was empty.
Next you went to the gardens. Having been there with him on the second day, you knew how much he enjoyed the blossoming bushes and trees. It had upset him greatly that he couldn't bring a cutting of your favorite flower back to the Ocean Kingdom. Fresh water was hard to come by in the sea. The Prince had promised to send for fresh water when the plant needed it, but you refused. As sweet as the persistence was - forcing a Mer to go ashore and find fresh water every day wasn't exactly feasible in your mind.
But he wasn't there either. After some asking around, a Human servant directed you to the royal ports. Giving news that the Prince had gathered an entourage of Human nobles and went down to the docks to swim with them.
You thanked them and made haste towards the port.
Thankfully, the Prince wasn't stupid enough to leave behind his guard. They flanked the docks like decorative statues. Their armor gleaming silver in the pale half-moon that sat vigil over the dark waters. Some Human guards were also present - watching their Human charges as they sat on the edge of a dock, laughing and cheering as a large twisting tail splashed and coiled beneath the gentle rolling waves of the sea.
The Prince's scales shimmered like the winter auroras. Blues and purples tinged with the brilliant hue of green - a beautiful display of Ocean royalty in the shape of a long, curling tail which bled up into the humanoid torso of what could be mistaken as a young Human male. In there natural forms, Mer were twice the size of a regular Human - not adding the very lengthy tails or flaring, sail-like fins - they were large creatures.
The Prince was no different.
And just as the Human tales and warnings told - Mer were beautiful. Dangerously beautiful.
The Prince matched his Mother's heavenly features as if the stars carved him straight out of their likeness. A heart-shaped face with dagger-like lines forming his handsome cheekbones. His hair was long, dark and shiny, but tonight it was woven and twisted into a ceremonial braid - adorned with pearls and pieces of sea-glass to add a sparkle to his already exquisite appearance.
His laugh was musical as he breached the waves, spraying delicate droplets of water over the nobles watching him. Drawing in his audience's attention like a lure - another display. A tease. He was performing for them, but not in the way they thought. This wasn't a private show from a royal Mer - this was a predator playing with his prey.
Every clap of their hands, every laugh of joy or surprise; it was all carefully articulated by him. The Prince would have spent hours with this group learning their tells and likes - all to eventually get what he wanted. Their praise. Their adoration.
Humans fell for him as easily as ants to a poisoned honey-pot. You knew that first hand. You saw the humans' awe-filled eyes, wide and sparkling, and felt a sickened familiarity.
How long has it been since you were the one paying homage to a Mer Prince just like this? Love-struck. Naive. Helplessly lost in the other-worldly beauty before you.
Long enough to feel a deep sense of anger with every playful flick of the Prince's fins.
As you stepped closer, you were greeted by the Prince's guards. They said nothing, but their helmed faces tipped respectfully when you approached. Slowly, your presence was noticed by the Human nobles and something stirred in your chest, souring your mood further.
You recognized some of them. Your friends from your past life here on Land. What was worse, they ignored you, turning back to the ocean as the Prince surfaced, flicking back his hair in another performance of elegance - as if you were nothing more than a bug passing the party by.
The Prince's twinkling eyes, like rays of sunlight filtering down into the dark depths, found you. His smile was wicked - teasing. But it was gone before the nobles returned their attention to him. A predator masking the intent to do harm.
Something sharp twisted in your chest but almost immediately your logical side slapped the emotional side on the head.
You know what he's like. Stay calm. You told yourself as you halted a few feet behind the gathered on-lookers. Mentally bracing yourself for the snickering conversation that would follow your next words.
"Your Majesty, I was sent to ask why you haven't joined the celebrations tonight." Your voice was flat, leaving no room for emotion or miscommunication to why you were down here. "Your Mother is personally expecting you."
The people you once called friends - smirked, the haze of wine heavily layering their expressions as they looked up at you. "Oh, come on~ The Prince was just showing us his tail." One of them cooed and it grated at you how their tone dripped with toxic sweetness. "We were going to come back soon."
You knew that was a lie. These people were venomous - scavengers layered in pretty baubles and silk. They would have held onto the Prince of the Deep for as long as they could.
The day you left the Human Kingdom was the first real, unguarded breath you've ever taken. All because there were miles upon miles of ocean between you and these types of people.
You pushed back the anger, settling a heavy blanket of indifference over your mind and bowed at the hips. "Forgive the intrusion. I was merely tasked with finding the Prince's location. I did not mean to interrupt." Your eyes found the Prince and his smile faltered. That mask of care-free joy cracked under something hidden in your gaze. "I will inform Her Majesty that you are entertaining others. Excuse me." The bow you dipped towards the Prince was deeper than the one pointed towards the nobles.
You conveyed nothing more. Looked at the Prince no more than you needed too - and you knew it upset him. Because when you turned away from the group, you heard the waters move roughly beneath the docks. Salty spray dusted your skin as the Prince's emotions swelled and crashed, wrangled into calm by his control a second later. And beneath the gentle splashing of water, your ears barely picked up the whisper of the Prince's voice.
Wait…
If there wasn't an audience of beings that would consider walking away after a royal asked you to stop an act of insubordination, you would have happily done so. But the other Mer heard the word as well. They didn't acknowledge it, but you felt their eyes on you.
And the way the Prince swam through the water to rise up beside you, water trickling down his toned, pale abdomen - it was obvious to the Humans that he wanted your attention as well.
You turned to him as if he was your commanding officer. Back straight, hands clasped respectfully in front of you and your eyes down - like you were waiting for orders.
A brush of dejection tickled your ears from Anemaris. All Mer had a song, a voice that they used to communicate beneath the waves. And when you were close, you could feel his emotions if you listened hard enough.
Over your time with him, you've taught yourself to pick up on the shifting tones within Anemaris. Mer language was difficult, but their songs were easier to understand. You never realized just how easily you could hear his song until recently. When you were far away and you heard him on the currents, when no one else knew he was following the Queen's convoy to the surface. About to beg to accompany his Mother to the surface.
And here, even on the surface where Mer songs were drowned out by the wind and noise of the surface world - you could hear the despondency in his voice. Regret. He hated when you acted like a soldier around him. The reminder of the distance that stretched between you.
"Tell Mother I'll be right there." He said and despite his best efforts, you heard the stiffness in his tone.
The Human nobles heard a clipped, frustrated royal talking down to a knight. But you heard the soft edges - the small plea. You replied by bowing again, silently leaving the docks, and that melancholy from him hitched in volume.
You returned to the Queen's side not long later. Dipping your head once more to inform the Queen of her son's whereabouts and his promise to return soon.
And like a shark catching the shimmer of a fleeing fish - her eyes sharpened on your face. Searching for something in your lowered gaze and expressionless mask.
If she found something, the Queen didn't mention it. Instead went back to her conversation with the Human Queen, waving you away to resume your spot by her chair.
At times like this you wished you wore a helmet. Because it took immeasurable concentration to keep your expression neutral and not let the scowl of frustration slip through. But the Queens-Guard were adorned with a circlet instead of protective head wear. Especially at parties - something about appearances.
You didn't really care until now. When you just wanted to hide away from the party and go sleep somewhere. You were so mentally drained keeping up appearances and then Anemaris had to rattle you in front of those people?
It exhausted what little mentality you had left.
Anemaris entered the ball-room alone sometime later. His guards fanned out to join the patrols around the celebration, leaving only two to stand by his side and make space when was needed. His presence in the room was like an angler-fish light, coaxing you to look at him as he breezed through the room, shaking hands and mingling with others. Whenever he laughed, the sound reached your ears despite the clutter of noise in the room.
But you fought against the pull. Watching the area around the Queen. Being the first line of defense when someone approached the table, seeking her attention. You had been told to deter nobles from approaching her tonight. The Queen had informed you she was done with their questions and overly sweet words. Needing a break from the kiss-asses and circling sea-gull patrons.
This was at least something you could use your anger for. When a guest was too pushy, you let the frustration bubble up and carve lines around your eyes. You were an impassable wall of stubbornness and brewing hostility - very few were brave enough to brace your chipped words for more than a minute before hurrying away.
After the fourth hissing exchange with a noble, the Queen motioned you over to her once more. Her eyes sparkled with malicious delight.
"My dear, are you feeling alright?" Her amused tone softened the sharp edges in your chest. Replacing the prickling anger with a ball of sheepishness in your throat. "I don't think I've ever seen you bare teeth like that before."
If you were back home, in the Ocean Palace, you could joke around with the Queen a little. She allowed some banter here and there between her and her trusted guards - but with how closely the Human Royalty were watching, you didn't dare give some quip about knocking some poor noble's teeth out.
"I'm fine, Your Majesty."
Somehow, the automated response seemed to be the worst pick of your dialogue options. The Queen's brows furrowed. Her smile dipped into one of feigned patience and you felt your heart drop into your stomach. You don't think she's ever looked at you with… disappointment in her eyes before.
"It is late." The Queen said offhandedly, turning her eyes onto the mass of gathered Mer and Humans. You didn't follow her gaze. Just waited patiently by the arm of her chair, awaiting your fate. "You're dismissed. Florence can take your place for the night."
You had no reason to feel like a knife had just buried itself in your chest but her tone felt like an attack. Impatient and cold, she waved you away and you hastily followed her instructions. Bowing low, passing on the information to your superior, Florence, and disappearing through a side-door to leave the ballroom behind.
The halls were empty as you traversed the large, maze-like castle to the barracks where the Mer entourage were staying. The Mer royals had their own guest-wing to themselves. Private chambers and gardens. Their staff could easily access them from unseen corridors and linking paths - but the guest servants and guards were kept out of sight, most of the time.
You were no different. No matter how many times Anemaris tried to coax you to stay with him in his private chambers over the course of the royal stay, you remained with the others in the barracks.
Which you were about to enter when a soft melody brushed against your hearing, stalling your hand on the door of the barracks.
Come here…
Exhaustion tugged on the edge of your mind. The thought of curling up on your bunk, probably even in your armor and ceremonial trinkets, called to you like the lull of the sea. But even with how much frustration boiled inside you, how tired your thoughts were, Anemaris' voice seduced you to him.
Your heavy feet carried you through the dimly lit corridors right to his door, which sat cracked open enough for you to see into his chambers.
The fire roared within. Casting bright homely light over the exquisitely made love-seat wrapped in silk and layered in cushions. The air within smelled sweet with wine, and fine foods that sat on a silver tray by the door.
Your mouth watered and your stomach clenched painfully. But you ignored it and stepped into the room before closing the door behind you with a quiet click of the lock.
Anemaris didn't look up from the fire. He sat in front of the lounge, still in his ball-room attire - "I didn't know the Surface had such sway over Humans." His voice bounced off the walls like a lullaby turned cold. Soft, calming - but twisted with a malicious tune of exasperation.
He was, of course, baiting you into something. But you didn't indulge him right away. Instead you began clicking and unstrapping each buckle and belt that held your attire on your person. "What do you mean?" You finally replied after the weight of your armor was set on the dresser and your aching body was free of the metal and scale confines.
"You've spent three days away from the Depths and your mind has shrouded itself from me." He said. "Three days among your kin and suddenly all light has died in your eyes." Anemaris finally looked at you as you joined him by the fire, seating yourself on the lounge by his shoulder. His eyes were darker in this light. The void of the sea swirling behind his beautifully curled lashes. "What poison the Surface air must hold for the laugh in your voice to decay and wither."
You stared at him, unsure how to respond. But you knew what he was referring too. "It's… more complicated than that, Anemaris."
"Ah! She knows my name! And here I thought you had forgotten it, with how little you have addressed me as such these past few days." His voice lost the bored nonchalance.
You sighed and slouched back against the cushions. Resting your head against the back of the lounge and allowed your eyes to close for a second. "Anemaris, please don't do this right now."
"I am your prince, no? I thought I could do what I like and you had to follow orders." Anemaris huffed, resting an elbow on his knee, glaring ice into the fire.
Despite the tension in the air, his words made you smile. You never understood how Anemaris didn't grasp that his royal standing was something more than a title. It was his people's hope. Their future. His future. And yet he ignored it like an old toy forgotten after he outgrew any and all childish possessions.
His aggravation towards those that lorded over you through birthright or social standing was endearing. And you could not imagine the torment if Anemaris acted like every other royal person you knew… but sometimes you really wished he understood that he was a prince and you were a knight sworn to protect him. There was a universe of differences between you and him, but Anemaris never made it feel that way.
"And does my prince wish to fight over why I am so closed lipped around other Humans?" You asked with your eyes still closed. Half sinking into the luxurious cushions that cradled your tired body like clouds. "Or does my Anemaris want to spend a quiet night with me?"
You felt him take up the space beside you. A cool body against your warmed skin, all soft fabrics and gentle fragrances. You tilted your head towards him and his long fingers traced the lines of your neck as he drew you closer.
His lips brushed over your cheek, the smell of wine and fruit on his breath. "I want to know why you're so scared of the Human Kingdom."
Your eyes flew open and you stared up at him in surprise. There was no condemnation in his eyes - only pure calculated curiosity patiently waiting for your mind to pull itself out of the groggy fog and answer him. "I'm not scared of them."
"Then why do you act differently here?" He asked. "After your dinner with your familiars, you've been distant. And when you're in the Human royal's presence you're more guarded, so on edge that even a sword would be considered dull in comparison."
You knew it was obvious, but damn… that obvious? "I told you about their customs here. That royal blood should never mix with lesser bloodlines. I am lesser blood."
Anemaris visibly bristled with your words. If he had his tail, the spines and fins along his scales would have stretched and quivered. "But you are not bound by their laws now. You are ours. Tail or not, you are Mer."
"But we are in their lands." You corrected him. Raising your hand to place your fingers over his when he began to fidget with the collar of your shirt. "I am still Human, Anemaris. No matter how you wish it differently, I am Human. And I am from the Surface, their laws and traditions are my blood and while I am here they will hold me to that. Being with you, it is…wrong in their eyes."
You didn't want to use that word but with how exhausted your brain was, you couldn't word it any other way. You knew immediately that it hurt Anemaris - the grimace in his expression told you as such. "I adore you, Anemaris. The Surface will never change that. But to protect you and your Mother, I must pretend that I am your loyal guard. Bound by duty, not by heart."
"They can't do anything to us." Anemaris' lips trembled with a furious hiss. The hint of his true face slipped through the carefully crafted mask that made him look more Human. "Why hide us away when to harm us is to go against the treaty my parent signed with them?"
You rested your hand against his cheek to soothe him. Brushing the pad of your thumb along the near invisible scales that lined the skin under his eyes. Almost instantly he folded into your touch. The hiss echoing away in his throat as you hushed him. "It's very complicated. And it might not affect you or your Mother or the treaty, but relations between the Mer people and Humans will be affected. No smart Human would ever talk ill to the Prince of the Ocean. But his knights, his people and servants? Whispers and gossip are weapons among the Human court, my sweet Anemaris. Humans who cannot wield swords or fight battles or sway politics use them to weaken the other side. We're the other side. And if I can keep another metaphorical dagger out of their arsenal, I will do it. Our relationship would be a great asset to the court. I don't want them to use it against others because Mer traditions are different than Humans."
Anemaris listened with rapt attention, but his brow creased and his eyes hardened. "That's ridiculous."
You barked a laugh, nodding. "It is." You kissed his lips, drawing back with another bubble of laughter. "It really, really is. But I would not be putting us in this situation if I didn't think it was a problem. It is my job to-"
"Keep me safe, yes-yes." Anemaris interrupted your tangent by lunging forward and capturing your lips in a kiss that pushed you down onto your back and gave Anemaris an opportunity to pin you to the cushions. You smiled against his lips and he responded by tracing your lower lip with the pointed tip of his tongue.
The moment stretched on with silence and warmth surrounding you both. With the comforting weight of him above you, the sweet and teasing motions of his hips and gentle caresses of his hands - the tension that knotted your shoulders began to relax. You both stayed like that until you desperately needed to breathe - what little gasps you could get in-between his lips wasn't enough - and when you tilted your head back to breathe properly, Anemaris moved his mouth to your neck.
Though he didn't latch on like he usually would, he nuzzled and kissed along your pulse point reverently.
"I missed you." He murmured against your skin.
You sluggishly wrap your arms around his shoulders, gently sliding pins and trinkets from his hair while Anemaris marked the expanse of skin just under the collar of your shirt. "I missed you too. I'm sorry for…everything these past few days. I just don't know how to juggle you and the Human race at the same time."
"Then don't juggle." Anemaris said and the cool whisper of his words against your moistened skin made you shiver. He curled his arms under the crook of your back, hugging you. Holding you close so he could revel in your warmth and still angle you so his lips could reach new territory along your chest. Only the bottom buttons of your shirt remained latched now. "It is not your responsibility to burden yourself with every little confrontation between our races. I admire your wishes, though I do not understand nor care for Human gossip - but in three days you have exhausted yourself with worry. You are so very tired, my pearl. I can feel it."
His arms tightened around your waist as if he could feel the way your muscles yearned to still and give in to the comfort of this couch. "Stay with me tonight. We'll rest together."
It was the soft plea in his words that had you nodding. You were tired, for sure, but to avoid trying to sneak out of the chambers without being seen by some Human servant - you had thought up a few excuses to remove yourself from Anemaris' arms.
But you could never refuse him when he was like this.
Soft eyes. Worshipping lips. The way he held you like glass but still touched you as if starved of you - rough and impatient.
Anemaris separated from you only to call for a bath to be run for you both. He returned to your arms almost instantly. Ignoring when a servant entered the chambers with a soft knock, arms full of towels and jugs of warm water. The servant that came and went was Mer, a trusted associate of yours who seemed relieved to see you in Anemaris' chambers. She bid you both good-night after the bath in the adjacent room was steaming and full. And Anemaris trapped you momentarily against the cushions, locked in a deep kiss, before tugging you to your feet and pulling you towards the bath.
He helped you undress. Every piece of clothing that fell to the floor was replaced on your skin by his lips. Slow, open-mouthed kisses that made you shiver and sigh contently until you were bare in front of him. He cupped your cheek, tilting your chin so you were enticed to look at him and leaned towards you until his brow rested against yours.
You slid your hands up along his chest to intertwine your fingers through the long silky strands that curtained down around his shoulders. His following sigh was a release of tension, exhaling every ounce of heaviness from his chest out into the air.
"Is it childish of me to wish to return home?" He asked without opening his eyes. You busied yourself by undressing him just as he did with you. But he didn't allow you to move too much. Keeping your faces close. Breathing you in as your hands near blindly unclasped the ceremonial attire from his body.
"You weren't meant to come in the first place." You said in a low amused whisper. Too sleepy and content to speak any louder than what escaped your lips. "I would say it's childish to complain about a situation you put yourself in."
Anemaris' hand dropped to pinch your hip. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make you dance away from him with a laugh. "I didn't want to be separated from you for that long."
Your body warmed and you bit your lip to stop the smile from spreading too wide across your face. Anemaris' smile broadened in the mean time. "Hmm, I thought that might quiet your sarcasm."
It was your turn to pinch him and his hands snatched your fingers away from his stomach so quickly you startled at the sudden movement. You laughed and met his feigned fury with a tilted smirk. But you didn't respond with sarcasm or wit. Your mind was too muddled for that. Instead you finished removing his clothes until he stood naked in front of you.
You've seen Anemaris naked plenty of times, more times than was necessary you would sometimes joke. But this was the first time you've seen him naked in his humanoid form. He looked uncannily Human. The iridescent scales that snaked along parts of his skin gave an ethereal glow to his pale body, twisting and coiling around the defined lines of his muscled arms and abdomen.
But then your eyes, of course, fell to his hips. Where his tail would normally begin and found a slit where a human cock would usually sit. You tilted your head, your fingers naturally seeking out the velvety flesh around Anemaris' slit but he pulled away. Gently taking your hand in his and bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss against your knuckles.
"Not tonight, Sunfish. I know you're tired." Anemaris said against your palm. Though his eyes betrayed the want he felt, when his hands guided you to the bath - they strayed on your waist and only brushed over the sensitive areas briefly. To touch for the sake of feeling close rather than strike up a fire between you two.
"It's not that… I just haven't seen you naked like this before." You told him, letting him help you step into the warm bathwater before sinking down into the deep section of the ridiculously large tub. "You don't…This is probably going to sound weird to you, but you don't have a cock where Humans do."
Anemaris' brows furrowed as he stepped into the bath beside you. Sinking low into the water before his hands found your waist and he dragged you over to sit between his legs. Even in the water, he kept the magic firmly in place so his tail didn't take up the entirety of the space. But you could feel the way his thighs clenched around you, as if he was trying to figure out how to move his two legs in a familiar environment he normally had a tail in.
"I thought you said that there isn't much difference between a Human cock and a Mer's." Anemaris said as his hands petted down along your legs. Squeezing and touching under and around your thighs and calves, massaging the space so agonizingly close to your core that you squirmed until he relented and rested his hands on your waist.
"The shape of them are similar but not identical. And human phallus hang outside of their body and grow in size when aroused." You explained, using your hands to somewhat showcase how the Human dick sits when soft.
Anemaris was always curious about the human body. It had been his pick-up line a few times whenever he managed to catch your attention and try to persuade you into his bed. That curiosity didn't waver even after you gave him a very hands on demonstration of how Human and Mer could enjoy pleasure together.
He had been curious… but also very curious of you, as well.
"That sounds…easier than a Mer's arousal." Anemaris murmured against your shoulder, deep in contemplation. Then something must have clicked into place in his thoughts and he lifted his lips from your skin, looking at you intently. "Have you had much experience with a Human partner?"
Like many males, Anemaris became very territorial circling something they perceived as theirs. Humans were possessive and controlling with their partners at times, but Mer acted off instinct. You've never seen another Mer grow aggressive towards their partners - but other Mer outside their relationships were a different story.
Your time in the Depths has taught you a whole new way to interact with paired Mers. You had to act submissively, show no interest in anyway that could be perceived as romantic or sexual. Even a passing compliment could set off the more territorial Mers. Anemaris was a very territorial male. Anything he deemed his was off limits to everyone. Including you.
You knew that it was problematic that Anemaris perceived you like a partner. Before the Queen nudged you towards him, that had been the reason you stepped away from him. You saw the hints and changes in his behavior around you and other Mer and you tore yourself from his grasp before he coiled more tightly around your heart.
Even now, when things had settled and in the Depths your close relationship with Anemaris was seen as nothing more than a friends with benefits type of ordeal - you knew there was a problem. That you shouldn't be this intertwined with him.
That the way he monopolized your time outside of your duties wasn't because you were spending time with a friend or were doing what you were ordered.
This was a much deeper and emotional problem.
And now, as he grew agitated with whatever spiral his thoughts had taken, the guilt and torment of your thoughts had you stuttering on your answer. And in response, Anemaris' grip on your waist tightened. The faintest prick of his claws made your skin itch where the tips nudged against the soft flesh.
"And?"
You gawked at him, twisting in his lap until you could look at him properly. "And? What?"
"And were they better lovers than I am?" He asked so firmly, so confidently, that you thought he was joking. You didn't laugh, however. The seriousness in his eyes portrayed just how much he was going to cling to your answer.
There was an evil part of you that wanted to say yes. To refuse him that little piece of victory that he has no right to claim whatsoever. But you'd be lying. Your past lovers didn't hold nearly a fraction of the pleasure and companionable satisfaction that Anemaris gave you. He has been your only Mer lover, he had no competition there. But when it came to lovers overrall… Anemaris surpassed all.
You relented, brushing your lips along the sharp lines of his jaw until your breath fanned over his ear with your words. "You are the best lover I've ever had, Anemaris."
Deep within his chest a subtle hum began to radiate out of him.
Content
Joy
Triumphant
Emotions twisted into a song-like vibration that passed through him and into you. You rolled your eyes, pretending to be annoyed by the clear elated smirk that painted his face.
"All men are the same, though. Mer and Human alike." You mumbled in jest. Your smile breaking the facade when Anemaris pressed his face into the crook of your neck, his hands squeezing your hips as he nuzzled and kissed along your throat. An intimate Mer custom between partners.
"But you are here with me. Not out there with some Human man." He hissed against your skin, all bluff and false aggression as he spat out the word like a disgusting soured fruit. You felt the magic along his body shift and quickly found your skin scrape along the texture of his scales. Spines poked against your arms around his shoulders and you moved your hands to accommodate the protruding fins that began to form along his spine.
Anemaris grew in size around you. His lips could no longer comfortably settle against your neck without you tilting your head almost all the way back. But still he persisted in marking your skin with his fangs and tongue.
His hands now encompassed the space around your waist and ribs. Tugging you down onto the slit that was beginning to spread open from the growing protrusions within the sheath.
The strong thighs you rested on fused together and became one entity. Coiling under you until you were firmly pressed against his chest, a fin with gentle blue membrane opened up to separate you from the rest of the room. Water sloshed over the sides as Anemaris filled the tub and left very little room for you or the water.
Then you felt the first sharp point of his cock and you smirked up at him, watching his Human-like gaze transform into two pupiless pools of deep ocean blue.
"I thought you said not tonight." You murmured as he pressed the tip of his thumb against your lower lip, gently coaxing your mouth to open around the digit until you welcomed the pad of his thumb against your tongue. His fins trembled as the warmth from your mouth encased his skin, creating a beautiful symphony of clacking spines and scales.
"I did… how tired are you?" The aggression from before was gone. Replaced by your Anemaris that yearned for your skin against his. To sink deep into your body and stay there until you were both too exhausted to peel away from the other.
But you were tired. So very tired that even the thought of pleasure didn't appeal to you. "Anemaris, I'm sorry I-"
"No, don't apologize. It's ok." He hushed your words with a gentle kiss, his too large lips dexterously molding in against yours. He held your face carefully between his large palms, like a fragile piece of coral that would shatter if he moved too quickly. "I miss you but I want you taken care of first."
You nodded and allowed your body to relax in his arms as Anemaris washed you; combing your hair as he drizzled shampoo into the strands. Then scrubbed you gently with a sponge and soap, lathering you both in bubbles and adoration until you were nothing but a boneless mess in his hands. He then gathered you up and brought you out of the tub to dry you down.
His Mer tail slithered along the ground like a serpent behind him. Letting him carry you from the bathroom to his luxurious bed, where he laid you down and curled up around you. His tail looped lazily in coils around your body. His hands trailed up along your back, nails tickling along your skin, before applying pressure down along your spine until he reached your lower back.
You tucked a pillow under your chin, letting him touch where he pleased while murmuring a soft telling of his day among the Humans. You noticed he didn't bring up tonight and the docks, but you were too tired to properly question him about it. Your mind was muddled. Lulled into absent-ness by his hands and voice.
Until his lips began to explore the expanse of your back in placement of his fingers. He nipped and sucked, leaving coy marks here and there. Moving down until he nudged your thighs open with his nose and tentatively licked a long strip through your folds.
Your eyes rolled back and you mumbled a soft moan into the pillow. "Anemaris…"
"I know. I just… I couldn't help it." Anemaris nearly whined in returned. The mattress dipped as he moved his torso to settle between your legs. His hands wrapped around your thighs and very gingerly pushed them apart until you were spread out before him. "Forgive, me, te'emor, I will let you rest in a moment."
You barely had time to register the Mer phrase for 'my love' before his tongue was firmly pressed against your entrance. You sighed deeply, your fists clenching handfuls of the duva as Anemaris swirled the thick, cool muscle against your pussy.
He moaned against your skin. Pressing his face deep between your legs until your thighs clenched against his cheeks, holding him there while he slurped and licked leisurely.
Your back arched when the pointed tip of his tongue swirled a single circle around your clit before sliding back to prod and push against your entrance. Bullying the rim until the supple flesh gave way and he could nudge an inch of his tongue into you.
Your walls were stretched, the inner parts of you massaged by the coiling-twisting motions of Anemaris' tongue. Then he withdrew, using his lips to spread your folds until your hole was on display for him and allowed him to continue an unhindered assault on the juices that flowed freely from you.
He kept you there for what felt like hours. Both of you enjoying the quiet night with only your soft moans and the obscene noises of his mouth against your pussy to fill the room. His tail twitched on occasion. The spines creaking whenever you made a particular sound he liked.
You had to turn onto your back at one point due to the position putting too much strain on your chest. And he adjusted your legs to lay over his shoulders, giving your inner thighs a smooch each before dutifully returning to your pleasure. Hands resting on your hips, massaging and occasionally brushing a pad of his finger over your perked nipples - Anemaris worked you up slowly to your climax.
It washed over you sweetly. Making your thighs shake and your back arch - Anemaris' name pouring from your lips as your hips jerked to chase the heightened pleasure. His smirk was just as triumphant as it always was when you came on some part of him. But that smile quickly vanished when the door to his chambers slammed open and a furious looking Mer Queen marched into the room.
You grabbed whatever was available to cover yourself - a pillow you had nearly drooled all over for the first hour while moaning into the silk case - but Anemaris moved more quickly. His tail wrapped around your naked body and the long line of fins flared open to keep you hidden from whoever dared enter his space. He tore himself from your thighs, curled like a striking snake in front of you - facing the humanoid version of his mother.
She didn't bat an eyelid to the whole ordeal.
"What have you done - oh… well, never-mind." The Queen's fury was extinguished immediately when she caught a glimpse of you beneath her son. Completely ignoring the furious hiss that filled the room from Anemaris hostile display of teeth and trembling spines. "Oh, I see you two made up, then?"
Anemaris' hostility didn't waiver, but his lips lowered over his fangs. Clearly confused. "What?"
"I can only assume my favored knight's bad temper today was your cause." The Queen replied, looking up at her son as if she couldn't understand why he didn't see her reasoning. "But it looks like you two made up fine. Am I correct"
By the pointed silence, you guessed the question was directed to you. And you really did not like that you were naked, post-climax, hiding behind a thin wall of membrane and scale… and had to answer the Queen. "Y-Yes, Your Majesty. But um… Anemaris wasn't-"
"Excellent. And here I was about to rip your scales off one by one for upsetting her, Anemaris. Whatever you did, don't do it again." The Queen huffed, giving Anemaris a firm and decisive nod. "And I expect you to be on your best behavior from now on. You left the party with no formal farewell. Do you know how many nobles I had to deal with after you stormed out? It was absolutely ridiculous. Tomorrow night, you will be kissing every ass in that place for walking out like you did. And, lady knight, you will be by his side the entire time. To make it more humiliating for him. Understood?"
The Queen didn't leave until you and Anemaris both agree to her plans. When the door to Anemaris' chambers closed, his fins finally started to lower to let you see the rest of the room again.
Anemaris looked absolutely bewildered. The anger simmering away as he returned to your side, resting on his elbow while you collapsed back against the blankets, chuckling. "What in the Ten Seas did I do?" He demanded with a small hiss.
You smiled up at him and shrugged, playing with a stray strand of hair that tangled down from his neck. "This might be partially my fault. After I came to get you tonight, seeing you with all my old friends - who i know are bad people, by the way… I was in a pretty bad mood. She must have thought you said or did something in that time to upset me."
Anemaris draped an arm over your middle. Tugging you in against his chest until you were snugly cocooned against him. "I guess I did dangle them in front of you like a baited hook." He sighed heavily and rested his head next to yours. Dusting a small kiss against your temple. "I thought… I don't know… I'm sure there was a jealous mindset behind all that but I honestly don't remember." His eyes searched your face. Guiding your gaze to him with a finger against your jaw, tilting your head so you were looking at him. "I'm sorry if I did upset you. After seeing you with them… and then you didn't come to me afterwards…"
You hushed him, lifting your hand to tangle your fingers together and he kissed your knuckles. "No harm done, Anemaris. Just… be careful around them. Anyone, for that matter. Please."
Anemaris nodded. Closing that small gap between you to capture your lips in one final kiss before finally gathering you up in his arms and positioning you tucked under his chin, back against his chest and your arms curled around his.
"No one else matters to me." He murmured against your hair. "You're the only person, Mer and Human, that I will ever lower my guard around."
Your heart clenched and that pushed down, deeper part of you wailed with his proclamation. You didn't let yourself sink into those thoughts - all the plans and excuses to separate yourself from Anemaris - and instead nodded. Letting the comfort of his closeness and steady breathing sooth you, finally, into sleep. And keep the responsibilities of your knighthood out of your mind for a few hours more.
If I could melt your heart, we’d never be apart — chapter six [the end]
Excerpt from the chapter: I sat on the mattress. He followed without haste. When he knelt between my legs, the movement was slow, almost solemn: I had seen men kneeling so only before altars. Now our faces were level. He brought his hands to my waist, and I rested my palms on his collarbones, feeling his heat, the rise and fall of his chest, and the imperceptible tension of his muscles. How terribly human he was, beneath that countenance poised between the mortal and the unearthly.
Summary: During the fifteen years following Victor Frankenstein’s death, his nameless creation has learned to exist in the edges and the penumbras of the human world. His last refuge is in the fractured shadow of a ruined church, a place forgotten both by god and men alike. Until one day a stranger dares to disturb the long-dead remnants of the past.
Pairing: Frankenstein’s creature x female oc (named, minimally described, reader-friendly)
Ratings: Explicit
Status: Complete
Tags: smut, romance, angst, strangers to lovers, gothic literature vibes, victorian era, erotic tension and sexual repression, typical victorian prudishness, typical 19th century sexism, religious themes, criticism of religion, atheism, alternating pov, first person and third person pov
A/N: The final chapter! Grab your fans and smelling salts, things are about to get positively improper 😏 This ended up being the longest chapter of the whole fic, but splitting it felt weird, so here we are 🤷♀️ Huge, huge thanks to everyone who stuck around, and for all the likes and comments! Seriously, as someone who hasn’t written a single word since, like, before any of us even knew what Covid was, I was quite nervous about posting something again 😅 I hope you enjoyed reading this little fic as much as I enjoyed writing it 💜
Credits: Images found on Pinterest, dividers by @/strangergraphics
ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔖𝔦𝔵
I SAT upon my narrow bed, clad in my nightgown, as across the room crept the dawn. Little by little, it revealed the bottle-green wallpaper and its peonies fixed in an eternal bloom; the ivory knobs of the semanier and the fine majolica of the small fireplace; at last, leaning over the dressing table, the livid light fell upon the delicate teacup, the tea grown cold like the dew in the garden below.
Everything was familiar yet felt unreal, as though I woke up surrounded by a dusty, faded theatre set. For days, I had felt so. A week had passed since the man of the ruins—if such a creature could be called a man—had told me his story, and his words continued to echo within my disquieted mind.
At first, I had refused to believe him. I had to. The account he offered was too grotesque to be received without resistance; my reason rebelled against it.
Faced with my incredulity, he merely asked me to look. To truly look. His touch was gentle, careful even, as he lifted my hands to his marred visage: the scars were not marks of healing, but the imprint of a creator’s work; some, even after so many years, would still bleed.
With a hesitation that seemed almost abashed, he had drawn aside the threadbare wool of his shirt, worn beneath his overcoat. There, above the place where the heart rests unseen, lay a patch of flesh unlike the rest: distinct in tone and texture, sewn into him like a repair upon an old doll. Beneath it, he said, beat a heart torn from a dead man. His entire body had been stitched together, piece by piece. He was a being never meant to be alive yet fated never to die.
The tears in his overcoat, those very rifts I had often offered to mend, they were bullet holes, dagger thrusts. Countless times his flesh had known the bite of the iron, of the blade and the fire. Blows that would have killed any man could not vanquish his unnatural frame.
I had not fainted. But to this day I still remember the way my breath petrified in my lungs, heavy and cold like the ruins surrounding us. And I remember his expression as I failed to conceal my horror. Sorrowful, yet strangely calm; resigned, yet dignified.
That evening, when I returned to Briar House, it was Mrs Wright who found me in the vestibule, leaning against the closed door, pale as a corpse, my eyes swollen and reddened. The good woman was startled: she thought I had taken a fever. That night I did not leave my room. The following day I ate little and spoke even less. Mrs Wright wished to send for the doctor, but Mrs Pritchard refused. It was plain that I was not physically ill, she declared, only worn down in spirit.
I knew that my employer suspected something. But she had not questioned me—not yet—waiting, perhaps, for me to collapse beneath the weight of my own accusing conscience.
I rose from my bed.
As the light grew warmer and dawn became morning, I dressed more quickly than usual but with no less care.
The previous day, a telegram had arrived: Mr Wright’s elderly father had died. He and Mrs Wright had departed that very afternoon, to catch the train from the town, and would be away for at least two weeks. In their absence, Mrs Pritchard expected me to attend to the house—now even emptier and more isolated than before. She said that there was no necessity to send for a maid from the town, as I already knew how the house was run.
From that day forth, it became my duty to light the fire in the parlour, set the water to boil, draw back the curtains in every room, and prepare the tea and the eggs for breakfast—all before the mistress of the house got out of bed.
Domestic work was not unfamiliar to me: I had not been raised in a household with servants. I did everything as my employer desired. I maintained the fires, emptied the ashes from the hearths, carried hot water for Mrs Pritchard’s toilette, made her bed and brushed her clothes, prepared the teas, breakfasts, and dinners, washed the dishes in the stone sink. All the while I laboured to impose some semblance of order upon my own restless thoughts, and to quiet the secret tumult within me.
One evening, after I had finished tidying, I lingered on the threshold of the kitchen door. It was the eve of May Day. A rare southern wind had cleared the sky, the moon had not yet risen. I heard the haunting call of a nightjar; then silence. The house stood hushed, the garden was still and dark. I could scarcely make out the white gravel path between the flowerbeds.
It was then that I realised: the horror had receded; my mind felt quiet.And in that quiet, a thought struck me with force: how deeply I must have wounded him. Guilt and shame settled in my chest, an unbearable, suffocating weight. I had professed to find repugnant the idea of inherited guilt, declaring that only deeds and facts mattered to me,and yet I had fled from one who bore no fault for the frightful circumstances of his coming into the world.
A coward I was, a hypocrite. And I had been cruel. I could delay no longer: he must know that, despite all, I would hold him dear nonetheless, that I loved him just the same.
THE GRANDFATHER CLOCK struck midnight. I waited for the final stroke to fade, for the corridors to fall silent once more; then, I ventured from my room and down the stairs.
But I had not yet reached the vestibule when I saw the light of a candle at the top of the stairs.
Mrs Pritchard stood up there, wrapped in her dark dressing gown, her braid loose upon her breast. She descended the stairs, unhurried, gazing down at me with the severity of a carved saint set high above an altar, judging the sinful living at its feet.
“What could drive you to steal out in secret, at the very heart of the night?” Her calm tone chilled me more than anger would have done. “Are you a lunatic, Miss Clerval? Or merely a common strumpet, cut from the same cloth as your mother?”
I said nothing. How could I justify why I was still awake and dressed at such an hour, a lantern in one hand, the keys of the front door in the other?
“I see that shame renders you mute. Then you shall give me an explanation tomorrow morning. Return to your room immediately. I shall keep the keys, both to the front door and to your chamber.”
The thought of not being allowed to see him that very night was enough to constrict my throat and bring tears to my eyes. Yet, even in my desperation, I was ready to yield.
But when I stood before Mrs Pritchard, about to surrender the keys, she said, “Let it be clear: from this day forward, you shall not take a single step beyond the gate unless accompanied by me, or by Mrs Wright.”
Anger flared within me. “You are my employer, not my gaoler!” I reminded her.
The slap came without warning. My head snapped to the side.
“I have been far too indulgent with you—you treacherous, wicked creature. My family has shown you more consideration than you deserved, after you sought to spread heresy and scandal in my niece’s school. And how do you repay our concern? How do you repay my hospitality? You mock me. You dare act with such impudence.”
Perhaps I was indeed a wicked creature, for I felt the urge to strike her back. None of these people wished for my well. Rather, they wished me to behave as they behaved, to think as they thought, to believe as they believed. I did not strike Mrs Pritchard, nor did I attempt to defend myself against her accusations. It would have served no purpose: she would have called me mad, hysterical.
I turned, the keys clenched in my fist, and went towards the front door.
That woman was too proud to pursue me or even raise her voice. Remaining at the foot of the stairs, she simply said, “Disobey me now, and from this moment your future shall no longer concern me. I shall dismiss you. And when your father learns why I was forced to cast you out, he will not take you back beneath his roof.”
The clock struck the quarter.
I left Briar House.
MY HEART faltered. It was empty.
The hut was empty and dark. The hearth lay cold, its ashes undisturbed. Panic rose, a dreadful certainty seizing me: I had waited too long, and he had gone.
I dashed out of the hut, still breathless from the run, and again I ran, gathering my skirt, this time towards the ruins themselves.
I longed to call out to him. But I had no name to call.
I stopped short.
Among the graves, before me, in the pitch-black night, still moonless, there stood a tall figure, motionless, as though he were hewn from the same eroded stone as the crosses. Long, unruly hair partly veiled the cadaverous face, the yellow eye catching the light of my lantern. He was watching me. Such a ghastly apparition would have made anyone tremble and recoil.
I moved towards it.
My heart raced, but my steps were slow; walking among the tombstones, the weeds clutched at the hem of my skirt. I did not watch where my boots fell. My gaze was fixed upon the figure, seeking to discern the expression on his face. Was it of sorrow… or anger?
I stopped before him, and raised the lantern. Its amber light revealed furrowed brow, severe and sombre, and eyes likes those of a wary woodland creature.
Could it be that he now feared me? Tears pricked at my eyes and I did not force them back. I prayed that he might understand my feelings from my expression, for in that instant I was unable to find words to explain them.
“I thought you were gone.” My voice cracked with a sob. “Where were you?”
He seemed surprised by the question. “I often walk the countryside after sunset. It is safer for me.”
He paused.
“I saw you leave the house.”
“Were you there tonight?”
“Not with any ill intent. I never came too close to the gate. I only—” He averted his gaze. The hair veiled his face still more, the eye gleamed beneath the half-closed lid. “I only wished to be where you were, for a moment.”
My hand moved towards his, my fingers closed around his index. I dared not ask for more.
But he slowly drew his hand away from mine. For a fleeting, horrible heartbeat, a dull ache tightened my chest.
Then, his hand returned to the side of my neck. His thumb brushed my cheek, grazing my hair, loose and dishevelled.
“You are cold,” he said simply.
I SAT on the solitary chair. My lantern lay forgotten upon the table, its wick extinguished; a small fire now glowed in the hearth, newly revived by the careful tending of the hut’s inhabitant. He remained on the floor at my feet, one knee drawn to his chest, the other angled outward. His large hands, calloused and heavy, enclosed mine, as though to shield them from the cold, or perhaps only to assure himself that I was truly there once more.
After a few silent moments, I turned his hands palm-up. My thumb found the seam at the base of his index finger. As I traced the path where his maker’s needle had bitten deep, he seemed to draw back, if only slightly.
“There is blood on these hands,” he murmured. “The blood of my creator. And the blood of men whose only fault was to stumble into my blind rage.”
“Is… is that rage still within you?”
“It died when he died. There, at the frozen edges of the world, I forgave him, my creator… my father. He departed, and I was left with nothing but a single hope. To learn to be human. To be good, to be wise. I made a promise within myself at the rising of the sun: condemned to life as I was, I would live forgetting the wrongs done to me, and forgiving mankind for the goodness they were incapable of granting me.”
I hesitated, my throat tight, before asking, “Did you keep that promise?”
“I… I strive to be at peace with the world, for the sake of the few who ever showed me kindness.”
“What became of you after your creator’s death?”
“I wandered for many years thought the cold lands of Scandinavia before I resolved to return south, to those places that had been my father’s home. One winter, now three years past, circumstances compelled me to leave the Continent again, and I secretly boarded a merchant brig bound for the shores of this island.”
The fire crackled softly. Not once did he lift his eyes from my lap, from our joined hands.
“The nature of men is the same in every land. My appearance everywhere I went provoked surprise and fear, and often violence. To some I was a devil to be burned, to others a monster to keep chained. Those few who treated me with gentleness incited suspicion and anger in their neighbours and… often paid, by the hands of their fellows, for the care they had shown me.”
He sighed, his shoulders hunching.
“The only way for me to live in peace is to be something whose existence all must remain ignorant.” His voice had been reduced to a deep, rough whisper. “And yet I still feel, at times, a longing to be, in some way, close to humanity. When I arrived in this county, and took refuge among these ruins, I told myself that I could not remain long. I should have sought another place, far from the reach of any human dwelling, where none could stumble upon me.”
“Do not speak so,” I entreated. “How could I have found you, had you hidden yourself in a cave, or within the depths of a wood?” I gently lifted his chin. “I wish you had a name. It would be the dearest sound in the world to me.”
Slowly, I rose from the chair without letting go of his hand. My skirt whispered against his knees.
His head tilted up, his gaze following me with quiet, inquisitive attention.
Wanton, they would call me. And perverse.
But his palm was warm, and when I tugged, he followed.
In the corner behind me stood the bed, with its mattress filled with straw and its rough heap of furs and wool.
His dark eyes flickered from my face to the bed and back again; his fingers spasmed between mine.
“You don’t want it?” I asked. “You don’t want me?”
“You cannot want it,” he breathed, the words fraying. “This body… it is… You know what I am.”
I gently released his hand, and with it, I released him. “Yes—indeed I do,” I replied quietly. “And I know what I desire.”
We stood before the hearth. I waited in silence: if he chose to turn from me, I would have borne it without reproach.
The fire shifted and settled with a faint sigh.
Still he did not speak.
At last, his tall frame bent towards me with deliberate care, as though even this small gesture demanded courage. I lifted my face to meet him. His lips—ever so rough, yet warm—grazed mine, a lingering fear still restrained him.
I cupped his face beneath the loose strands of his hair, and in that very instant his breath altered; his hand rose to my throat, his long fingers closing lightly around it, and he kissed me once more, as he had amid the ruins.
He drew back abruptly, his brow coming to rest against mine.
“I do not know—” His voice, always so deep and rough, trembled. “—how to desire without devouring.”
“I crave to be devoured,” I breathed.
“I do not wish to hurt you.”
“You will not. And if you should, I shall tell you, I shall guide you.”
A strange, exhilarated feeling coursed through me as I brought my hands to the front of my high-necked bodice. The small buttons, plain mother-of-pearl things sewn into dark cotton, yielded one by one beneath my fingers. I let the bodice slip from my shoulders and fall to the floor. The warmth of the fire licked my bare arms, but hotter still was his gaze as I undid first my skirt, then my petticoat.
They pooled in folds at my feet. I remained in my stockings and boots, aware of how little my form was concealed by the corset and the thin muslin of my chemise. A flush rose from my chest to my face. I stood before him, half-naked and so much smaller, and yet I was not daunted.
My hands rose almost of their own accord. I helped him slip out of the coarse weight of his overcoat, then guided his arms from the worn woollen shirt, and he accepted my every motion with an almost reverent docility.
I had never stood so close to a man unclothed. Even though he towered above me, without his garments he seemed less massive: his limbs were long yet harmonious, his proportions measured; in the firelight he might have been mistaken for a pallid effigy assembled from fragments of disparate marble, the seams that crossed the flesh almost resembling cracks along stone.
He waited, studying me; he seemed anxious, as though he searched my gaze for revulsion, for pity.
My gaze was drawn to the long, dark seam along his torso: it ran from his collarbones and disappeared beyond the waistband of his trousers. The sight, and the act to which it bore witness, should have repelled me. But what raced through me had nothing to do with disgust or morbid fascination. It was something almost dizzying, like vertigo and wonder intertwined.
I took his hands in mine. I led him back with me, until the edge of the bed met the backs of my knees.
I sat on the mattress.
He followed without haste. When he knelt between my legs, the movement was slow, almost solemn: I had seen men kneeling so only before altars.
Now our faces were level. He brought his hands to my waist, and I rested my palms on his collarbones, feeling his heat, the rise and fall of his chest, and the imperceptible tension of his muscles. How terribly human he was, beneath that countenance poised between the mortal and the unearthly.
We remained like that for a long moment. Outside, the night murmured; the ivy rustled as the wind crept along the ruins. The world beyond the hut felt unreal to me, Briar House seemed but a place in an unpleasant dream. All that mattered was the gaze before mine in the trembling light of the fire: black eyes, pupils dilated, one flickering with its yellow glow.
His fingers dared to wander along the edge of my corset, brushing the lace-edged hem of my chemise; with the care one might reserve for a newly opened rose, he explored the swell of flesh beneath.
Then, his hand reached for my wrist as he leaned in. He pressed his lips against my pulse point, then higher, along the inner curve of my elbow; and when he reached the slope of my shoulder, his teeth grazed my skin, his tongue following. Wet, warm.
I drew in a shallow breath, the corset’s boning digging into my ribs.
“You must tell me,” he murmured against my flesh, “if my hunger… frightens you.”
I could think of no other way to dispel his fear than to bring his mouth back to mine, kissing him with fervour.
As we kissed, he peeled my chemise aside, baring my shoulders, the neckline gaping to reveal my cleavage. With a stifled growl, his mouth abandoned mine, and his eager kisses traced the crook of my neck, then lower, and lower. His hair brushed lightly against my skin—so delicate in contrast to the craving of his mouth—while one hand spread across my shoulder blades.
I wanted to fall back onto the mattress, yet he held me firmly against his kisses. He hesitated only a moment before undoing the first hooks of my corset. It slid open. His mouth closed over the bud of my nipple through the thin muslin, sucking gently.
My moan sounded broken and brazen to my own ears. My thighs clenched involuntarily, the warm dampness between them impossible to ignore, the pulsing ache within me burning and demanding.
“Is this too much?” His breath tickled my nipple through the damp fabric.
“No… no, this is—” My words tumbled out between a panting inhales. “It is… nowhere near enough.” I brushed the solitary strand of blond hair from his face, tucking it behind his ear. “I could… show you where else to touch me.”
He nodded.
I swept up the chemise enough to reveal the skin above my stockings.
His gaze clung to me, the back of his fingers gliding over the bow of my garter, as if he were tenderly contemplating the new sight. But I guided his touch higher, along my thighs, over my hips, up to the waistband of my drawers. I shifted on the mattress, and he helped them slide down my legs.
The distance between us narrowed to a single breath as I brought his fingers to my mouth, my lips parted; my own boldness sent a thrill through me: I closed them around his digits.
The sound that escaped him, half gasp, half growl, made me suck more insistently. His free hand clutched hard, almost painfully, around the soft flesh of my thigh. I felt the tremor in his arm. It was glorious, this lustful, madness, this freedom to want so openly, to be wanted in return.
He watched, enthralled, as I lowered his hand, his fingertips glistening with my saliva. Beneath my chemise, between my parted thighs.
“Here.” I curled his fingers inward, gently, and pressed them where I needed them. “Like so.”
My touch taught his. When to press harder, when to soften his strokes. And he learned—quickly. His movements grew bolder. His broad palm was wide enough to cover me entirely, the heel pressing firmly against my mound while his fingers worked steadily, guided by the rhythm of my breath.
I bit my lip: I was accustomed to silence, to smothering every sound of pleasure. My nails dug into the fur beneath me, my other arm hooked around his neck. His shoulder shifted, the muscles taut. My hips thrust faintly against his hand, but he resisted my impatience, drawing out each stroke until my thighs quivered.
Then he withdrew his hand, and I could not suppress a whimper.
The firelight was waning, the shadows lengthening across the hut, and I stared, numbed, as he lowered himself, sitting on his heels, his hands resting on the outside of my thighs, his dark strands falling along his skull-like cheekbones. I saw the familiar yellow glint in his pupil, but did not recognise his gaze: something dark, and feral, almost terrifying clouded, those black eyes.
He bent to kiss the inside of my thigh, just above the hem of my stocking, and lifted my chemise, the muslin caressing my heated skin. His mouth followed, his kisses unhurried, moving higher, closer and closer to the apex of my thighs.
I gasped as he lifted my leg over his shoulder, his other hand gripping my hip.
“Ah—”
His mouth traced the same path his fingers had.
I leaned back onto my elbows.
This was nothing like the sensation of my own hands.
His tongue was gentle yet insistent, and scorching hot. I was undone by the innocence of his expression against the obscenity of the act: his eyes half-lidded, his brow furrowed in concentration.
I could not stay silent: I begged him not to stop. And he did not. I did not relent even when my ragged breaths turned into a choked cry, torn mercilessly from my throat. A growl vibrated through his chest and against my flesh, and my hips jerked involuntarily, a burning knot tightening in the pit of my body.
It was in that moment that I caught our reflection in the small mirror on the mantel.
My corset gaping, my chemise hiked shamelessly high, my leg over his shoulder, his long hair spilled over the stitched-together skin of his broad back.
Words hissed in my mind. Disgraced.Fallen. Ruined. I closed my eyes.
Be damned the world and its judgment.
That pleasure—one I ought never to have desired—overcame me: at once violent and unbearably sweet. My back arched, my fingers grabbing his hair. Deep within me, hot spasms pulsed again and again, refusing to release their hold upon my breath. No less merciless was his tongue. He did not cease the delicious torture. Not until I sank back upon the mattress, spent and dazed. Then his arms closed around me at once. He lifted me, almost ferociously, and I offered no resistance.
WITH ONE ARM curved about her, the other hand cupping the back of her frail neck, the creature held the woman against him. A ravenous craving burned in his loins. Yet he did not move. For a moment something else took hold of him: an ache deeper than physical desire, sweet as the first thaw beneath snow, sharp as a blade turned inward.
The grace of holding someone in his arms had been granted to him only once in his life, and he had to lay her at the feet of Death, to relinquish her to a realm he could never reach. But tonight the woman in his embrace was alive, her warmth seeping into him even through muslin and cotton. Never, not ever for a moment, had the creature allowed himself to hope he would behold her again—and now she was there, with him. Not out of pity, not compelled by fear, but because she wanted it. Because she wanted him.
He cradled her face and stared, transfixed, by the softness of her tear-bright eyes. The firelight caught the sheen of sweat between her breasts and he could not resist drawing his tongue there, before sighing against her breasts, kissing them once more with reverence.
He lifted his face again. “Did I—” He swallowed. “Was it good?”
“Heavenly.” Her breath fanned his face. She pressed her thumb along his lips: they were damp with his own saliva and her wet taste. “You... have this before.” The words hid a soft question, an innocent curiosity.
He shook his head. “I only saw...”
Through a slot between wooden planks, by the rear windows of brothels, in the shadow of an alley—glimpses of lovers hiding in a barn, of gentlemen and their mistresses, of prostitutes and their sailors. It was long before he understood how wrong it was to watch, long before he discovered that the manner in which his body answered those stolen scenes was something immoral and sinful.
But the woman did not seem troubled by his confession. “Then you have seen far more than I ever have.” A small, puckish smile bloomed upon her face. “I have seen only drawings and… a few photographs.”
Her hands were tracing the small of his back, and the creature had to restrain himself from pressing against her, like an animal.
“I have always had the habit of looking where I ought not.”
Her hands moved to the front his of trousers: with the slightest trembling and an agonising slowness, she worked the buttons free. His breath hitched as the fabric slid lower.
“Oh—”
The creature looked downward, following the woman’s gaze, to the crude evidence of his desire. A twinge of embarrassment pierced him: perhaps she found the sight unpleasant?
“What… what is it?”
“Nothing,” the woman murmured, her fingernails tracing the skin right beneath his navel, her lips still curved in a small smile. “It is just that… it does not resemble those of the gentlemen in those illustrations. I mean, it is similar in form, but it is also… more… ample.”
The smile wavered, her brow furrowed. “Are you… capable of begetting child?”
“I… I do not know for certainty. My creator believed it possible.”
A sudden impulse seized him: the urge to recoil. The very notion of placing a child within her womb struck him as abhorrent. What being might be born of a creature such as he? He braced himself to see the same revulsion reflected in her face.
Yet she seemed at ease. “Then I think I see a solution,” she told him.
The woman slowly shifted back upon the bed, sinking back among the furs and rough blankets. The creature followed, as though unseen threads bound him to her, drawing him after her the instant she withdrew. He crawled along her smaller frame, his long hair hanging in front of his face, the dry ticking whispering beneath their weight.
The want in his loins was urgent than ever. But he would not forgive himself—never—were he to bruise her, to press too hard, to forget for one reckless instant the terrible strength of his limbs. Such was his fear of harming her that he shifted his weight away, bracing an elbow into the mattress, angling his body so that he did not bear down upon her.
Her kiss was almost reverent, like that of a bride sealing her vow before the altar, and his hips moved of their own accord, rubbing against the inside of her thigh. He drew in a sharp breath, every atom of his cursed body alive and aflame.
And then—her fingers closed around him, her palm soft against his heated flesh.
The creature froze. And growled. Beneath him the woman opened her mouth in another kiss, receiving that feral sound as if it were a fallen sweetness.
He wanted to call her name, but his voice cracked, and his forehead dropping to hers when her thumb circled his weeping crown, before smearing the slickness along the length. Her strokes were slow, tentative—but not timid.
“P-please… please,” he panted, his eyes squeezed shut.
Her grip tightened, her touch fastened.
His hips jerked, clumsy like a marionette’s twitch, his fist clenching in the rough fabric beneath them.
Yet even then, while ecstasy coiled tight within him and the savage drums of his heartbeat filled his chest, a cruel question forced itself into the creature’s mind.
What were they, seen from without? Two shapes tangled upon a rough bed in a miserable shack. And his vast, livid form—how did it appear as it moved between a woman’s thighs? He saw in his mind, with merciless clarity, the curve of his back, the patches of pallid corpse-flesh straining with effort. He was but a grotesque thing marring what was delicate and pure.
To silence that vision, he hid his face against her shoulder. At least there no condemnation would reach him—neither from men nor from any God.
Release tore through him. Sudden. Staggering. His fingers drove hard into the flesh of her thigh; seed spilled across the front of her corset, pearling upon the fabric, seeping slowly into it.
His breath still came in ragged gusts as he looked down at her face, so close to his: the fire in the hearth had dwindled to embers, casting her features in chiaroscuro. The creature longed to speak, to voice the gratitude and terror that knotted his throat, but language seemed to have abandoned him. The woman did not speak either; she simply moved his hair away from his face, regarding him with a tenderness he scarcely believe he deserved.
THE HUT lay in silence and in half-shadow. In the hearth, the ruddy glow of the embers was sinking ever lower. Framed by the small, glassless window, the half-moon had finally showed itself between shreds of harmless cloud; and upon the bed of straw, they remained entwined, the woman and the creature.
She, still lying upon her back, was idly stroking his hair. He held on to her, his face resting against her chest, turned slightly so that his cheek rested on her breasts. He could feel the slow rising of her breath, could hear the steady cadence of her heart. Each beat passed through cloth and bone and entered him.
In that torpid calm, the creature did not see a woman, but a vision fashioned of warmth and softness, of pale muslin and delicate laces, of supple curves and silken locks of hair. Too beautiful for that rude bed, for the worm-eaten rafters and smoke-darkened ceiling. Too beautiful for him.
His yellowed nails and the darkened tips of his fingers—long livid things—appeared to him more monstrous than ever as they lay upon her waist, near the fragile trimming of her garment. And the scent on her skin, a faint echo of roses, made the smell of the straw beneath them all the more biting.
Of course, the creature did not know that the fragrance was merely some perfumed water sold by the town apothecary, nor that the lace was of modestest workmanship, and that the muslin had been mended more than once.
In his sight, in that hour, she was nothing less than an angel.
No, the creature told himself. Not an angel. Angels were too austere, too remote. She was like one of those figures painters crowned with moonlight and silver leaves, like a Titania lying in the lair of a savage. And as with all fairy folk, she would vanish before the dawn, back to the fair red-brick house, to its ordered rooms and shuttered windows.
When he spoke at last, his voice was little more then a whisper.
“You must return home before the sun rises.”
“We still have time,” she whispered back. “And I am in no haste. I… shall not enjoy the hospitality of Briar House any longer. I have been discovered slipping out this night; Mrs Pritchard would have confined me indoors. We quarrelled, and she has dismissed me.”
The creature lifted his head, his brow frowning. Reluctantly he relinquished the shelter of her breast, stretching out beside her, his hand closing around her tight.
The woman turned, nestling against him, so that their face were once more close.
“You left in secrecy to come to me—”
“And I do not regret it,” she hushed him gently. “In any case, I doubt I should have endured living in that house much longer.”
“But what will you do now?”
“I do not know, yet. I do not desire to go back beneath my father’s roof; and none of my other relatives will be eager to be burdened with a cantankerous spinster, I fear.” She smiled at her own words; but then her voice softened, her tone turned more thoughtful. “I do not despair of finding employment somewhere else. In another county, perhaps, or upon the Continent…”
To him, her words sounded touched with melancholy, yet not bereft of hope.
Suddenly, a certainty settled within him.
It became clear what must be done.
“I shall go where you go.”
Across counties or across water, he would follow—if she so desired. He had seen the world in its cruellest aspects; he knew how it treated the solitary and the unprotected.
The creature would remain what he had always been. A shadow, a phantom, a rumour haunting the darkest corners of the world. Yet for her, he would be a guardian.
THE FIRST DAWN of May found me once more upon the same lonely lane. Mist veiled the countryside; only the trill of larks, nestled among the dark hedgerows, disturbed the stillness of that enchanted hour.
I walked towards Briar House, as I had done so many times before—probably for the last time. Now it was not mud that dampened my skirt, but the moisture of the morning dew. The air was chill, and the sky was gentle. Before me, the silver half-disc of the moon had begun its slow descent, a pair of stars still shone in the dusty indigo of the western sky.
I had left the ruins behind me. The humble hut had borne witness to countless kisses, and even more sighs of pleasure throughout the night. The memory was still fresh on my skin; the echo of his promise lingered within me.
You may judge me naïve and imprudent.
Perhaps you are right: my purse was light, my prospects undefined, and the world was not indulgent towards those who step beyond the narrow line drawn for them. I did not pretend blindness to the dreadful uncertainty that lay before me. And yet, despite all, I could not summon despair.
I had known stagnation. I had endured the slow suffocation of days measured by another’s will. That morning, the future—our future—appeared to me as the fields now appear at dawn: vast and hidden by the drifting mist, yet their soil held the unseen promise of a harvest.
If I could melt your heart, we’d never be apart — chapter five
Excerpt from the chapter: Slowly, reluctantly, he released my lips. His breath bushed my cheek first, and then lower, on the bare hollow beneath my ear, just above the stiff fabric of my collar. He kissed me there; and I thought of a pilgrim, head bowed, pressing reverent lips to the hands of marble virgins. My head fell back. No saints peered down, no demons leered. Above us, the roofless church framed a sky bruised and heavy with tempest-grey clouds, the fading light of sunset smouldering beneath the gloom.
Summary: During the fifteen years following Victor Frankenstein’s death, his nameless creation has learned to exist in the edges and the penumbras of the human world. His last refuge is in the fractured shadow of a ruined church, a place forgotten both by god and men alike. Until one day a stranger dares to disturb the long-dead remnants of the past.
Pairing: Frankenstein’s creature x female oc (named, minimally described, reader-friendly)
Ratings: Explicit
Status: Complete
Tags: smut, romance, angst, strangers to lovers, gothic literature vibes, victorian era, erotic tension and sexual repression, typical victorian prudishness, typical 19th century sexism, religious themes, criticism of religion, atheism, alternating pov, first person and third person pov
A/n: Here we are! Sorry again for the wait, editing this chapter took me a bit longer than expected. As always, thank you so much to everyone who’s been reading along. It truly means a lot!! I should be able to post the final chapter by the end of the week 😉✨
Credits: Images found on Pinterest, dividers by @/strangergraphics
ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔉𝔦𝔳𝔢
AFTER THAT NIGHT I went often to visit the nameless hermit.
At first I lingered only a few minutes, partly from the fear that my presence might be still unwelcome to him, partly because I did not wish to further arouse Mrs Pritchard’s suspicions.
She continued to regard my walks with mistrust. I had reason to believe that my employer was pursuing her own private inquiries both in town and among the neighbouring cottagers. During my solitary strolls, however, I encountered none but sheep and rooks, and Mrs Pritchard had no valid reason to require me to forgo an afternoon walk when the weather was clement enough.
All the more so because I grew more tranquil and more compliant within doors: I could better endure my situation now that I felt as though I had a secret wholly my own—a person wholly my own—beyond the bounds of Briar House.
At times, I brought to the hut what little I could purchase in town or pilfer from our pantry; at others, I simply accompanied the hermit on his wanderings about the ruins, as he went in search of firewood and food.
It surprised me to discover that he ate no meat. He did not hunt, nor trap, nor kill any animal; he would not even touch the eggs in the robins’ nests, though they lay easily within his reach, lodged in the crevices of the ruined walls.
It was during one of these walks that, somewhat unexpectedly, the hermit said to me, “If you still wish to see the ruins, one day I might show you where it is safe to tread.” He spoke without lifting his eyes to me, but in his voice I perceived a note of gentle unease.
I agreed, and on the following day, he led me at last among the ruins.
Rain had fallen copiously during the morning, and in that late, golden hour of the afternoon the ivy leaves, which mantled the walls and draped the empty window-frames, still shone like emeralds.
While we walked between the wan stone columns—some broken, some still upholding the fragments of the pointed arches—the hermit’s heavy tread crushed the weeds, tracing for me a path away from loose stones and hidden hollows.
He allowed me all the time I wished to linger and observe.
I tried to distinguish the ghosts of Latin inscriptions upon the baptismal font; then my fingers traced the shadowed forms of faceless prophets carved into the altar: it was set against the eastern wall, shaped almost like a sarcophagus, the stone veined with cracks.
When I sought to draw near to the hollow that opened upon the ossuary, the hermit cautioned me where to place my feet. It was dark below. Too dark to discern anything. But there was water, black and stagnant. A foul odour rose from it. Again I felt a renewed gratitude for him who had spared me a fall into that tomb-like pit.
The sun had slowly withdrew from the ruins, leaving us stepped in a grey and lifeless light, when the hermit with a slow gesture indicated a spot at the base of the north transept wall: a small hollow beneath an arch of roots and fallen stones.
“A vixen lives there. Soon she will have her cubs. I have seen her companion bringing her food.”
At that very moment, as if summoned by the hermit’s voice, the fox’s muzzle appeared at the mouth of the den. The little creature regarded us with her intelligent amber eyes, ears pricked.
Then, to my disappointment, in a swift motion she withdrew into her burrow.
“She does not know your scent,” my guide said, with a rough kindness, as though he had perceived my disappointment.
“I hope they keep away from the farms,” I sighed. “I know how harmful they can be, but I have seen the horrible traps farmers set for them—” I thought of iron jaws snapping shut, of a noose tightened around a small throat, of a lingering death steeped in terror.
“Men know how to bring about cruel ends,” said the hermit, his voice darkening.
AFTER THAT DAY, during those secret visits, I began to pay less and less heed to the small pocket watch I wore at my belt.
One day the hermit and I walked along a stream from which he was accustomed to draw his water, and in which he washed himself; he could endure the cold water rather easily, he told me. On a late afternoon of a rare sunny day, we sat upon a grassy patch where wild strawberries would ripen in summer, and he described to me how every year their fragrance filled the early summer air.
On another day, when a sudden downpour forced me to wait inside his hut, the hermit told me that he had found Lyrical Ballads most enjoyable. I ventured to ask whether he might read a little aloud for me. To my surprise, he consented. I watched the rain fall thickly beyond the open door of the hut, while his voice, which ever brought to my mind the distant thunder of a summer storm, recited the familiar lines of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
The hermit, though a man of few words and reticent manners, was not a brute. He was educated; he seemed to have learned much through the written word, and far more through the long years in which he had observed the conduct of men and women from his station as an outcast. His observations were always keen, through often delivered with a shy reserve; and they revealed a mind both intelligent and far from lacking in kindness.
I could not help but notice, however, that his inner world seemed all too thickly peopled with stories of creatures burdened by inherited sin and with notions of predestination and punishment.
Thus, at length, I summoned my courage and resolved to speak to him of authors who had taught me to question, to reason, to observe; of thinkers who had introduced me to ideas untainted by doctrine.
I did so not without a profound fear.
I had often been called ridiculous and pedantic; I was always told that my manner of speaking—too spontaneous, too direct—was unbecoming in a woman. And though I was accustomed to such remarks, familiarity had not rendered them any less humiliating.
Imagine, then, my relief when I saw that he listened with unwavering attention to all that I spoke, never offering a word of judgment or reproach. My thoughts found no ridicule in his presence. He received them all with a quiet, contemplative patience, as though each idea, however strange or daring or startling, were a matter worthy of consideration.
Nevertheless, you may think it still reckless of me to remain so often alone with a man of such sort.
I can assure you that he never attempted to touch me again, in any way; even the most accidental brush of hands was avoided. The strictest of chaperons could not have found anything in his behaviour towards me to reproach.
But for my part, I would be dishonest to deny that on some nights the memory of his fingers upon my lips was a delicious torment, that I lay in my bed and I longed to to have them upon the rest of my body.
Now you may wonder: how could I long for his nearness, when his appearance had so unsettled me? I cannot tell you with any certainty. I can only suppose that, little by little, my eyes grew accustomed, the strangeness of his visage began to seem increasingly irrelevant, until what mattered was the way he looked at me, not how he looked himself.
This is not to say that I was not tremendously curious about the cause of his appearance.
Of his past, the hermit spoke very little. I only learned that he came from the Continent and that he had no living affections remaining; even his father—the one who had abandoned him before granting him a name—had been dead for many years.
I often wondered whether that father had cast him off on account of his appearance.
In seemed reasonable to suppose that the scars had been inflicted upon him later in life. Every time my gaze drifted to the dark uneven lines along his hands and his face, the sight pained me. The wounds that had caused them, they must have hurt terribly, I imagined. The scar upon the front of his throat, a cross etched into the flesh, was always the hardest to behold. Who could have inflicted such pain? And for what reason?
But I hid my pity and held my tongue. I had no right to compel him to speak of his past. Nor to compare his suffering to my trifling misfortunes. Yet, at times, as I watched him, I thought of how we had both been left behind by those who had brought us into the world—a world that seemed to have no clear use for either of us.
MARCH drew to a close. That year, on Easter Sunday, the church bells in town tolled beneath a steady, cold rain. It was a gloomy April, but rain and mud could not hinder the arrival of spring. The dawns came earlier, the sunsets lingered. The countryside became a palette of the most dark, vivid greens. At Briar House, under the care of Mr Wright, pale cream primroses, red tulips and yellow daffodils blossomed in the small garden, while among the forgotten graves nature’s hands strew celandines and sweet violets in abundance.
The flowers swayed gently, brushed by the hem of my skirt as I hurried towards the hut.
It was a grey but dry afternoon, and I was in good spirits.
I entered the hut. Its solitary inhabitant was seated at the table, intently whittling a wooden spoon.
Though still a humble shelter, it lately appeared tidier: the floor was swept, the cobwebs gone, bowls and plates were neatly stacked beside the hearth. On the mantel, alongside the hermit’s meagre collection of books, rested two candles, set in small, plain tin holders—which I had purchased in town for a few shillings.
“Good afternoon, my friend. I have brought you a little something today,” I announced, setting down the wicker basket upon the table.
I drew out a bundle from the basket and slid it towards the man.
He sat aside his work. With his large hands, and the hesitation of a boy receiving a box of toys, he opened the bundle.
“I found them in the attic.” I removed my gloves and my hat. “I imagine they belonged to Mrs Pritchard’s late husband.”
A comb, a brush, and a mirror set in the simplest wooden frame. The hermit studied the objects for a long, thoughtful moment; then he covered them once more with the cloth. He murmured a word of thanks, yet could not conceal the unease that stirred within him.
Only then did I see my carelessness: my embarrassment nearly verged on mortification. The mirror: what desire could he ever had for an object to reflect his face?
I took back the bundle. “Well, the mirror is for the candles,” I lied cheerfully. I approached the hearth, mirror in hand, and placed it upright behind one of the unlit candles. “There, this will give you more light.”
I paused, trying to dispel my embarrassment.
“Oh—and I have something for the foxes too.”
For some time now, I had made it a habit to bring food to the vixen and her cubs; the hermit had told me they had emerged from the den, but I had not yet had the fortune to see them. I hoped that, if we kept them well fed, they would stay away from the hen-houses, and from the guns of the farmers.
So I took my basket, left the hermit to his work and went out among the ruins. I set the food near the den: scraps of uncooked chicken and the cores of a few apples. Once again, the foxes did not show themselves.
I found nothing else to do but stroll along the transept.
I paused at the altar: a charming carpet of bluebells had grown all around it, in the shade of the apse wall. I thought that they would brighten the hut a little.
It was there that the hermit joined me, as I sat upon the slab at the foot of the altar, arranging the modest bouquet of bluebells in my lap.
“These grew in the school garden as well. In spring, we always brought little bunches like this one into the classrooms.”
“Do you miss the place?” the hermit asked, after a moment.
“I miss only my girls, and only sometimes.”
“You never told me the reason they sent you away.”
“You are not the only one who is entitled to keep secrets.”
He did not reply, but averted his gaze from me.
I smiled at him, untroubled.
“I will tell you, if you truly wish to know. I imagine you have already thought of the most obvious reason.”
He looked at me, perplexed.
“I must be a fallen woman.” And when he did not answer, I went on: “Come on—you know what that means.”
“You had a lover.”
My smile turned bitter.
“I had no lover,” I sighed.
There, at the foot of the altar, idly turning the posy in my hands, I confessed my sins.
I had introduced my pupils to Charles Darwin’s discoveries; I had read aloud to them passages from the essays of Mr and Mrs Mill; I had encouraged them to follow Maestro Da Vinci’s example, striving to be disciples of the experience, to always remember that any claim not grounded in experience was but vain speculation. I had, in short, exhorted the young girls not to rest content with tradition or authority, but to always question dogmas.
And what was it, if not a dogma, the notion that it was the nature of all women, without exception, to want to live for others, to abandon themselves entirely, to have no life other than in their affections; that our character lacked resolution and self-command; that we were by nature called to submission and surrender to the governance of others?
Of course, it was not for this that their parents paid the school fees. They had expected education, yes, but above all they required humility and obedience to be instilled in their daughters’ character. Those virtues alone would render them proper, agreeable, and pleasing in the eyes of their future husbands and of the Almighty. [1]
While I explained all this, striving as best I could to restrain a certain vehemence, the hermit had seated himself at the far corner of the altar, where a stone offered a makeshift seat for his tall figure, clad in his rugged overcoat; now he remained still and silent, his gaze lowered, his shoulders stooped.
A tremor of unease ran through me at his silence.
“Do you, too, consider me a disgrace to my sex?”
“Not in the least.”
He lifted his dark eyes to mine and I knew at once that he did not speak falsely. But could I really believe that he did not weigh me by the same measure as those who had condemned me all my life?
“Be honest with me now,” I said. “Were you to have a wife, would you too not desire her obedience no less than her affections? Would you not wish for a willing slave, shaped and schooled since birth to bend even her thoughts to your will?”
He did not answer immediately. The ruins were growing grey around us: behind the clouded sky, the sun was setting.
“There was a time,” the hermit finally began, in a hoarse, reluctant voice, “many years ago, when I longed for a companion, one who would shared my very—”
He broke off.
“—My very deformity. Someone who would not have denied herself to me. A fool I was, so desperate that I wished another to endure the suffering that I endured, to be spurned by the world as I was, if only to put an end to my loneliness.”
He never turned towards me as he spoke; he seemed ashamed of his words—of himself.
“Even if such a woman had ever appeared upon this earth, why should I have claimed any rights over her? Why should I have expected her to love me? Indeed I once sought a willing slave in a companion, though I was not aware of it at the time. But for a long while now, I have loathed the detestable selfishness of my former self.”
I said nothing: I was deeply troubled.
This time, it was the hermit who broke the silence.
“Was there no one at that school who befriended you?” he asked, with more composure. “Did no one speak in your defence?”
I allowed myself a few moments to reflect.
“Perhaps someone might have, had I not committed yet another error.”
I told him that I learned that the other teachers had confided to the headmistress how, on more than one occasion, I ventured remarks that seemed to cast doubt upon my faith in God.
“As you may know, men may permit themselves to be indifferent to religion. But a woman without faith is deemed a woman without a heart. And had I stated that those accusations were false, perhaps I might have held some hope of retaining my position. I did nothing to contradict them. It is true that I do not believe the existence of a God, for I simply cannot force my mind to believe without evidence.” [2]
I saw a subtle change within him: his brow furrowed, and my heart sank. I feared I had scandalised him.
“If you do not believe in God,” the hermit said slowly, but there was no malice or bitterness in his tone, “how do you then discern what is good and right from what is sin and abomination?”
“I strive, as best I can, to judge a deed by its fruits,” I replied. “By the harm or the kindness they bring.”
I hesitated, then added, “More than anything, I find it repugnant to conceive a god so petty as to condemn a child for the sins of its forebears before it has even opened its eyes to the world. To be judged guilty before one has had the chance to act is a monstrosity.”
The hermit remained silent, his brow still furrowed.
“Perhaps there is truth in your words,” he said at last, without raising his eyes to mine, as though some great sorrow weighed upon him. “But I cannot allow myself such consolation: I am the sin of my father made flesh. My existence among mankind is an abomination. The life I endure, the revulsion I inspire, they are my penance for the crime of him who brought me forth.”
Bewildered, I could not speak, my gaze fixed on his profile in the livid light. His words were like a thorn bramble inside my chest. Why did he speak so terribly of himself?
At last, I rose to my feet, the bluebells strew upon the ground. I crossed the space between us and knelt before the hermit, my skirt pooling around me, and reached for him before I could reconsider my resolve. I took one of his hands between mine: my thumbs barely reached the midpoint of his palm.
The hermit turned his head away, but did not retract his hand.
“Why do you speak so? Help me understand.”
Yet he remained silent, cold as the ruins around us.
It seemed impossible to me that any words could soothe a pain so deeply carved, so twisted, within him, whatever its cause.
“I have lived in many houses. Fine houses, filled with seemingly good, respectable and irreproachable people. Yet I had never felt wholly myself until I set foot within your hut. Can your existence truly be judged so harshly, if it has brought joy to someone, even if only to a poor and insignificant schoolmistress?”
My hand rose; my fingers skimmed his jaw, coaxing him towards me. He did not resist, and I pressed closer. His eyes closed as my fingers traced the plane of his temple. My lips followed. I kissed where his hairline met his skin, a touch light as a sigh; I kissed the crest of his cheekbone, where the skin was stretched taut over bone; I kissed the scar above his upper lip and I lingered there, unthinking, until I felt his breath shudder against me.
And then I pressed my lips to his.
It was a chaste thing, like the flutter of a moth’s wing. It tasted of bitter herbs. His lips were chapped, colder than mine, and utterly still beneath me.
I drew back, my pulse wild in my throat. Had I dared too much? Would he recoil, disgusted by the presumption?
He blinked. Those dark eyes held mine with a timid wonder. His hand raised, trembling ever so slightly; he caressed my hair, cradled the side of my face. In his gaze, something excruciatingly tender unfurled slowly.
I kissed him again, and a shudder ran through him.
Then, his arms closed around me so abruptly I gasped. He drew me flush against him. I parted my lips for him without hesitation, rewarded by a sound halfway between a growl and a sob vibrating through his chest. I believe he wept as he kissed me: I tasted salt on our mingled, uneven breaths.
Suddenly, he rose to his feet, lifting me with him as though I weighed nothing at all.
He set me upon the altar, its edge pressed into my thighs through layers of skirts. He kept me there, seated, his body sheltering mine, his mouth claiming mine with kisses that were now neither chaste nor light. And I felt it—that familiar warmth low in my belly, sudden as a spasm, insistent almost to pain.
Slowly, reluctantly, he released my lips. His breath bushed my cheek first, and then lower, then the bare hollow beneath my ear, just above the stiff fabric of my collar. He kissed me there; and I thought of a pilgrim, head bowed, pressing reverent lips to the hands of marble virgins.
My head fell back. No saints peered down, no demons leered. Above us, the roofless church framed a sky bruised and heavy with tempest-grey clouds, the fading light of sunset smouldering beneath the gloom.
With an urgency I no longer cared to disguise, I brought my hands to his face, cupping it, seeking again for his mouth. His fingers brushed over the buttons of my bodice and I covered his hand with mine, guiding his large palm over my breast.
How does one confess such visceral, vulgar need without sounding mad? There, on that desecrated altar, I wanted him to lift my skirts up to my waist, to pin me against the stone, to feel his weight between my legs and his breath, warm and fractured, against my neck.
But he stopped. Still he held me close, still he looked at me, but in his gaze tenderness had given way to a trembling dismay.
As he stepped back from the altar, withdrawing himself from my embrace, the shame returned in full force. Shame of my body, of my desires, of daring to want. My face burned. I could not bear his eyes.
THE CREATURE watched as the woman slid down from the altar: the fabric of her skirt whispered softly, and she moved with careful deliberation, as though each motion made her body ache. Her lips were swollen, wet and flushed; she hid them from his sight by pressing the back of her hand against her mouth.
The instant the woman moved away from the altar, turning her back to him, desire seized once more his stitched-together body. It was a thing at once brutal as the hunger of a starving beast and pure as the longing of the first man driven from Eden.
But the creature knew he must be his own cherubim with the flaming sword, barring the way back to that forbidden paradise. He clenched his hands at his sides, rooting himself to the ground.
At first, the creature had received the woman’s presence with deep wariness. He had expected her visits to dwindle, her courage to falter; yet she had returned, again and again.
Slowly but inevitably and against his better judgment, he had begun to cherish those brief encounters. Her discreet kindness, her calm spontaneity, and all the new notions she carried with her, ideas of the wider world, of human feeling named and examined: they were like a slender shaft of sunlight entering a room long kept in shadow.
He found a peculiar pleasure in the fact that she bore the name of such a simple yet tenacious flower. It did not take long before the frozen ground of his heart began to love that flower, that fragile ray of light.
At times, he allowed himself to imagine what it might be to have her beside him always. Not in that miserable hut, no. He would have built for her a house both fair and warm, and there no one would have made her feel improper, out of place.
Yet such reveries revealed their own madness almost as soon as they arose.
Where could such a house ever stand? And what folly to believe that she would abandon the world forever, for him.
And there were other imaginings, more insane still: the woman laid in his bed, her body warm against his, the faint scent of her skin filling his breath until it eclipsed all else. Each time such visions stirred his flesh, shame struck him sharp and merciless.
But now she had shown him her own desire.
And the fierce, trembling joy that had flooded the creature was quickly chased away by dread.
For all that time, the woman had looked upon him and seen only a man—strange, solitary, perhaps wounded or ill-born, yet still of her kind; she was unaware to whom her kisses and her tenderness had been bestowed.
To the child of a charnel house.
The words rose again within the creature’s mind, bitter, grievous, inescapable.
To a wreckage.
He could not allow her to soil herself through such a union, led to it by his own cowardice.
As he stood apart from her, his heart grew heavy with resolve. He would tell her everything: of his making, of the hands that had assembled him, of the death that clung to his very being. If she were to turn from him in disgust, it would be with her eyes open. And if she did not… He dared not pursue that thought further.
[1] In this chapter, I paraphrased some of the ideas from The Subjection of Women (1869) by Harriet Taylor Mill and John Stuart Mill. I tried (emphasis on tried!) to keep the portrayal of women’s condition kinda realistic. But most of what I know comes from a couple of books on Victorian England I read a while back, I’m definitely not an expert
[2] This semi-quoted line comes from The Necessity of Atheism (1811) by Percy Bysshe Shelley
If I could melt your heart, we’d never be apart — chapter four
Excerpt from the chapter: He had revealed himself only because waiting had become unbearable. If she were to flee, she would do so regardless, and at least this way he had chosen when. But before the woman could tear herself from him forever, the creature had wrenched from her what he desired: for one precious instant, he had felt the warmth of her skin against his own; he had traced the curve of her waist through her clothes; he had known the damp softness of her lips and the heat of her breath.
Summary: During the fifteen years following Victor Frankenstein’s death, his nameless creation has learned to exist in the edges and the penumbras of the human world. His last refuge is in the fractured shadow of a ruined church, a place forgotten both by god and men alike. Until one day a stranger dares to disturb the long-dead remnants of the past.
Pairing: Frankenstein’s creature x female oc (named, minimally described, reader-friendly)
Ratings: Explicit
Status: Complete
Tags: smut, romance, angst, strangers to lovers, gothic literature vibes, victorian era, erotic tension and sexual repression, typical victorian prudishness, typical 19th century sexism, religious themes, criticism of religion, atheism, alternating pov, first person and third person pov
A/n. guys thank you so much for all the love on the previous chapters, likes, comments, all of it! 💜 Also, apologies for any typos or awkward phrasing. These chapters aren’t proofread and English isn’t my first language, so please bear with me!
ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔉𝔬𝔲𝔯
I DID NOT SCREAM, nor did I try to flee. I did not faint, either.
But I stepped back. The wall of ivy pressed against my shoulders; the hem of his overcoat sank into the folds of my skirt. I could not tear my eyes from his face.
He, on the other hand, did not look at mine; I had the impression that he was taking in my body with his gaze, his dark lashes lowered, his bare brow—marked with deep cut scars, dark as clotted blood—drawn into a sombre expression.
Then one of his hand—that large, ashen thing—came to rest upon my chest, between my throat and the swell of my breasts. I felt overwhelmed by the weight of his touch even if he was not pressing me back against the wall. His hand simply remained there; solid and tangible through the fabric of my bodice.
His other hand settled at my waist, hesitant at first—then, for the briefest moment, his grip tightened and his thumb pressed against the side of my breast. I clutched at the ivy vines behind me. I believe a sigh escaped his colourless lips, but all I could hear was the frantic pounding of my heart.
He brushed the cameo pinned at my collar.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
And with my eyes closed, I could feel the slow ascent of his touch along my throat.
He traced the lines of my face—my jaw, my cheek, the bridge of my nose—like someone who follows a path along the contours of a portrait. His skin was cool, like earth after rain; it smelled of damp soil and leaf-mould.
At last his fingertips reached the corner of my mouth.
I drew in a sharp breath. My eyes remained closed, but my lips parted, forced open by surprise and fear.
His fingers brushed across them, the caress lingering at my Cupid’s bow.
“Now you have seen me,” he murmured. And you should have heard the desolation in his voice.
My fear ebbed a little: I opened my eyes.
He stepped away—abruptly—freeing me from his looming shadow.
“Return to your home.” The words were an order.
I did not move, dazed as I was, my eyes fixed on his bowed profile. When I finally spoke, my voice was breathy, my heart still hammering.
“Your face… What… what has happened to you?”
The hermit did not answer at once. He took a few paces aside, his body turned almost away. “Leave me,” he said again.
I dared one step towards him.
“Leave!”
His voice had changed—it was low, but hard, jagged, like the growl of a wild beast echoing through the ruins.
I shivered, and instinctively, without a word, I obeyed, retreating almost at a run towards the path that carried me away from the ruins.
THE PARLOUR was bathed in light. A large fire crackled in the hearth; the candles were lit. The grandfather clock ticked with the same steady precision as Mrs. Pritchard’s hands, moving tirelessly over her stitching.
She sat upon the velvet sofa, and I sat beside her. It was the hour set aside for our evening reading of Scripture.
“Thou hast trodden down all those that err from thy statutes,” I read. “For their deceit is falsehood. Thou puttest away all the wicked of the earth like dross: therefore I love thy testimonies—”
I closed the Bible so abruptly that Mrs. Pritchard started.
“What is the matter with you?” she asked.
“Forgive me, ma’am. My head aches terribly—I cannot read this evening. I feel unwell.”
It was true. I felt flushed; and the parlour, with its velvets and mahoganies, and the heavy draperies drawn across the windows, made me feel stifled.
“Then I shall read, and you shall listen,” Mrs. Pritchard said. “The word of the Lord is a balm to the spirit as much as to the body—”
I rose to my feet. “Good night, ma’am.”
Mrs. Pritchard called me back immediately: the sound of my own name reached me like the snap of a cane. I halted at the threshold of the room.
“Have you forgotten why I took you under my roof?” Mrs. Pritchard asked sternly.
“No, I haven't, ma'am" I replied, trying not to let my weary irritation show. “I'm here to assist you, and to provide conversation and company in this empty, isolated house. But my head truly pains me—”
She interrupted me. “The aged women, that they may teach the young women to be sober.” As she rose from the sofa and moved towards me, she continued—it was Titus, chapter 2, verses 3 to 5. “To be discreet, chaste, keepers at home, good, obedient to their own husbands, that the word of God be not blasphemed.”
She came to a halt directly before me.
“I remind you that my nephew entrusted to me the moral guardianship of your soul. I will not allow a lost lamb, however stubborn, to stray from the fold. Your nature is corrupt, child; but there is still time for correction.”
“I believe my correction may wait until tomorrow,” I said.
“Your walks have grown longer of late,” Mrs. Pritchard said sharply.
“The air and movement do me good.”
“Idling about the countryside does not.”
I stifled a sigh and headed for the stairs.
“You are meeting with someone—” Mrs. Pritchard decreed, following me.
I stopped at the foot of the stairs, my hand already upon the banister.
“—in town.”
I turned towards her.
“No, I am not.”
Mrs. Pritchard was looking at me with a gaze that could compel even the most unrepentant libertine to bow his head and confess his sins—the very same woman who professed that docility was the supreme feminine virtue.
“Investigate as you please,” I said at last. “Ask the entire town. You will find not a single scrap of gossip about me.”
I turned away again.
“You must be careful, girl,” Mrs. Pritchard said once more, sternly. “There is in you the same rotten seed that lived in your mother.”
Her words froze me halfway up the stairs. I turned my gaze upon Mrs. Pritchard. She said nothing, but her expression was enough to make me understand: she knew.
And if she knew, she could only have learned it from father.
I withdrew to my room.
AN HOUR LATER, I had still not changed for the night; I had let down my hair, given it a few strokes with the brush—and then began pacing back and forth upon the carpet.
A single candle burned upon the dressing table, its light trembling, reflected in the mirror.
I could not be still. I wish I could tell you that I examined my emotions with the same clarity my dear August Dupin brought to a case of murder—but I could not.
What had happened that morning at the ruins had shaken me terribly, and all day I had to conceal my agitation, behaving as if nothing were amiss; the discussion with Mrs. Pritchard had been the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.
She had spoken of mother.
No one ever spoke of her.
And for good reason.
Mother was an actress. And it was from amid the sacred glow of the footlights and the gilded ornament of a theatre cupola, that father fell in love with her. He had set his mind on rescuing her from that life, and when he managed to marry her he resolved to make of her a proper wife. He did not succeed. His ‛angel of the house’ left him, and left him with me—a little thing who had scarcely learned to walk.
Where she went and how she departed, I never knew. I did not think father ever knew either. Growing up, he instructed me to tell everyone that mother was dead; for it was better to be known as orphan than as the daughter of such a woman. He had always been unyielding with me; he feared I might become like mother—so much that when he noticed my modest aptitude for music, he sold our little upright piano. I wept for days.
It unsettled me greatly to learn that he had confided the truth to Mrs. Pritchard, of all people. In that moment, I felt a fierce hatred for them both.
And in that state I made a decision.
I waited until the house had surrendered fully to sleep. Mrs. Pritchard took laudanum at night, and as for Mrs. Wright not even her husband snoring directly into her ear would stir her. So I slipped into my bodice, throw the shawl over my shoulder, and descended downstairs.
I stole out through the kitchen door. I carried a lantern with me, even if the waning moon was still round and bright; its pale light would be enough to show me the way to the path for the ruins.
THE LIGHT moving among the graves had put him on alert. Someone was coming—moving quickly, a lantern swinging in their hand, drawing nearer to his refuge.
For an instant, he expected pursuit—voices, anger, the old violence.
Then he recognised the figure.
The creature's unease deepened. Why had she returned at such a late hour? Was she leading someone else here? He watched her by the solitary, glassless window, his body held still, as though stillness itself might conceal him.
The woman seemed alone.
She slowed her step as she reached his shelter. Silence and stillness returned.
Then the door opened, gently.
The woman lingered upon the threshold, and for a moment she appeared uncertain, as though surprised to find herself there at all.
Moved by deep suspicion, the creature paced a half-circle through the small room, almost as though facing a wolf—his steps slow, his shoulders angled.
The woman stepped inside.
“I don’t care,” she said. “I do not care about your appearance. You do not frighten me.” Her breath trembled a little, as though her courage were failing her even as she asserted the contrary.
“Whatever has happened to you,” she continued, “I will not behave as though your face and your wounds, something you cannot alter, were a fault deserving the punishment of solitude.”
He turned his gleaming eye away from her and lowered his face slowly towards the dead hearth; a faint breath of warmth still rose from the ash and embers.
The creature had seen the frightened look when he had shown her his face by daylight; he had seen how she had closed her eyes, as though trying to erase the sight of him. Such words were a lie; and even if she was not lying to him, he thought, she was lying to herself.
For even if the woman spoke the truth—even if she did not find his appearance repellent—she would recoil all the same, sooner or later, in horror before the blasphemy that was his very making. This, too, had happened before. Always, it ended thus.
He had revealed himself only because waiting had become unbearable. If she were to flee, she would do so regardless, and at least this way he had chosen when. But before the woman could tear herself from him forever, the creature had wrenched from her what he desired: for one precious instant, he had felt the warmth of her skin against his own; he had traced the curve of her waist through her clothes; he had known the damp softness of her lips and the heat of her breath.
“You should not wander the countryside at this hour of the night,” he told her, his voice was a dull sound dragged up from his chest, rough with disuse.
“I could not remain in that house with that dreadful woman one minute longer,” she said at once.
Then she faltered.
“Oh, how contemptible I am... I ought to be grateful. I ought to be meek, I ought to be obedient. But I cannot. I simply cannot!”
He observed her in silence as she moved toward the table.
She set the lantern down upon it with care, her gaze lower, her hands clasped tightly around the handle as if to steady herself.
“You must think me a poor madwoman,” she sighed. “To descend upon your home in this manner, and at this hour. I... I have quarrelled with her—my employer, Mrs Pritchard of Briar House. I did not believe I could calm myself so long as I remain beneath her roof.”
He studied her as she stood there, still and exposed in the soft glow of the lantern. She looked smaller than she had by daylight, yet her presence filled the cold shelter with warmth and a quiet disarray. Her hair had fallen loose about her face, the strands brushing her temples and jaw; unbound in that fashion, they spilled down past her waist.
For the first time, something in him resisted the thought of her turning away once more.
“Stay,” he said, the word forced out in a faltering murmur. “For a little while. If you please.”
She lifted her gaze to his dark form, and he caught a flicker of surprise in her earnest eyes.
“Perhaps... you might tell me of your house among the briars.”
THE HERMIT had nothing to offer me but an uncomfortable chair and the lingering warmth of the ashes, and I did not even know his name; nevertheless, that night I confided to him the anatomy of my misfortunes.
I spoke with an honesty that had never before been permitted me, not without the risk of being judged weak of mind or faulty of character.
As my words—timid at first, then bolder—gathered in the chill air, the hermit listened, silent and almost unmoving.
For a while he remained standing in the space between the hearth and the table, a rugged form no longer so frightening; then he lowered himself to the wooden floor before the spent hearth, his movements unexpectedly measured and careful.
The amber glow of the lantern, left upon the table, fell upon one half of his face: once more I caught the gleam in his eye that had so struck me the first time. Yet that night his face, though grievously marred, did not appear fearful to me; for in its lines I read an expression that was grave but not unkind.
The hermit spoke very little. He did not interrupt me, save to ask for clarification where some detail of my account seemed new to him; otherwise, my inscrutable host remained as he was—listening, with an attentiveness in his eyes such as I had never seen in a man’s gaze before—at least not while I was speaking.
What I told the hermit then, I shall now tell you also.
I HAD COME to Briar House at the beginning of that year. Before then I had worked for a time as a teacher at a small private school for girls. The school was run by a woman who was also the younger sister of the local curate—a curate who, I added with a bitterness I did not attempt to hide, was none other than Mrs. Pritchard’s nephew.
I did not believe I possessed any true talent for teaching; nevertheless, I was glad to earn my own money and to live in a house that was not my father’s.
Then an incident occurred—that night I did not linger over its details, nor shall I do so now; suffice it to say that I did something foolish and naïve. Letters of protest poured in from the parents of my pupils, and in order to quiet the uproar, the headmistress, under her brother’s earnest counsel, dismissed me from my post.
As the matter had become sufficiently known throughout the town, there was little hope of my finding another position as a teacher, whether in a different school or as a governess.
Some weeks later, the curate sent a letter to my father, professing remorse for his part in my distress and expressing a wish to make amends.
He then paid a visit to the modest Clerval household.
He and my father sat together in the front parlour. The affair concerned me, yet I was relegated to pouring the tea, and then to a window seat, cup and saucer in my lap, as though I were still a child—to be seen, but not heard. I still remembered how bitter that tea had tasted, as the curate reminded father that my conduct had been grave, and that it was for that very reason he felt bound to intervene. My soul, he said, must be saved.
He spoke of a widowed aunt, a pious woman who required companionship, and some assistance in her charitable labours among the poor.
“Your daughter,” he declared, “would be perfectly suited to the role.” He added, with serene conviction, that his aunt would surely exert a beneficial influence upon my character.
I said very little during that conversation; but as soon as the curate left our house, I spoke to my father with frankness. I had no wish to bury myself in some remote dwelling, listening day and night to a sanctimonious lady.
But father pressed the facts of my situation upon me.
After the scandal at the school—a scandal for which I alone could be held responsible—I could no longer work as a teacher. I could not marry, for I had never secured any suitors, and I was reaching the age at which the marriage market would soon deem me unsuitable. I possessed no money of my own, no independent income, and the house in which I lived belonged to him.
And father was tired of me—of my wretched nature.
That day, for the first time, he told me plainly that it would have been better had my mother taken me with her when she left him.
In the end, shortly after Christmas, he and I boarded the train that necessity had chosen for me.
TO MY SURPRISE, when I said the hour was growing too late, the hermit offered to walk with me. He walked ahead of me, holding the lantern aloft so that its glow led the way, as we crossed the abandoned graveyard surrounding the ruins.
Somewhere in the distance, an owl called, and the moon was still broad and luminous, so that even at that hour in the morning the winding path was dimly visible beneath our feet.
I was acutely aware of my unseemly situation: alone, in the open country, at such an hour, with a figure I scarcely knew. I ought to have felt intimidated. Instead, I felt my pulse quickening in a way that should have made me ashamed of myself. I had not forgotten how he had touched me the day before. I knew how I was meant to feel about it; how I truly felt, however, I had yet to understand.
“Would you mind if I came to visit you from time to time?” I said, after a while.
He answered after a brief silence.
“No, I would not.”
He slowed his pace, and I fell into step beside him.
“I fear I shall not be able to visit you often. Mrs. Pritchard will grow suspicious: she does not like me to be out too long.”
We were nearing the end of the path.
I spoke again. “I promise I will not come to disturb you in the dead of night again. Besides, no road is truly safe by night.”
“These ones shall be,” he said. “I will keep them safe.”
I was struck by the quiet assurance of such a promise.
“Will you ever tell me your name, sir?”
“I cannot,” the hermit replied. “I do not have one.”
I frowned; yet the answer to my unspoken question came before I could give it voice.
“My father did not grant me a name.”
The hermit stopped and held out the lantern to me.
If I could melt your heart, we’d never be apart — chapter three
Excerpt from the chapter: And now, new images tormented me in the late hours of the night, in the half-light of my room: the bed in the corner of the hut, which seemed more fit for a beast than a man; the way I had been thrown to the ground; the mingled rage and sorrow in a pair of unsettling eyes. But during those nights, I would not allow my hand to stray upon my own body. [...] At that instant, I heard his steps, and the soft rustle of fabric as he drew nearer. I felt him close behind me: his breath, the subtle shift of his weight, and then, the sudden, ghostly brush of his fingers through my hair at the nape of my neck.
Summary: During the fifteen years following Victor Frankenstein’s death, his nameless creation has learned to exist in the edges and the penumbras of the human world. His last refuge is in the fractured shadow of a ruined church, a place forgotten both by god and men alike. Until one day a stranger dares to disturb the long-dead remnants of the past.
Pairing: Frankenstein’s creature x female oc (named, minimally described, reader-friendly)
Ratings: Explicit
Status: Complete
Tags: smut, romance, angst, strangers to lovers, gothic literature vibes, victorian era, erotic tension and sexual repression, typical victorian prudishness, typical 19th century sexism, religious themes, criticism of religion, atheism, alternating pov, first person and third person pov
A/n: thanks for the likes and follows!! You have no idea how much it means 💜 Hope you’ll enjoy this new chapter… it could’ve been titled “H*rny & Depressed People in the 19th Century ”
Credits: Images found on Pinterest, dividers by @/strangergraphics
ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔗𝔥𝔯𝔢𝔢
I RETURNED at Briar House as dusk gave way to night. I found Mr. Wright at the small gate. He was agitated. He said that he was coming to fetch me, and that he would have done so earlier, but Mrs. Pritchard had been reluctant to let him go.
She was convinced that I had deliberately lingered in town, making clever use of the rain as an excuse. I saw no reason to contradict her.
“It is dark outside, and the path was so churned after the rain. I stumbled on a rock as I hurried back, the bottles broke! I am so sorry, Mrs. Pritchard!”
I spoke the lie with admirable calm—if I may say so myself—while limping towards the sofa, with the help of Mrs. Wright’s arm.
Thou shalt not bear false witness.
Another small sin added to the long rosary I had strung together all my life.
“Wicked child,” my father had always called me.
“Idle child,” my teachers used to say, before bringing out the cane.
As for Mrs. Pritchard, she never allowed me to forget that my inattention and my general carelessness ranked among the worst of my—remarkably numerous—faults. I was scolded on the matter with unfailing regularity. Just as often, I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from answering back that I was perfectly capable of paying attention, provided my interlocutor was not fatally dull.
Mrs. Wright helped me onto the sofa and unlaced my boot; she said she was glad I had not cut myself with the broken glass of the tonics. While Mrs. Pritchard, in her gown of dark brown wool and sober black, informed me that she would be withholding the money for the tonics from my allowance and that it would do me good to reflect on the incident, a fitting lesson for having wasted time in town.
She asked whether I had been loitering in bookshops or at a milliner’s this time—and did not wait for my reply. Turning briskly to Mrs. Wright, she instructed her to attend to my ankle quickly, as they were already late for dinner.
The following morning, Mrs. Pritchard sent Mr. Wright to purchase her tonics again. The good man also brought the doctor. He examined my ankle; the sprain was mild, but it was decided that I should keep my leg at rest for a week.
During those days of enforced stillness, I kept my promise and never spoke of the encounter with the mysterious hermit.
As I have already said, I was not superstitious; I did not believe in the devil or malevolent spirits. To me, his reasons for not showing his face had to be perfectly natural. Perhaps an illness had left him scarred, or he had been the victim of some dreadful accident, or else he might have been born with an appearance deemed unsightly.
With so little to guide my conjectures, my thoughts were constantly drawn back to him.
Thus, I found myself thinking of him while seated upon my bed, my ankle propped upon a cushion, my gaze wandering past the small writing desk towards the window. Beyond the rain-streaked glass, the countryside lay softened and pale, its greens and greys blurred like a watercolour.
I thought of him while Mrs. Pritchard recited the prayer before luncheon and supper. At Briar House, meals were taken in near silence, broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock and the restrained clink of cutlery. Mrs. Pritchard tolerated neither idle talk nor brilliant conversation at her table.
I thought of him while bent over my mending. There was always an abundance of sewing to be done for the ‘deserving poor’ under Mrs. Pritchard’s patronage.
And I thought of him even while the Bible lay open upon my knees. Each evening after supper, I was required to read aloud for Mrs. Pritchard, the passages carefully selected by the lady herself. The words—never dear to me—passed before my eyes while my mind drifted elsewhere: to the stranger’s gaze, to his hands, and to the rough grip with which they had closed about my waist.
Now, you might think that such memories disquieted me. They did not—or at least, not only that. Heat was the sensation they also conjured: a slow warmth, blooming in my belly, as familiar as the pulse between my thighs.
I knew that feeling well. I had discovered it when I was very young, and with that discovery came a certainty: I would be considered an abomination among my sex. Little by little, in the darkness, when the house was asleep, I learned what my own fingers could do, where they might linger, stroke, and slide. As I muffled my gasps in pillows, I imagined hands without a face upon my body: parting my skirts, clutching my thighs; or a warm, damp breath lingering on my breasts, until a mouth seized mine with rough reverence.
Each time, I felt myself a shameful thing; a wretched scrap, fit only for the asylum or the brothel. There must have been something deviant in me. And I could not fight it. I craved it—la petite morte; a death that left no marks upon the flesh, save the sweat upon my skin and the slickness between my thighs.
And now, new images tormented me in the late hours of the night, in the half-light of my room: the bed in the corner of the hut, which seemed more fit for a beast than a man; the way I had been thrown to the ground; the mingled rage and sorrow in a pair of unsettling eyes. But during those nights, I would not allow my hand to stray upon my own body.
I should have felt guilt. I did feel guilt.
TEN DAYS passed.
At last, on a brisk morning in mid-March, I was able to leave Briar House again. I volunteered to go into town, to deliver a letter from Mrs. Pritchard to the rector, saying that I needed to attend to a few purchases of which I was in genuine need.
On my way back, I took a detour I had carefully planned over the preceding days.
The hermit was outside his hut. I found him kneeling upon the ground, binding a bundle of sticks, drawing the twine tight around the dry branches.
He became aware of my presence at once and I halted at a distance of some twenty paces. He had turned towards me, his face half obscured by the high collar drawn close about his neck. The hood, however, was upon his shoulders: his hair was long and dark.
I caught a glimpse of his profile.
Severe and handsome, like that of an ancient statue, one of those white stone gods worshipped before the coming of the new god.
But he turned away at once, concealing his features entirely; and though I felt the urge to see his face more clearly, I would not look upon him if he did not wish to be seen.
I did not move closer.
“Good morning, sir," I ventured, raising my voice slightly. "Don't be alarmed, I have not come to trouble you. I have brought you a few things... just to thank you.”
My words were answered only by the soft stir of grass among the tombstones.
I glanced down at the contents of the worn basket on my arm: a loaf of bread from the bakery; a little cotton bag full of oats taken from Mrs Wright’s pantry; a small bar of soap wrapped in the grocer’s paper; and a pat of fresh, pale butter folded in cloth. Three unused candles were tied together with a ribbon—tucked into its bow, a snowdrop I had plucked on the path to the ruins.
I set the basket down upon the grass, near one of the old tombstones. Then, without pressing my gaze upon him, I turned and left.
THE SHELTER was cold, as it always was—the hearth holding only a dull nest of embers—but the cold did not master him as it did other men. He rarely allowed the fire to grow high; a big fire meant smoke, and the smoke could draw eyes. Even on the coldest days, he contented himself with only what was necessary to boil the toughest roots.
Winters were stingy. He sometimes had to take food from the farmers’ cottages—stale bread, cheese and milk, a scant handful of chestnuts, and now and then a few potatoes. He heard them blame the disappearances on pucks and fairies. He was careful, but he did not steal often, and took only what was necessary. He knew how cruel winter could be to those people: he had seen the small coffins carried into their frozen yards; he had heard grown men weep at the bedsides of the sick and old.
But winter would not last much longer. While he sat cross-legged before the embers, wrapped in an old wolf pelt, his finger moved within the basket. Those appendages—hands that could snap the spine of a beast with a single blow, or hurl a grown man across a room—closed gently around the stem of the snowdrop. The petals seemed almost to glow in the half-light.
The woman’s gifts inevitably dragged him back to the past: his first winter, the warm fire of the farmstead, the voice of the old man—his words, his unseeing eyes, his trembling hands that had held his hideous face. But the white of the snowdrop made him think of her, withering in her bridal dress. It made him think of her last embrace, of the weight of her body in his arms. Elizabeth. His Elizabeth: loved still, always mourned, forever parted from him.
With the passing of years, those memories had faded—they were like paintings in a dark, dusty attic—but he continued to cling to them.
Because the rest of his existence had been despair and rage, shouting and terror, cold and blood and loneliness—inescapable loneliness. And though he had forgiven his Maker, every scrap of happiness had remained barred to him. He lived, as Victor had begged him to do. The words returned to him at times: "While you are alive, what recourse do you have but to live? Live."
He had lived, then—not by choice, but because life would not loosen its grip on him. His wounds closed, his body endured; death remained beyond his reach.
And he lived still—but at the margins of human existence, a thing half-seen, neither ghost nor man.
Yet he still felt, feared, and yearned as violently as any of them—perhaps more horribly than any of them. That much he knew.
“You made someone, not something,” he had said to his Maker. And he still whispered it to himself.
He was someone.
But men would never see it. And with the passing of years, he had come to understand that he had no right to compel them to do so. With his loathsome form, with the obscenity of his creation, he had to be set apart from them: he was not of the same nature as man. [1]
And if ever the woman were to see him… those supple, tender lips upon that soft face—beautiful, at least in his eyes—would twist into a cry of horror.
With a soundless snarl, he flung the snowdrop into the embers and watched it curl and burn.
HE COUNTED five days. No one approached his refuge. The path remained empty, the ruins silent.
Then, one day, he heard light footsteps before the door.
They went away as quickly as they came. When he ventured out later, cautiously, he found something laid upon the ground.
Wrapped in a cloth there was a bread loaf, of the kind he had never seen before: its crust was golden-brown, its scent sweet and spiced. The other gift was a book. It was small and looked even smaller in his hands. Its cover was dark green cloth, the title stamped in gold upon the spine: Lyrical Ballads, by W. Wordsworth and S. T. Coleridge.
Another morning came when he went into the woods to gather food. Nature in mid-March still offered little, but he knew how to look; and when he returned to the ruins, the pockets of his coat laden with what the land would spare, he found her there.
The woman. She sat near the shelter, upon the earth, her back resting against a tombstone cross, her legs drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around her knees, head resting upon them. He noticed immediately that her hands were bare this time, and no hat concealed her hair.
He halted, uncertain.
I SAW him approaching: as always, his face was partially concealed beneath the hood. I rose to my feet, my skirt damp with earth, setting aside my melancholy thoughts.
I lowered my gaze as he moved closer and closer, until no more than five short steps lay between us.
He spoke before I could say anything.
“You should not be here,” he said, his voice low, edged with caution.
I shall be honest: I had hoped for a somewhat warmer greeting.
“I am aware, I am sorry. I needed some time away from the House, and at present I am not in the mood to venture into town.”
I paced slowly back and forth between the tombstones and the wall of the church, stepping again and again over the same small patch of ground. Never did I lift my eyes to the hermit.
“Also, I was curious—may I ask whether the things I brought you were of any use?” I ventured, turning towards the wall and idly toying with an ivy leaf.
“They did.”
I smiled at the vines. “I am glad to hear it. Should there ever be anything you require from town, I would be most pleased to assist you.”
“Assist me,” the hermit repeated warily. “Why?”
“Because I wish to, sir. And because I am in your debt. Had you not been here that day, I should have fallen to the bottom of that dreadful pit, might even have broken a bone! And who would have heard my cries down there?”
This time he made no comment.
I continued, “I was impertinent to you. I ought not to have formed conjectures about the reasons you live here; it was rude of me. I have the unfortunate habit of saying improper things, but I should hate for you to think me a thoughtless woman.”
A long silence followed. A stinging breeze stirred the overgrown grass among the tombstones, and a crow cawed in the distance.
“I believe you to be a kind woman,” the hermit said. "Very kind."
“Very kind? Oh, no—you say so only because you don't know me,” I replied, half in jest and half in earnest.
“And you don't know me, either,” he replied gravely. “Otherwise, you would not keep coming here.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but he interrupted me.
“If you were to see my face… if you knew who I am, you would scream and flee. You might even faint.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort, sir,” I answered, firm yet calm.
“You are naïve.”
“And do you, by chance, possess the gift of foresight?”
“You dare not look at me, even so.”
“I don't look because you don't wish me to,” I replied steadily.
At that instant, I heard his steps, and the soft rustle of fabric as he drew nearer. I felt him close behind me: his breath, the subtle shift of his weight, and then, the sudden, ghostly brush of his fingers through my hair at the nape of my neck.
I held my breath.
Another whisper of cloth.
I turned slowly.
The hood had slipped down. The daylight fell upon his face. It was the pale, unkind light of a bleak late-winter day, thin and colourless, a light from which his features could find no refuge.
I could scarcely speak, breathless.
“You are—”
“A monster.”
[1] The line is Mary Shelley’s, also quoted in the film. I just couldn’t resist reusing it.
If I could melt your heart, we’d never be apart — chapter two
Excerpt from the chapter: “Which would you rather I be?” he said, sudden and harsh—startling me. “The murderer or the monster? Or both?” He did not shout. And yet the words thundered and vibrated within the narrow confines of the hut. He turned. [...] My heart leapt into my throat: in the halo of the firelight behind me I had caught a fragment of his face. His eyes. They were black, sunken deep within skull-like hollows; one pupil reflected a yellowish gleam, sharp and beast-like, like a cat’s eye in the dark.
Summary: During the fifteen years following Victor Frankenstein’s death, his nameless creation has learned to exist in the edges and the penumbras of the human world. His last refuge is in the fractured shadow of a ruined church, a place forgotten both by god and men alike. Until one day a stranger dares to disturb the long-dead remnants of the past.
Pairing: Frankenstein’s creature x female oc (named, minimally described, reader-friendly)
Ratings: Explicit
Status: Complete
Tags: smut, romance, angst, strangers to lovers, gothic literature vibes, victorian era, erotic tension and sexual repression, typical victorian prudishness, typical 19th century sexism, religious themes, criticism of religion, atheism, alternating pov, first person and third person pov
A/n: thanks so much for the likes on chapter 1 🫶 Just so you know, if you like or reblog this chapter, I’ll tag you in the next ones so you don’t miss them!
Credits: Image found on Pinterest, dividers by @/strangergraphics
ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔗𝔴𝔬
THE DOOR was left ajar. I knocked timidly and then nudged it open.
The shelter was a single, dimly lit room. There were no candles lit. My clothes were damp and I felt cold; but the air inside was even colder and smelled of burned wood, of dust, of earth moist from the rain.
The stranger did not turn as I entered. He was crouched before a hearth, setting kindling in place with deliberate care, trying to coax life from embers that glowed faintly beneath the ash.
I lingered. The room was miserable. Cobwebs clung to the corners, the small table’s legs were worm-eaten, the floorboards lay uneven beneath my feet, and there wasn’t even a humble iron kettle hanging above the fire.
“Sir?” I called him at last.
I took another step towards the crouched figure, but his attention seemed wholly fixed upon the dead hearth.
I fidgeted with the fingers of my gloves, resolutely ignoring the ache in my ankle.
Since I wished to soothe those emotions that constricted my chest—fear, trepidation, anticipation, I resolved at once to keep my tone light, almost cheerful, as though I were exchanging polite conversation in a drawing room, rather than in a hermit’s hut.
“Is this your dwelling? I suppose you are not overly fond of society.”
After a moment, I went on, “Don't tell me I stand before the famous ‘ghost of the ruins’ people whisper about? And to think I have lived here for two months without the least notion that I had such an interesting, unusual neighbour.”
I paused only briefly, then continued, undeterred.
“I reside at Briar House. Do you know the place? It’s scarcely twenty minutes’ walk from here. It’s the red-brick house with the old chestnut at the gate. I work there as Mrs Pritchard’s companion—and, ah, well, none of this is of any interest to you. So—“
I sighed.
“If you don't object, I shall sit here and wait for the rain to pass.”
And I took the only chair in the room without waiting for permission.
The fire finally crackled.
And still the stranger did not turn towards me.
After a few seconds, he rose to his feet, and I could not help noticing, once again, how tall he was—how he seemed to unfold upward, as though the low ceiling had never truly been meant to contain him.
He moved away from the hearth, the floorboards groaning beneath his weight, still keeping his back to me, and crossed to the small, glassless window.
Only then did I become aware of his hands, the only part of him I could clearly see.
They were large, unnaturally so. The skin was greyish in tone, the fingers long, the tips deeply bluish with cold. A thick, dark scar marked the base of his forefinger.
“You must not speak of me to anyone,” the stranger said at last. His voice was very low, but it carried something that lay between an order and a plea. “Return to your home. Forget me.”
Outside, the rain had grown heavier. Water drummed against the roof of the hut, steady and insistent.
“If others come—” The plea crept deeper into his tone. “—I will have to leave.”
The situation grew stranger and more curious with each passing second. At this point, you might think it would have been expected of me—appropriate, even—to feel intimidated. But for someone who had read Monsieur Dupin’s adventures with such devotion, the situation was far too thrilling to be wasted on fear alone.
“Very well, you have my word,” I said. “I shall not mention you to anyone.”
I paused.
“However, I cannot promise to forget you. You must concede that the circumstances of our meeting are far too extraordinary to be consigned to oblivion.”
I went on, my voice measured, each word weighted.
“I gather that you have no intention of revealing either your face or your name. If it pleases you, I may tell you mine instead. My name is Lavander Clerval. Lanie, they called me at home.”
I shifted quietly on the chair.
“I am certain you are not from this region: you don't speak with the cadence of the locals. So, you are far from your birthplace, reclusive, and jealous of your own name and face. May I indulge in a couple of guesses?”
Fixing my gaze on the stranger’s back, I did not wait for an answer—I suspected none would come.
“The first: you are guilty of some great crime—or at least suspected of one—and you are seeking to save yourself from the law. Or the gallows. The second—”
My eyes fell to his hands.
“There is something about your appearance that—” I softened my tone. “—encourages you to avoid people.”
“Which would you rather I be?” he said, sudden and harsh—startling me. “The murderer or the monster? Or both?”
He did not shout. And yet the words thundered and vibrated within the narrow confines of the hut.
He turned.
He moved towards me.
And I sprang to my feet. I felt again the sharp stab of pain in my ankle as I stumbled backward, thrusting the chair between myself and the stranger.
My heart leapt into my throat: in the halo of the firelight behind me I had caught a fragment of his face.
His eyes.
They were black, sunken deep within skull-like hollows; one pupil reflected a yellowish gleam, sharp and beast-like, like a cat’s eye in the dark.
As I stared at him, he stared at me. There must have been something in my alarmed expression that struck him at once, for his own changed abruptly: a flicker of pain crossing his furrowed brow.
“Don't fear me,” he said, his voice low again. “I have no reason to harm you—nor do I wish to have one.”
He stepped back, his gaze dropping.
“Stay by the fire. I lit it for you. Remain until the rain has passed. But after that—you must go. And keep away from the ruins. They are dangerous if you don't know where to set your foot.”
He turned, and left the hut.
This time I did not follow. A tear stung my eyes. Whether it was a tear born of scare or sorrow, I could not have said it.
Minutes passed. My nerves settled.
I looked around me: the hut was clearly old, but it was in no way as old as the church; surely someone else had built it and lived there, long before its present guest.
A coarse wooden plank served as a fireplace mantel, and strewn about the mantel and the table I saw a few bowls and some soot-blackened metal plates; an empty jug, a basin with a chipped rim, a small pot, a rusty knife and a spoon. Beside the hearth stood a broken wooden basket, a small bundle of dark roots at its bottom.
In a corner stood the bed—a straw-filled mattress buried beneath layers of woolen blankets and heavy furs, piled like the bedding of a beast.
At the foot of the bed lay a travel-worn satchel.
It was ill-mannered to pry into another’s belongings—but I had never been able to master my vices. Limping to the bed, and fearing greatly to see the hooded figure appear once more upon the threshold, I peered inside the satchel.
I do not know why I feared to find something frightening inside. I saw only books—yellowed, their covers worn.
I recognised some: a Bible, Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, a volume of Milton’s poetry, and an outdated medical compendium, its spine broken. Among the books lay loose sheets, but I did not dare to rummage through them.
I returned to the fire, stretching my hands over its modest warmth.
So the hermit was a man who had forsaken his brothers, but not the supposed word of their God—nor the very foundations of Christian hospitality.
I sat down on the chair. Soon the rain ceased. The hut darkened little by little: dusk was approaching.
The stranger did not return.
THE WOMAN stepped out of his shelter, carefully closing the door behind her. The jackdaws, feasting on worms after the rain, took flight at her movement.
But the monster did not stir from the shadows among the ruins.
Instead he watched as she walked in the faint light of dusk, as fast as her limping leg would allow, weaving between the tombs towards the path from which she had emerged.
He had not frightened the woman, nor had he harmed her; and so he dared to hope that she would keep her promise.
He offered his hope as a prayer—or something that resembled one—to the darkling sky above. To pray to God Himself he never dared. He was not one of His children, but an abomination beneath His dreadful gaze, a being fashioned only to spite and defy Him.
If I could melt your heart, we’d never be apart — chapter one
Excerpt from the chapter: A hand closed around my arm—another about my waist. In a single motion, I was wrenched back and tossed upon the damp earth as effortlessly as a rag doll. There I remained, stunned. [...] The rain had thickened into a fine drizzle. [...] The figure stood motionless. His face was hidden by a hood and by a cloth drawn over his mouth and nose; he was taller than any man I had ever seen, his looming frame dressed in a dark, heavy overcoat that hung upon him messily.
Summary: During the fifteen years following Victor Frankenstein’s death, his nameless creation has learned to exist in the edges and the penumbras of the human world. His last refuge is in the fractured shadow of a ruined church, a place forgotten both by god and men alike. Until one day a stranger dares to disturb the long-dead remnants of the past.
Pairing: Frankenstein’s creature x female oc (named, minimally described, reader-friendly)
Ratings: Explicit
Status: Complete
Tags: smut, romance, angst, strangers to lovers, gothic literature vibes, victorian era, erotic tension and sexual repression, typical victorian prudishness, typical 19th century sexism, religious themes, criticism of religion, atheism, alternating pov, first person and third person pov
A/n: Okay, so, this is my first fanfic in years (!!), my first ever in English, and also my first attempt at smut 🫣 The fic is based on the movie (which I absolutely adored, goes without saying) but also takes some very light inspiration from the novel. Some parts are written from the oc’s pov, in first person, ’cause I kinda wanted to echo the epistolary style of the original novel, so you get the feeling of actually reading a letter or memoir. As for the oc’s appearance, it’s barely mentioned, so it can almost count as a creature x reader, methinks.
Credits: Images found on Pinterest; dividers by @/strangergraphics
ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔒𝔫𝔢
Winter, 1872 ❖
THE WIND nipped at my cheeks, but I welcomed it. Better the sharp bite of March air than the suffocating heat of Mrs Pritchard’s parlour. The hem of my wool skirt was dampened dark, my boots streaked with mud, and the sky above me hung like one of Constable’s paintings.
The shadows of the clouds stretched across the fields, still I walked unhurriedly, my gloved hands clutching the brown paper parcel containing Mrs Pritchard’s tonic bottles.
I had been sent to fetch valerian and laudanum for the old woman’s “nervous condition,” though I suspected the only nerves in danger in that house were my own, worn thin day after day by sermons, psalms, and reprimands. Indeed, you may not understand what drove me that day, unless I tell you how cruelly I was tormented by the stagnation of the life I then led.
I remember my thoughts during that fateful walk. I was contemplating, not for the first time, how easy it could have been to walk down that very same path—a muddy ribbon through the fields—back to the town, past the pharmacy, past the rectory, and on to the railway station. How easy it would have been to put miles between myself and the intolerable rectitude of Mrs Pritchard. Yet how difficult it would have been to find a new place to live, to truly be.
My steps slowed further as the familiar crossroads approached.
To the left lay Mrs Pritchard’s house—Briar House; to the right, the overgrown lane that led, eventually, to the ruined church.
I hesitated. I had never ventured there and had no reason to do so now beyond a slender pretext of curiosity, and the need to prolong my absence from under my employer’s eyes.
My feet turned right before my mind could protest.
The path grew uneven as it narrowed, brambles pressed close upon it, their thorned branches tangled with last year’s ivy, but I kept my stride steady. Of the ruins’ history I knew little. I was aware of their existence only because Mrs Wright, the maid-of-all-work of Briar House, had mentioned the place once; otherwise, I should never have guessed it lay there at all, so completely was it swallowed by the encroaching vegetation.
The ruins loomed abruptly before me. No grand cathedral this: the church was squat, its weathered walls smothered in thick growths of lustrous ivy. A single broken archway framed the sky, its jagged outline stark against the gathering clouds. Old tombstones, draped with dark moss, still kept watch over the sleep of the dead.
I weighed what I had heard of the place from Mrs Wright.
It was one of the many churches built long before Henry VIII tore the monasteries apart. Its walls had later become a refuge for highwaymen in times far more perilous—and romantic—than this age of telegraphs and gas-lit streets. These were the only details that, at the time, I—Miss Clerval—considered worthy of attention. [1]
As for Mrs. Wright, she had continued babbling, her flour-dusted hands kneading dough upon the table as she told of a ghostly monk, his robes dark and torn, rustling through the nave, condemned to eternal penance for his sins. The tale might well have been penned by Anne Radcliffe herself.
I humoured her with a nod and returned to shaping the loaves, while she would have gone on chattering about restless souls and sins no one could name, had her husband not entered the kitchen to ask something so perfectly practical that it banished all spectres at once—a development I found most agreeable. I had no patience for phantoms.
BUT A PHANTOM was watching her.
A tall shadow where the trees thinned. Ashen fingers flexed against the bark of an oak he leaned upon. Go, he willed her silently. Leave.
The creature’s heart throbbed with a fierce fear.
Many winters had passed since he had allowed a human gaze to fall upon him. And now this intruder—this unwary woman—was dangerously close to his shelter, and to him, who could have easily reached her from behind; the snapping wind would have masked his steps. He could have terrified her into pallor and driven her away like a startled deer fleeing the thunder of a gun.
He did not move, a thought holding him back.
The woman might lead others there—men—pointing them toward his hiding place. It had already happened before.
She moved with graceful assurance, sometimes lifting her skirt to step over stones and roots, as she threaded her way among the leaning crosses—and he, the ill-fated phantom, continued to watch, to pry.
She was small of stature, her age difficult to judge. There was still youth in her bearing, yet nothing childish in it. Hair fell loose just past her shoulders in heavy waves and a small hat shaded her low brow; her dress was a modest plain thing, which had been granted the pleasure of pressing against her waist and fell in soft folds over her hips.
He followed her progress toward the archway. She passed beneath it and stepped onto the nave. A grunt rattled through his ribs.
IT HAD begun to rain—but so lightly, little more than cool breath of moisture, that it did not persuade me to surrender my precious minutes of freedom.
I walked the perimeter of the nave, trailing my gloved fingertips along the ancient stones.
In this temple where once ruled the terror of God and Hell, now reigned the south-westerly wind; its roof was the vast sky and the floor a carpet of nettles, chickweed, ivy.
I kept walking.
One more step was all it took.
The ground gave way without warning, the turf collapsing inward with a soft sigh. My foot slipped; my balance was lost. The parcel fell from my grasp and vanished into the darkness below, bottles clinking before being swallowed by the hollow earth.
I would have followed, had something not caught me.
A hand closed around my arm—another about my waist.
In a single motion, I was wrenched back and tossed upon the damp earth as effortlessly as a rag doll.
There I remained, stunned. The hollow lay in front of me, open and silent, as though it had never stirred at all. I later learned that what yawned beneath the weeds and the rotting boards was an ossuary—and I had nearly fallen into one.
Such was my fear and surprise that I did not even care that the hem of my skirts had ridden up, baring my boots and a scandalous portion of calf and stockings. All I could see was the dark figure just a few paces away from me.
The rain had thickened into a fine drizzle. The figure stood motionless. His face was hidden by a hood and by a cloth drawn over his mouth and nose; he was taller than any man I had ever seen, his looming frame dressed in a dark, heavy overcoat that hung upon him messily.
For a fleeting moment, my mind betrayed me. I thought of Mrs. Wright’s tale—the spectral monk, the dark robes, the eternal penance.
Then the moment passed.
No ghost stood before me. Whatever he was, he had touched me only moments before, and he occupied the ground as solidly as I did. The rain darkened his sleeves, and I could hear his breathing beneath the cloth. This was no apparition. This was a man.
I pushed myself upright. The movement sent a sharp protest through my right ankle, and I swayed, fingers tightening in my skirt, but I did not once take my eyes from the stranger. I could not see his face at all—only shadow beneath the hood.
Carefully, I retreated a few steps, increasing the distance between myself and both the pit and the figure.
Then a voice reached me—so rough, so deep it might well have risen from the ossuary below.
“Are you hurt?”
I shook my head without thinking.
“Then leave.”
I did not move. I would not say I was afraid—but I found myself unable to decide what action, or what words, might follow.
“Leave,” he repeated, impatience threading his tone.
The drizzle thickened. Still I did not move. Neither did he.
“I would prefer to remain and rest a while, if you don't mind,” I snapped at last. I was too bewildered to remember my manners. “By what right do you ask me to leave? Are these ruins your property?”
A low, inarticulate sound came from beneath the hood—something between a grunt and a breath drawn too deep.
I straightened my back. “Forgive my manners, sir. It is only that it is raining, and my ankle pains me. You can see why I don't feel particularly inclined to take a cheerful walk at present moment.”
A pause. Then his voice again, rough and grave.
“You would rather remain in the woods with a stranger? You are incautious.”
“Oh, when a man harbours ill intentions toward a woman, he does all he can to make her stay—he does not urge her to leave,” I replied. “And if you are contemplating robbing me, I should warn you that the spoils will prove exceedingly meagre.” I had left the house bearing nothing but Mrs. Pritchard’s money for her tonics. The sole objects of any modest value upon my person were a small pocket watch and the shell cameo that rested at my throat.
The stranger did not answer. But I glimpsed his hands beneath the dark folds of his coat, fingers curling and uncurling.
At last he turned. One slow step. Then another. His boots crashed nettles and ivy beneath their weight.
He was leaving.
And what did I do?
I remained where I was, my ankle throbbing, the ruined walls cold and watchful around me.
And then… I followed him—at a distance, under the fine, chilly rain—my steps cautious, my curiosity, like a perverse imp, urging me on. The stranger traced the outer wall of the nave, and when he disappeared around the curve of the apse, I slowed further and leaned forward to look.
Only then did I see it: hidden behind the ruined wall was a crude shelter of stone and timber. It had been built against the wall itself.
The figure bent his head to pass through the doorway—so tall was he—and vanished inside.
I still remember the way my heart was pounding as I chose to approach. I had not been a child for a very long time—yet I felt as though I were stepping into one of the Grimm brothers’ darker tales.
[1] The OC’s name is just a little a nod to Henry Clerval, Victor’s friend in the novel.
Creature that lives in stained glass windows, a grotesque made of stained glass, in love with the nun who cleans the church and it's windows with such dedication.
not exactly a grotesque, but they watch their beloved caretaker no less fiercely
perhaps they can move between the many windows of the cathedral, inhabiting each creature and saint to better watch their favorite nun
My hand slipped. TW for near death experience/should-be-fatal injury, blood. Gn and body neutral, witchy/magical reader x demon.
“Don't care what sort of sacrifice you prepared,” came that oh-so-familiar, deep, rolling purr through the cloud of red smoke billowing up into the foetid alleyway. Gods, he always sounded so good when he was being cocky and full of himself, the sanctimonious bastard. “I explicitly told you to never summon me, did I not?”
“Yeah,” you choked, collapsed on the ground at the centre of a really poorly drawn runic array. It was a miracle it had summoned anything at all, let alone the one demon you actually wanted more than anything in the world right then. But look, if your bloody finger painting was a little wonky, you could hardly be blamed. You’d just had half your throat torn out by a feral vampire who’d then discarded you like an apple core and fled into the night. At least the evidence of your terrible summoning circle would soon be eclipsed by the rapidly spreading tide of blood. No need for the College masters to see that. They’d revoke your licence if they witnessed it. No matter that you'd be dead anyway.
“Yeah, you did.”
A second later, Gharrontian’s massive form blurred through the dissipating mist, looming out of the darkness that was starting to press in on you from all sides now, and you smiled dazedly up at him. Gods, he was gorgeous: just shy of eight feet tall, broad as a city block across the shoulder, with muscles rippling in his tattooed arms and a soft belly that had just been made for lying on. His skin was a deep, ruby red, and his hair was still shaved close above his pointed ears in an undercut while the rest spilled down his back in decadently thick, black waves. As usual, the demon wore nothing on his top half, and only loose, black trousers that ended in neat cuffs at his knees, leaving the rest of his goat’s legs exposed. The fur there was red too, speckled with white here and there, and behind him lashed a long ox’s tail, tipped with black fur.
As his massive, black, cloven hoof landed in the pool of blood beside your head, and he crashed down beside you, he murmured your name and slid his enormous hand under your head. “Hey,” he said quietly in that lovely, rock-slide bass. “Hey, what the fuck happened?”
“V-Vampire…” you stammered, blood filling your mouth as your eyelids fluttered. “Wanted to… to see you… one last…” Your breath faltered in your lungs and burbled wetly in your ruined gullet.
“No, no, no,” he muttered, and began chanting. The familiar buzz of the demon’s magic suffused the air all around you, pressing against your own and reaching for you even as he worked some spell around you.
Your hearing warped, but it was so nice to be held by him again. To be in his arms. To have him with you. At the end.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” he growled around clenched canines, forcing his magic into you. “Don’t you dare fucking die on me.”
The ancient language rolled around you like music in a chantry, and you let your eyes close and your muscles go heavy. “Always loved you, you know?” you slurred. “Always…”
The pain faded, along with everything else, and you tipped back into his big hands with a sigh, and expected never to feel anything again.
So it came as one hell of surprise to you when you blinked awake and found yourself staring at a very familiar crack in the white ceiling above you.
“The fuck?” you whispered, floundering upright in your own bed. The room blurred and spun around you and you groaned, clapping a hand to your temple and ramming your eyes shut against the weak daylight filtering in through the grubby net curtains on your right.
A chair scraped on the tired, hardwood floor beside your bed and you startled, letting your hands fall away from your face and looking up to see…
“Gharron?”
“Hey sweetheart,” he smiled, looming over the bed.
With a jolt, you realised there were tears in his gold eyes. “Gharron?”
“Scared the shit out of me.”
You swallowed and looked down at your hands in your lap, then, as flashes of the previous night came back to you like scenes from a bad horror flick, your fingers rose to your neck. Expecting to find wounds or at least scars, you were surprised to find nothing out of the ordinary at all. “How…?” you asked, frowning at him. “I didn't make a bargain with you, did I?”
He shook his head and sank gingerly down to sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his enormous form, his tail rather adorably squashed beneath his big thighs. Gods, those thighs… You nearly bit your lip at the memory of them, and something dormant ached in you once again.
“But I thought… I thought your magic needed a bargain…?”
Again, Gharrontian shook his head. His long hair trailed all the way down his naked, tattooed back to the waistband of his black trousers in glorious waves, and your hand reached out for it on instinct, or muscle memory. You let it play through your fingers like ink, then met his golden gaze as he spoke. “Never needed a bargain,” he admitted. “I just… wasn’t ready to let you see it. See me…”
“Oh.”
Your heart beat funny in your chest for a second or two.
“You didn't change the wards,” he said.
“What?”
“The wards on your apartment. You didn't change them.” When you frowned, he turned a little more towards you from where he was sitting, and took your hands up in his. Somehow they looked even smaller now, where they rested on his palms. “The wards to keep demons out… You didn’t change them to keep me out after we…”
You blinked “No.”
“Oh.”
Gharron hung his head and squeezed your fingers gently. “We really fucked up, huh?” he said.
“Yeah.”
“You want to try again?” the demon asked.
You nodded and he let out a little huff of relief, closing his eyes.
“For the record,” he said with a soft smile in that deep, familiar voice, “I’m glad you summoned me.”
“Even though you told me never to summon you again?”
“Well, you never were any good at following orders…”
You grinned. “You, on the other hand…”
His scarlet skin darkened across his cheeks and the big demon shook his head, laughing quietly.
A sculptor starved of inspiration meets Thaleia, a mysterious cloaked woman who offers to pose on one condition, you must work blindfolded, as hands replace eyes, touch and voice draw you closer, what begins as art slowly becomes a dangerous, tender longing neither can resist.
The studio smelled faintly of plaster and clay dust, the kind of scent that clung to skin and hair long after you left. You had grown used to it, almost fond of it—the sharp grit on your hands, the earthy tang of wet stone. But despite the piles of sketches and the shelves of half-finished busts around you, your hands ached with stillness. Inspiration had abandoned you, slipping like water through your fingers, and every statue you started crumbled into something lifeless.
That night you had slumped by the window, sketchbook balanced across your knees, watching the lanterns of the marketplace flicker beyond your street. You told yourself it was temporary, just a rut, but doubt pressed hard. An artist without vision was nothing more than a mason.
It was then that you noticed her.
She lingered in the street below, half hidden in the press of vendors shutting down their stalls. A tall figure wrapped in a long dark cloak, hood drawn so low her face disappeared in shadow. The market crowd seemed to give her space unconsciously, like the tide parting around a rock. You wouldn’t have looked twice if she hadn’t lifted her head, just slightly, toward your window.
For an instant, you felt pinned, as if invisible eyes had found you. You dropped your gaze to the page, heart quickening. When you dared glance again, she was gone.
You thought nothing of it the next morning, except that the memory of her shadowed form kept intruding as you kneaded clay. Her posture, the sweep of her cloak, the air she carried—it stirred something in you. A figure you wanted to carve.
You almost didn’t notice when she returned. A soft knock echoed at your studio door near dusk. You rarely had visitors. Wiping dust from your hands, you opened it.
The woman stood there. The same dark cloak, the same heavy hood obscuring her face. Up close, she was taller than you by a head, her voice low when she spoke.
“You are a sculptor.” It wasn’t a question.
You swallowed. “I am. Can I… help you?”
“I hear you search for a model.”
The words made your pulse jolt. Rumors traveled fast in this city, but you hadn’t voiced your frustrations aloud. “That’s… true. But—”
“I offer myself,” she said simply. Then, as though sensing hesitation, she added: “There will be conditions.”
You should have turned her away. Every instinct whispered caution—something about her stillness, her careful choice of words. But your curiosity outweighed your sense.
“What conditions?”
“You will not look upon my face,” she said. “You will work with a blindfold. Your hands and ears must guide you.”
A hundred questions raced to your lips, but her tone was firm, not defensive. As though she had practiced saying it for years. You hesitated, then nodded slowly.
“If that’s what it takes.”
A pause stretched, then she inclined her hooded head. “Good. My name is Thaleia.”
The syllables curled smoothly, like stone polished by water. Thaleia. You repeated it silently, tasting the sound.
She stepped inside, and the air seemed to shift with her presence. You felt absurdly small beside her height, her cloak brushing the dusty floor. Without a word, she pulled a strip of soft cloth from her sleeve and held it out.
“Put this on.”
You obeyed, tying it over your eyes. Darkness wrapped around you, sharp and absolute. For a moment panic flared—you hated blindness—but then you felt her fingertips adjust the knot at the back of your head, grazing your hair. The gentleness of it steadied you.
“Better,” she murmured.
You guided her toward the chair near your sculpting stand, relying on memory of the room. She moved without sound, the swish of her cloak the only clue. When she sat, the wood creaked faintly.
“Tell me,” you said, fingers brushing the rim of your clay. “Do you want me to sculpt your likeness exactly, or… interpret it?”
“You will know what to do,” Thaleia said.
Something about her confidence unsettled you. Yet your hands found the clay, and you began.
At first it was only shape: broad shoulders, the line of her neck, the curve of her arms resting in her lap. You stretched your hands forward to gauge distance.
“May I?”
“Yes,” she answered, voice low.
Your palms met fabric. Heavy, textured, rough-spun. Her cloak. You traced upward carefully, finding where it parted at her collarbone. Beneath was skin—cool, startlingly smooth. She did not flinch.
Guided by touch, you mapped her. Fingers skimming her jawline, the arch of her cheekbone, the bow of her lips. She breathed evenly, though when your thumb accidentally brushed the corner of her mouth, her breath caught almost imperceptibly.
The clay grew beneath your hands in rough mimicry. You couldn’t see, but each curve and angle transferred through your fingertips. Darkness sharpened every sensation—the silk of her hair where it escaped her hood, the warmth of her skin against your chilled hands.
“Your hands are steady,” Thaleia murmured after a time.
“I’ve trained them to be,” you replied softly. “Though… it’s different, this way. More intimate.”
Silence. Then: “Do you mind?”
You shook your head. “No. I… like it.”
The air grew heavier after that. You sculpted in silence, save for the occasional murmur from her—small corrections, or a low sound of approval when your hands captured a detail correctly. The quiet built a tension you couldn’t name, a closeness that lived in the unseen.
Hours passed. At last your arms trembled with fatigue. You stepped back, clay-coated hands clenching. “I need to stop for tonight.”
The chair creaked again as Thaleia rose. You felt her come close, her presence filling the space before you.
“You work with patience,” she said, so near you felt her breath graze your cheek. “Not all artists could.”
The heat of her proximity made your throat tighten. You fought the urge to lift the blindfold, to see the face behind the voice. But something told you that would shatter everything.
Instead you whispered, “Thank you… for trusting me.”
Her silence lasted long enough that you feared you’d overstepped. Then her hand touched your wrist, brief and deliberate, before slipping away.
“You will see me when the time is right,” she said. And then she was gone, the door clicking softly behind her.
The days after blurred into a pattern. Dusk would fall, and she would arrive. Always cloaked, always insisting on the blindfold. Each evening you sculpted, hands learning the language of her form—her shoulders, her throat, the long column of her neck. You memorized the cadence of her voice, the way it softened when she was amused, the low rasp when she grew serious.
Without sight, every touch became charged. Your fingertips lingered too long against her cheek one night, and she shifted but didn’t stop you. Another time, her hand steadied yours as you traced her collarbone, the warmth sparking up your arm.
You began to dream of her. In dreams she shed the cloak, but her face blurred like marble before carving. What remained was the feeling of her—the weight of her touch, the hush of her presence.
One evening, rain hammered the roof. Thaleia was late, and you paced, worried she would not come. When the knock finally came, relief crashed through you. You opened the door blindly, nearly forgetting the blindfold in your haste.
“You were worried,” she observed, voice quieter than usual.
“I thought you wouldn’t come,” you admitted, too honest.
“Storms delay me.”
This time when you worked, you felt her tension. Her shoulders held stiffness, her breathing uneven. Without thinking, you brushed your palm along her arm in reassurance.
She stilled. Then slowly, deliberately. Her hand turned, fingers sliding against yours. Her skin was cooler tonight, damp from rain, but the contact lingered.
“You are gentle,” she murmured, voice hushed. “Too gentle for one who handles stone.”
You smiled faintly behind the blindfold. “Stone listens better when you’re gentle with it.”
Something unspoken swelled between you, and though you didn’t dare voice it, you felt the shift. The statue on your stand began to take shape, but more than clay grew beneath your hands.
What grew was the gravity of her closeness, the weight of longing made heavier by sightless darkness.
And though you could not see her, you began to know her better than anyone else.
The statue grew taller every evening, clay slowly reshaped under your hands into something that resembled Thaleia’s presence. Not just her form, though you had carved the strong slope of her shoulders, the graceful tilt of her head—but the sensation of her: the poise in her stillness, the gravity of her silence, the storm beneath the calm.
You lived now in anticipation of her knock. The days dragged, filled with restless sketches that never satisfied you, but the nights quickened, full of hushed breaths and fingertips brushing marble-like skin.
The blindfold had become part of you, as natural as your apron. You tied it on before she even entered, a ritual that made your chest beat faster. Sightless, you knew her only through sound, touch, and the coolness of her body in the quiet room.
That night, the air was thick with summer heat. You opened the door, already blindfolded, and felt the warmth radiating off her as she stepped inside.
“You’ve been waiting,” Thaleia murmured.
“Always,” you confessed before you could stop yourself.
The silence that followed was not cold, but weighted. When she moved to sit, the rustle of her cloak seemed slower, deliberate, as though she knew your words had shifted something.
You began, as always, by finding her with your hands. Clay smeared your palms, but she didn’t seem to mind. You traced from her wrist upward, following the line of her arm, over the soft dip of her shoulder. Tonight her skin was bare beneath your touch, her cloak fallen aside. The warmth of it startled you, and you hesitated.
“You’re trembling,” Thaleia said softly.
“It’s the heat,” you murmured, though you both knew it wasn’t true.
Her low laugh stirred the air between you. “So the sculptor blushes.”
You felt it then—heat flooding your face beneath the blindfold. You swallowed and tried to focus, fingers brushing higher along her collarbone. Her skin was impossibly smooth, like polished stone, yet alive.
“Your touch grows bolder,” she said. “Do you know this?”
“I…” The words caught. “I don’t want to overstep.”
“And if I wish you would?”
The clay nearly slipped from your hand. Her voice carried a note you hadn’t heard before: not command, not warning, but invitation. Your breath quickened as you set the clay aside, both hands reaching now, mapping her shoulders, her throat, the line where pulse beat beneath skin.
She didn’t move away.
“Careful,” she murmured, though not with reproach. “Stone may shatter if struck too hard.”
You smiled faintly. “I thought I was gentle.”
“Gentle,” she agreed. A pause. “But not without hunger.”
Her words made your stomach clench. Your thumbs brushed along her neck, then slid down to her chest, hovering at the edges of her cloak. You froze, uncertain.
“Do it,” Thaleia whispered.
Your breath hitched as your fingers slipped beneath fabric, finding the curve of her collarbone and the upper swell of her chest. Her skin burned against your clay-dusted touch. She inhaled sharply but did not stop you.
The blindfold made it unbearable. Every inch of contact amplified, every shift in her breathing vivid. You moved slowly, exploring—over her shoulders, the hollow above her heart. When your palm rested against her sternum, you felt it: the strong, steady beat of her pulse.
“You see me better than eyes could,” she said, voice low, almost reverent.
“I don’t know if I could stop, even if I wanted to,” you admitted.
“Then don’t.”
Your hand slid lower instinctively, but you caught yourself, shame and desire colliding. The air between you felt electric, her presence overwhelming. She leaned closer; you felt her breath ghost across your cheek.
“You ache to know me,” she whispered.
“I do,” you said. “But—”
Her fingers found your wrist again, cool and firm, halting your hesitation. “Not yet. Not all.”
The restraint in her words was a tether, holding you from plunging too far. And yet the nearness of her, the invitation in her tone, made every second blaze.
You drew your hand back reluctantly, instead cupping her face. Her skin was ice, her jawline strong under your fingers. Slowly, daringly, you let your thumb stroke across her lips.
She parted them slightly, exhaling a breath that quivered against your hand. For a heartbeat you thought she would kiss your palm. Instead she caught your fingers gently between her lips, teeth grazing so lightly it sent heat spiraling down your spine.
You gasped, nearly pulling away, but her hand closed over yours. “Stay,” she murmured.
The world tilted. You could not see her, but you felt her—the shape of her mouth, the soft press of her lips, the dangerous tease of her teeth. It was too much and not enough all at once.
When she released you, your hand trembled. She chuckled, low and dark, and leaned so close her voice brushed your ear.
“Does the sculptor wish to mold stone, or be molded herself?”
The words struck like fire. You almost answered—almost begged—but held back, pulse hammering. Instead you pressed your forehead against hers, blindfold rough against her skin.
“I want you,” you whispered. “As you are.”
Her breath caught, and for the first time she sounded unsteady. “Careful. You don’t know what that means.”
“I don’t care.”
A long silence followed. Then she sighed, the sound heavy with something like longing.
“Then touch me again,” she said.
You obeyed. Your hands returned to her shoulders, sliding down her arms, then back up to cradle her face. She tilted into your palms as though savoring the contact. You explored slowly, reverently—the sharp arch of her cheekbones, the curve of her mouth, the line of her throat.
When your fingers brushed the edge of her hood, she caught your wrist again. “Not there.”
You froze. “I’m sorry—”
“Not yet,” she said, softer this time. “But soon.”
Instead, she guided your hand back to her chest, pressing it flat against her heartbeat. The steady thrum beneath your palm felt like a vow.
“I trust you,” Thaleia whispered.
The words undid you. Without thinking, you leaned forward. Your lips found hers, blind and desperate.
For an instant she was still. Then she kissed you back, slow and searing, as though she had been waiting for this as long as you had. Her mouth was cool, her lips softer than you imagined. The serpentine tension of her presence melted into something tender, hungry.
You lost yourself in it, hands clutching her shoulders. She tasted faintly of rain and earth, and when her tongue brushed yours, you nearly moaned.
The kiss deepened, heat curling in your chest, lower, everywhere. Your hands slid down her back, gripping fabric and flesh alike, pulling her closer. She pressed into you with quiet insistence, her cloak slipping further aside.
But just as your fingers grazed dangerous territory, she broke away with a sharp inhale. Her forehead rested against yours, her breathing ragged.
“Enough,” she whispered, though her voice trembled. “If we go further… you will see what you are not ready to see.”
Your chest ached with frustration and longing. But you nodded, because you would not risk losing her.
She cupped your face gently. “Patience.."
You laughed shakily, breathless. “Then I’ll wait. As long as it takes.”
Her lips brushed yours again, a fleeting promise. “Good. Because once you see me… there is no turning back.”
She withdrew then, the swish of her cloak signaling distance. You stood trembling, blindfold damp with sweat, lips still tingling.
The statue loomed unfinished on the stand, but you knew it wasn’t clay you longed for anymore. It was her. Always her.
And though you hadn’t yet seen her face, you had begun to love her already.
Tumblr wants me dead and posted this when I clicked "Save" (to drafts)
SO. ATTEMPT 2.
CW: Mourning an animal, the general chaos and gore you'd expect of a Predator movie
ANYWAYS if I was in charge of Hollywood there would be a Predator movie that begins in a spaceship returning from a Hunt. Here we meet a Blooded Predator who I'll just call Hound, and I call him that because he is the Predator who trains the hunting hounds (as seen in Predators 2010). Hound is mourning the loss of his FAVE doggo which was killed during his clan's latest hunt on an alien planet. The other Yautja don't understand why he was so attached to the dog, they're all like, "Hound baby what's the big deal?? It was just a hunting tool. You train like a million dogs it's no biggie"
Hound tries to pretend the dog's death does not hurt him, but it's clear this has affected him emotionally. Conforming to Yautja principles however, he disguises his grief and disintegrates the dog's body, but not before secretly taking one of his fangs as a token of remembrance (and he wears it around his neck because we LOVE a sentimental king omg)
SO they're on their way home to Yautja Prime after their hunting holiday when they collide with SOMETHING and all the Yautjas are like "wtf was that?? Did we hit another ship?? There's never anything in this quadrant of the galaxy!!" but guess what BITCH it's the year 1950, the Space Race is ON and humans are yeeting all kinds of shit into orbit which is what the Yautja collided with! And now they assume emergency positions 👀
CUT TO: Earth. New Mexico. The year 1950. An old wooden house. The backdoor opens quietly. A young woman tippy toes inside. She's holding a squirming bundle inside her coat. A voice from behind, exasperated, is like "What is it this time" and she jumps! Her twin brother, a cop (bare with me) has caught her sneaking in. She reveals what's inside her coat: an injured feral cat.
They argue. Copper's like "God damn it not ANOTHER ONE" and Woman (who I should name. Idk. Let's call her Star) is like "he was asking me for help!!"
Through the argument, we learn the following: Copper and Star are twinsies, and they jointly inherited their mother's home when she died (which is where they now live). Copper is a Sheriff's Deputy while Star works as a maid for a local motel. Copper is angry that Star keeps bringing home animals (this makes 7) into HIS house, to which Star responds that she pays for the animals and it's HER house too! The principal conflict in their relationship is that Copper does not see Star as a Full Adult, he sees her as a dependent on him. He's not actually resentful of this perceived role as her Protector, in fact he loves her deeply, but he is incapable of seeing her as an equal.
Star has some unspecified neurodivergency (it's important to me that it's not specified or pinpointed in the movie. Nobody cares enough to understand, diagnose or accommodate this woman, which is why it needs to be left vague. Star can only see herself the way the world sees her: wrapped up in the nebulous, inadequate and discompassionate words: "a bit touched.") Anyway, this is why Copper is particularly protective (and there's gender bullshit in there too. It is 1950). He cannot see that Star caring for these animals is an outlet for her to feel some authority in her own life: something SHE is responsible for, something that lets her feel needed, important, and capable.
After the argument, Copper leaves on a bittersweet note. Do they love each other? Oui. Are they good for each other? Non non non!!
Star, flustered and hurt, brings her new cat to the shed, where a number of cats and dogs are chilling. Star speaks to the cat as if it can understand her: She knows he's scared, and things hurt now, and she knows that he may choose to run away when she lets him go, but so far none of the animals she's rescued have run away. She doesn't know why exactly, she says, petting the cat until it stops hissing and goes quiet. Maybe it's because she's "touched." Maybe the animals can sense that in her. Sure enough, within a few minutes we see the feral cat has cautiously relaxed.
It's here, as Star speaks to Cat, that we glimpse the main theme of the movie: Copper measures strength, honour and worth by what a person can do TO another - eg, he's a strong cop because he can DEFEAT big scary "bad guys". But Star measures strength by what a person can do FOR another - she's strong because she DEFENDS those weaker than her.
Copper arrives at the police station. He has a semi-adversarial relationship with one of his coworkers, who I'll just call Bastard. Bastard is a classic Bad Cop (ACAB but in this case, he is really really CAB). Bastard enjoys power and acts with impunity. He takes things from the convenience store without paying, he whistles at women on the street, he menaces the marginalised. Listen, it's a Predator movie, we need SOMEONE to be cannon fodder. Anyway Bastard's position is that whoever has the power to ENFORCE the law gets to decide which laws apply and which don't - especially when theres no judicial repercussions for his Bad Copness.
It's clear Copper is not on board with Bastard's philosophy, but it's also clear that he doesn't believe in some selfless, noble ideal of "protecting and serving" either. When Bastard asks him why he became a cop, Copper says "because it's respectable." Bastard's like, "And what's respect? People respect you because you have power over them. That's why you're here. You like power."
Bastard goes a step too far when he makes a sexual joke about Copper's sister. Its implied that hes a little obsessed with Star (me too i mean who can blame him. Shes a beautiful woman i made up in my mind). Bastard perceives Copper as getting in the way of what he deserves (Star), while Copper (correctly) perceives Bastard to be unworthy of his sister (hes also overprotective anyway). A little brawl breaks out and the Sheriff finally exits his office to intervene and reprimand Copper, even though he was provoked. Bastard once again gets away with being a bastard 😤 Just then, the items on the desks begin to rattle softly... 👀 an Earthquake? They look to the window... ☄️
CUT TO: The motel Star works at. She's cleaning. Her boss is a dirty old pervert (more fodder teehee).
While Star is hypersensitive, literal, and overempathetic, it's clear she's not really NAIVE as she knows her boss is a dirty old man and she knows how to dodge his advances. He's quite pushy, but his efforts to "seduce" (🤢) Star are interrupted by a rumble, and a rising thunderous sound - The room illuminates neon green, they look to the window: A fireball is streaking down to Earth.
Darling we already KNOW it's the Yautja ship!! It smashes into the ground outside some poor farmer's house on the outskirts of town and you KNOW this is after Roswell New Mexico 1947 SO the farmer is like "omg it's aliens!!!" and exits his property with a FIREARM WHICH YOU SHOULD NEVER DO IN A PREDATOR MOVIE!!
We creep towards the smoking crater only to see a mangle of alien metal scattered in a burning slew of debris. The farmer moves through it in equal parts amazement and apprehension. He shouts to his wife to call the cops. Stepping over a clump of shrapnel, he comes to the dead body of a Yautja - one of three that were on the ship. It's not Hound (he's too sexy to die in a crash), it's his clan leader (big brother? father? uncle? insert patriarch here). The farmer is like, wtf that is not a LITTLE green man, that is a very big green man. He hears a noise and, jumpy, turns to see a disoriented Hound climbing free of the rubble. Startled, he shoots Hound with his shotgun. Equally startled, Hound retaliates and kills the farmer by throwing a piece of sharp debris at him.
The third predator on board, Hound's other big bro (Let's call him Big'Un) is pulled from the wreck by a now injured Hound. They argue (non-verbally, using clicks and body language) over whether to stay and attempt to destroy the wreckage and the dead Yautja's body, as that's an important tenet in their beliefs ("leave no trace" KINGS) but they are interrupted by the farmer's WIFE coming out of the house guns BLAZING, shooting at them repeatedly. Hound's helmet and wristpad are fucked up because of the crash and he only has his little wrist knives for weaponry. Big'Un also finds himself unarmed due to the crash, but moves in to kill the farmer's wife nonetheless, when - sirens and lights on the road, fast approaching. Reluctantly, Hound and Big'Un retreat into the darkness.
Sheriff, Copper and Bastard arrive on scene to a hysterical farmer's wife screaming about an alien invasion. They don't take her seriously until they find the dead Yautja in the wreck, next to the dead farmer. Realising there must be more "monsters" out there, they go into Battle Mode. They call the national guard, meanwhile Bastard wants to gather every armed man in town believing this is somehow the Russian's doing, and a ground invasion is about to begin. Hes a real second amendment kinda guy. The Sheriff says NO babe, but you know... 👀 put a pin in it for later.
Wandering through backyards, in completely unfamiliar territory and overwhelmed and unprepared, the injured Hound begins to fall behind Big'Un. The shotgun blast was minor to a Yautja, but still a fucking shotgun blast! He slows and stops to use his Medicomp, but Big'Un carries on. He tries to call Big'Un back to him, but they have a quiet, threatening exchange: If you can't keep up, if you can't BE a fucking PREDATOR, then I will LEAVE YOU BEHIND. It's a continuation of their earlier dispute over the dead dog, really. Big'Un doesn't think Hound has the stomach to be a true warrior.
Big'Un leaves again, and this time Hound doesn't try to call him back. He quietly clamps the wounds on his body and limps away at his own pace.
The sun rises on a circus of activity in the little town. Newspaper men, the national guard, the FBI, all on scene. We see the wheels of a cover-up in motion. Don't worry babes, it was a weather balloon. Don't worry about it. Panicked locals speculate that it's a Russian satellite fallen to Earth. The Feds take over, pushing local law around much to Bastard's simmering fury. They set up roadblocks and go acre by acre looking for the aliens. It's time for a Yautja hunt, baby!
Cut to: Star, leaving her house to feed the animals as she does every morning. She enters the shed, surprised to find it totally silent. Her animals are gone. They weren't locked in there, technically - as she said before, they were free to come and go, they usually just chose to stay. Visibly upset by their absence, she is distracted for a moment by a splatter of strange, green liquid on the ground. She follows it curiously to the ladder of the hayloft. Looking up, she squints, as if she sees... Something...
A soft meow. She turns away from the hayloft, delighted to find her new feral cat sitting at the entrance to the shed. It looks guarded, hissing a little. She soothes it as she approaches, and gives it a generous feeding. It lets her pet it. She leaves to find the rest of her animals. Once she's gone, Hound's invisibility flickers and fails. He's in the hayloft (obvi) exhausted and still quite injured. He fiddles with his wrist device, trying to fix the invisibility.
In another part of town, at a dinky little private air field, Big'Un rips a plane apart, examining the pieces, clearly making his own improvised escape vessel. Behind him, the corpse of the airfield's owner is pinned to the wall.
Back at the house, Copper arrives home to check on Star. He tells her something big is happening, and she can't leave the property until it's resolved. They argue, because she has to go to work and he won't tell her what's happening (men 🙄) but he puts his foot down and FORBIDS her from leaving the house, reluctantly insulting her as the only means to enforce this order. "Because you're touched in the head, because you can't look after yourself, because I'm SICK of being the only adult in this fucking house, that's why!" He shouts at her. "If you really want to help, if you don't want to be such a burden on me, then just do this ONE THING and stay inside today. Can you do that??"
Shell shocked, because he's NEVER spoken to her that way before, Star timidly agrees. Not feeling good about himself, but satisfied that he did what was necessary, Copper leaves again.
It starts to rain.
In town, the search for the Yautja is expanding. Bastard subtly tells some townspeople that they need to arm themselves and "get ready" for tonight. If this is the Russians, then they need to be ready to defend their country at a moments notice. This obviously begins a domino effect of gossip and quiet panic in the civilian population.
From his position in the hayloft, with the shed door open, Hound watches Star's flickering heat signature through his damaged mask. She's crouching outside in the dirt, getting rained on. Cautiously, he removes the mask, which removes his invisibility, and watches her from his vantage point. She is plucking wayward snails from the pathway and placing them back into the grass, "where you'll be safe," she says. Hound is curious, but not reckless. He doesn't understand the ritual, but something about it resonates with him. Behind Star, her little cat streaks across the grass, pouncing on a mouse. Hound's attention turns to the cat. How perfectly it hunts. How it plays with its food. Dishonourable, he thinks. Though it reminds him of someone he knows.
There's a shootout at the airfield. At first, we see it only from a distance: flashes of light and loud shots. Then, men screaming. We cut to the aftermath: the FBI barking orders to get a perimeter set up. The environmental storytelling of the carnage and bodies. Many national guardsmen slain. They don't know what they're up against, but they know it's scary af. They figure out that the Yautja must be building a new type of craft. Copper reckons that if he's trying to get home, he'll want some material from his own ship to make that happen. They make a plan to use the wreckage as bait.
The sun is going down. Hound's thinking it's probably about time to leave that hayloft. He's stiff and sore, but pretty much healed - he tries to go down the ladder, but it's old and shitty and breaks under his weight. WHUMP. He ungracefully hits the shed floor, and-
GASP. Of COURSE Star is standing in the shed doorway with a plate full of cat food. She's frozen there, staring at Hound, and Hound is staring back waiting for a scream, or an attack - something to identify her as a fellow predator, or as prey. But Star just stares, a mix of confusion, intrigue and disbelief in her eyes. Then a loud HISS - baby you KNOW the feral cat is standing by Star's side, saying (in cat language) GET THAT FREAKY THING OUT OF HERE!!!
In response to being hissed at, Hound unsheaths his wrist knives. NOW Star jumps into action. She screams NO!!! And jumps between Hound and the cat, arms out, an obvious and desperate communication: DON'T HURT HIM.
Now it's Hound's turn to stare. This... Whatever she is, alien monkey to him, is throwing herself into deaths path to protect an ungrateful lesser being with an attitude problem. And she's not attacking him. It's not as if she's a warrior. It's a little nonsensical, that she be so willing to die, so inept and yet fearless simultaneously. Almost subconsciously, he touches the fang around his neck. He sheaths his knives.
Still staring at each other in tense silence, Star cautiously places the open tin of tuna she was about to feed to Cat on the ground. She kicks it closer to Hound and asks him quietly not to eat her or her cat. Not understanding her, obvi, he warily crouches to pick up the tin. Its meat, that's all he can tell, and he hasn't eaten in too long. A little bashful about accepting food from a stranger, but exhausted, sore and hungry, he devours the tuna in one mouthful. As soon as his attention is on the food, not her, Star grabs Cat and flees back inside the house.
Hound doesn't pursue. He tries to scoop out every morsel from the tin, disappointed that human portions are so tiny. Grumbling, he tosses the tin aside and shuffles out of the hayloft, into the twilight.
He's passing the house when the back door opens and he tenses, expecting an attack. A little hand darts out to leave another tin of tuna on the porch, before the door closes again. Hesitant but still hungry, Hound approaches until he's on the porch. He eats that tin too. Star peeks out from the glass in the door to watch him eat. She cracks the door open again to put another tin out - this time she and Hound are barely two feet away from each other with just the creaky back door between them. Hound is less suspicious as he eats the third tin.
The door opens once more, a crack at first, and then wide enough that Star can watch him unobstructed. The two assess one another wordlessly. Seem to decide that neither plans to attack. Star opens the door more widely and backs away from it in a sort of passive, tense invitation. Hound thinks for a moment, unsure of his goals. But steps inside.
His alien eyes flit from detail to detail. The cooking pot on the stove. The clothes hung up to dry. The trinkets on the shelves, the pictures on the wall, the sweeping brush and dustpan next to the garbage bin. It tells him that humans must be an organised, intelligent species - but primitive in their technology. Star inspects him with the same scrutiny as he passes her. The broken mask, the shotgun wound, the damaged wristpad. She doesn't know what he is, but he's mortal, and not so different from human, really. Hound takes the lid off the cooking pot and stirs it to see whats inside. An extremely human action, Star thinks, watching. (I did Google and check, yautja do use cooking pots in the comics so don't COME FOR ME with any disputes teehee). Anyway this bitch slurps the whole contents of the pot!!!! Rude but you know, he's sexy so we'll allow it.
Star fills the basin in her sink and hands it to Hound with a clean white cloth. He hesitates to take it, unsure of the offer. She mimes wiping down her arms and chest. Hound looks down at himself, a mess of ash and blood and mud and hay, and realises in confusion that Star is not doing this out of fear. She's being kind to him.
Softly, he takes the basin and cloth, and starts to clean himself. Star watches, a tiny smile on her lips in girlish excitement. She's just taken in a new stray... and this one's kinda hot 😳
Back in town, the feds have heaped the remains of the Yautja ship into the local football field, all lit up with spotlights, nice and tempting. The remaining national guardsmen (very few), the feds and the local police are standing by with their guns. Bastard bemoans that there's not enough of them, but again Sheriff shoots down suggestions of enlisting the scared civilians with guns at home.
A scream across the field alerts us: Big'Un is HERE, BITCHES. A classic Predator vs humans fight begins. It looks sick as fuck but I'm not a combat choreographer so listen just. Use your imagination. Some notable details from the fight:
Big'Un is using improvised or home-made weaponry. Imagine a yautja using airplane scrap and household shit to make clubs and spears and it looks badass and threatening. Teehee!
Big'Un slaughters the national guardsmen AND the feds, and the Sheriff is grievously injured
Using some form of quick thinking (girl idk) Copper and Bastard get the upper hand and manage to disarm and seriously injure Big'Un, at which point it becomes a desperate hand-to-hand, two against one fight. They are the last two left.
The cops manage to blow Big'Un back in an improvised explosion. We see Big'Un, looking haggard and fucked up, hissing and wheezing, fumble with his wristpad...
CUT TO: The quiet peace of Star's House l. We LOVE a volume juxtaposition. Star is introducing Hound and Cat, two shady and distrustful bitches, to one another. She shows him how to approach the feline in a way that expresses no threat: hand outstretched, knuckles gently offered to sniff, let the cat come to you. She explains that she's always found animals much easier to connect with than humans. Hound watches Star pet the cat in thoughtful calculation, absently touching the fang around his neck in an understandingthat transcends language. It's hard to read a yautja's facial expression, but there's a vibe of curiosity- even, dare I say, envy - to the way he looks at her. His wristpad suddenly makes a noise, warped by malfunction though it is.
He checks it. Star asks what's wrong (she can tell). It's actually a mayday signal from Big'Un but you know, the audience will get it and if they don't they don't. Hound heads quickly for the door and Star runs after him, saying they can take her car (can you IMAGINE a yautja as a passenger princess teehee)
BACK TO: The football field. The last bloody, panting stand between the cops and Big'Un. In the end, Copper takes the risks and manages to take Big'Un out at the knees, effectively incapacitating them. Then Bastard runs in and beats Big'Un's head to a green sticky pulp, finally releasing all his rage and power fantasies. Big'Un is dead.
The cops look at the carnage around them. Dead people, dead yautja, a half exploded football field. They try to save the Sheriff, but he succumbs to his injuries. Copper wants to call for re-enforcements - the army, the airforce, the big guns - but Bastard has a better idea. Now totally untethered from any social or legal restriction, he announces that they can't wait for back up. It's time THEY were in charge of things. They know there's still one yautja out there (remember the farmer's wife saw BOTH Hound and Big'Un escape the crash) and they know they have a town full of people who they can lead on a Hunt. Copper says that Bastard is crazy, that he just wants the high of fantasising himself as some militia leader or hero of the people. It devolves into a fight, which Bastard wins. He knocks Copper unconscious and marches off to make his dream come true.
Star and Hound park just outside the football field where smoke is obviously rising and a crowd is gathering. Star stops Hound from getting out of the car, worried how others will react. He bangs his fist against his damaged helmet, and the invisibility flickers on. Yeah babe I'm sure we don't need to worry about that at all. Together the pair move towards the football field, just in time to hear Bastard riling up the bystanders about "Russian monsters," "Sheriff and feds are dead", "we're in it alone now" etc. The alarmed crowd defer to his authority and run to rouse the rest of the town and fetch their guns.
Star rushes up to Bastard, demanding to know where her brother is. He tells her that Copper was killed by the monster. In disbelief and horror, she attempts to run into the football field, but Bastard stops her and holds her while she cries - another of his dreams coming true >:3
Watching her grief through his invisibility, but not understanding what's been said, Hound proceeds onto the football field. He finds Big'Un's body and stares at it in a quiet mix of despair and disappointment. His invisibility flickers off, but alone in the field he doesn't care. He takes his brother's wristpad and projects the map to the improvised ship. He also takes his makeshift weapons.
And then Hound is shot in the back!!!!!! :0
Its Copper!! Barely conscious, shakily raising his gun to take another shot. Obviously one bullet is NOT taking down a big sexy yautja on this day, but Hound has no range weapons, so he moves in to kill Copper by hand.
Of course, WHO heard the shot but Star and Bastard!!! Star arrives first, screaming at Hound to stop before he reaches Copper. She throws herself between them and Hound DOES stop, long enough for Bastard to start shooting (almost hitting Star too!!). With the last of his strength, Copper throws Star to the ground. Hound is struck by several bullets, and as more people flood into the field he is forced to retreat, activating his invisibility. In the chaotic aftermath, Star and some townsfolk manage to carry Copper away. Disoriented, he tries to warn Star about Bastard, but she misunderstands his half-conscious sentences as CONCERN for Bastard. She assures him that Bastard is okay and will take care of them. Copper passes out.
The town is now in Active Manhunt, Full Paranoia, End of Days mode. Armed men are going door to door searching for the yautja. Looters who try to take advantage of the chaos are shot dead by civilians. Bastard gleefully eggs on the violence, himself now the Supreme Authority in town. He speculates wildly that someone must be hiding the creature, that there are Russian agents in town, further fuelling the paranoia.
At the motel, Star and some neighbours attempt to bandage the badly injured and unconscious Copper. They hear the rioting outside. Star's Pervy Boss stands guard at the door. Star tries to say that she doesn't think the yautja wants to hurt them, but she's called "simple minded" by her neighbours.
Everyone trickles out of the motel, to be with their families, or to get out of town, or to join The Hunt. Leaving only unconscious Copper, Star, and Pervy Boss (🤢) left in the room. YOU KNOW he starts to make a move on her, the dumb fuck!! Star timidly rebuffs him, but he persists, saying things like this could be the end of the world, who knows if there will be a tomorrow, all the usual pick up lines teehee. When he puts his hands on her, Star attempts to scramble away but it devolves into a messy fight. Just as Perv gets her on the ground-
SHING! A bicycle chain is wrapped around Perv's throat and Hound, invisibility flickering off, strangles him to death quickly. Star screams in horror and rums, pursued by Hound. She grabs Copper's firearm abs rounds, aiming it directly in Hound's dace whicH YOU SHOULD NEVER DO IN A PREDATOR MOVIE!!!!
Hound reflexively raised his weapon to kill her, but they both freeze. Barely an arms length from each other, his arm raised high with a makeshift axe, her hands trembling around a gun to big for her hands. They freeze, and stare at one another.
Star cant do it. Sobbing, she throws the gun away. Hound doesn't move, still poised to strike. He's been shot enough times now not to trust humans. Shakily, Star extends a hand to him, knuckles showing. He recognises the gesture from when she did it to Cat. A way to say "I'm not a threat."
Slowly, he lowers the axe, and leans his face into her hand. She trails her hand along the unfamiliar ridges of his damaged mask. He raises a hand and removes it. A little nervous, a little thrilled, she touched his skin for the first time. She hums at the texture of his scales. He purrs at the heat in her fingers. This beautiful moment is interrupted by Copper saying "what the FUCK"
which honestly. Is an understandable response!
He's bleary and discombobulated, and Star manages to get between him and Hound to quickly explain that Hound is not a threat, he only seems to RESPOND to threats. Copper is obviously distrustful, but it is evident that this thing has some connection with his sister. Hound uses his brothers wristpad to project the ship he was working on, and Star deduces that Hound is asking for help to get home. Copper takes some convincing but eventually agrees, since he knows Bastard will tear the whole town apart if they don't get the alien out of there.
So our trio set out across town to get to Big'Un's spaceship! They retrieve some parts of Hound's original Yautja ship from the football field (there will be an obligatory shootout with townsfolk there, but our guys get away). They make it through town with only minimal interference from the fear crazed locals, and at last arrive at where Big'Un had hid his ship - in the town cemetery. Spoooookyyyyy
Of course, this is where our last stand has to happen! Bastard arrives with a few of his militia and a battle begins. Copper manages to hold them off with warning fire while Star and Hound frantically finish the spaceship. Of course the situation devolves. Copper is shot (relax he lives) and Hound has to fight off a swarm of the militia himself. Again use your imagination, let's pretend there's some gore-riffic and creative kills in there. Anyway he takes them all out one by one until only Bastard is left, but uh oh! Bastard has grabbed Star and is using her as a human shield!!!!
He and Hound circle slowly as Hound looks for an angle of approach that doesn't endanger Star. Bastard gloats that the alien didn't know what he was getting into, landing on Earth. That HE is the superior Predator, that HE is the strongest blah blah blah. He shoots poor Hound AGAIN (my baby is full of bullets) this time SQUARE IN THE CHEST, which takes him down to his knees.
Star screams and, from her position as a hostage, back to Bastard's chest, she grabs his shooting arm and bites into it like an animal. Bastard shrieks in a mix of shock and confusion, which gives Hound the window he needs to lunge and behead Bastard once and for all.
Star rushes in to stop Hound's bleeding, and then to Copper, fretting between the two of them and their bullet wounds. Hound uses the last of his medical clamps to seal Copper's wounds temporarily.
Limping, wheezing, he stumbles to his ship. Star follows miserably, but understands that he must go and recover from this with his own kind. As they part, she asks if he'll come back and visit her. Hound raises his hand to her face, knuckles first, just as they did with the cat. His blood and hers mix with tears on her cheek as he softly strokes her skin. Then he turns and climbs into his ship. Star steps back, watching it rattle off into the sky.
In the credits sequence, we see a series of newspaper clippings of what happened over the following years and decades, going from respectable news outlets saying things like "Gas explosion kills dozens at football field" and "Weather balloon crashes on farm", which devolve into conspiracy tabloids with headlines like "MASSIVE COVER UP OF ALIEN CRASH" and "JFK ASSASSINATED OVER DECLASSIFIED UFO DOCUMENTS". In the mix of these headlines are stories about Star, showing her at various ages as the newspapers become more recent. Some tabloids say things like "LONG DISTANCE BOYFRIEND IS E.T." and "CRAZY CAT LADY CLAIMS HUSBAND IS ALIEN". In the most recent photo, Star is an elderly lady sat in a warm chair, surrounded by affectionate cats. Around her neck, she wears a necklace with a peculiar fang. In the photo, there's a strange artefact - perhaps a defect with the lens. It almost looks like there's a half invisible hand resting on her shoulder.
Content warning: Stalking, baybay!! And also. Low self image :(
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It was rare that you ever got into the Christmas spirit. You followed neither the religion nor its celebrations, but Christmas was one of those insidious events it was difficult to avoid - even for a hermit like you. The streets were strung with flashing, coloured lights and the shops were adorned with little Santa figures or ornamental reindeer, and there was a frenzied atmosphere throughout the town that typically amused you in a sort of cynical, mocking way. Humans were always talking about joy and peace and festivity at Christmas, and simultaneously they were stressed and frantic and perpetually ready to snap at each other. And that was entertaining to you, as an outsider.
This year, though, you felt a little more participatory. You acknowledged for the first time that there was a sweetness to the act of decorating the town. On your garbage route, you admired the trees in the house windows, and the kitschy garden ornaments, and how much dedication these people invested in pleasing their children with this Santa-ceremony. And you didn't hate it, actually. The concerted effort of making children happy. Putting all this work into preserving a lie for the benefit of people who were entirely oblivious and unappreciative, but... Happy. For the first time in your life, you thought you could understand it.
Strawberry Cottage was decorated, modestly, even though she seemed to have no children. You cautioned yourself against any definite beliefs about her - she had a husband, after all. Out there, somewhere, looking for her. While you deliberately avoided fantasies about her, you did indulge a few centering him, as you watched the cottage each cold, quiet night of December. What kind of person she would have married. What kind of person she would have left. What kind of person would be hunting her down now, despite her obvious effort to escape him.
...Someone like you, you concluded. That realisation filled you with a queasy mix of disgust, and selfish hope.
The body rotting in the disused canal bothered you far less than you ever would have imagined. As you predicted, the snow came only a few days after his killing, and the mountain was quickly cleansed with pure, brilliant white. There was no search party. No "Missing" posters in the town. No announcement of concern by the police. Whoever he was, his absence raised no immediate alarms - at least, not in your part of the world. And you made a surprisingly easy peace with what you'd done. If he could be indifferent to stepping into your territory, confidently taking that key, confidently endangering a young woman, then you felt an equal indifference to your actions protecting her. Ugly business takes ugly risks. When you saw the little plastic Christmas tree she'd set up in the window of Strawberry Cottage, it even felt like a karmic reward for you. She felt safe there. She was celebrating Christmas. Your action facilitated that safety. Good Tidings and Joy, etcetera etcetera.
You were running late that evening, because town was busier than normal, and you'd needed to buy some supplies from the hardware store. They were opening some Santa grotto at the square, so traffic was bad. It was dark before you'd escaped the town centre, and snow was coming down heavy by the time your truck veered onto the narrow mountain road that wound through the wooded ascent to your cabin.
You were driving slow anyway, because of the weather, when you saw the red glare of tail lights ahead. It startled you, because it was rare to see a car on this road - and your mind went first to the body, and the cops, and the mysterious Family who knew the name of your town. But through the hard-working windshield wipers and the white flurry of snow, you could see it was the red Toyota.
Oh no.
Your truck slowed to a crawl. It didn't seem like she'd skid off the road, but she was stopped, with the engine running. Stopped by the side of a very lonely, very rarely passed road.
You didn't know what to do. You indicated to pass her. As you drove carefully around her car, the driver side door opened, and a hand shot out to wave at you. You kept driving at a crawling pace, terrified to stop. Your truck was past her car now, but you could see her figure in the rear view mirror, getting out. Standing in the road, still waving at you.
Your foot found the brake pedal before you'd really thought it through. You stopped your truck a hundred meters ahead of her car, but stayed sat in paralysed indecision, listening to your engine run.
Not now. Not like this.
You ought to just keep going. Glancing at the mirror, you could see her silhouetted in her own headlights, standing in front of her car, staring at you. You'd stopped. Of course she expected you to get out. She'd waved you down - you should have kept going. You could have made an excuse then, that you hadn't seen her wave. Hadn't realised she might need help. Now, you were in an impossible situation where you had clearly noticed and acknowledged her needing help, but you weren't getting out to help.
She can't see me like this.
You were still in your overalls from work. Your hair - your smell - you hadn't shaved that morning, had you? Your heart was racing. You felt dizzy. You'd hesitated too long in your car - now it looked extremely strange that you hadn't gotten out yet. Now it looked like you were thinking of driving off and leaving her stranded - which you were! Now it was worse than it would have been if you'd just driven off like a rude prick. Your fist was shaking as you pulled up the handbrake.
Opening your car door, you stepped into the icy wind feeling surreal, nightmarish dread. Blood was rushing to your face. You could barely swallow. Your legs felt too weak to support you.
You watched with bleary despair as she took an immediate and obvious step backwards when she fully saw you. Your height. Your build. The wildness of your hair. You didn't blame her for the sudden hesitation in her posture. You'd seen it before, in humans, when they first met you. Some dormant, animal alarm inside them would set off. A prey instinct they didn't know they had. And you knew it was only expected that she would feel that instinct, too. But it hurt. It hurt a lot.
You walked nervously to the back of your truck, and she waited nervously at the front of her car, and for a moment it was unbearably awkward, and you wondered if there was any excusable reason to throw yourself down the mountain embankment at the edge of the road and escape this. But then she pushed the silver hair from her face, and made a visible commitment to approach you, exhaling a long, steadying breath as she did.
"Hi," she called, still lingering a few paces away. She smiled at you, and you wanted to throw up. "I'm sorry - I'm really sorry, I just - I don't suppose you know how to change a tyre?"
There was an embarrassed tone to the question, and you realised she was smiling in a self-depreciating way, and that made everything even worse. You tried to swallow down the storm of feelings inside and nodded, pointing to her car as if asking silent permission to approach. You kept your head down and stared at the snow-slushed road as you passed her, wishing you could be smaller, and cleaner, and more handsome.
"Oh- thank you!" She sounded relieved, and followed at your back.
You could see her own earnest attempt at the tyre as you came around to the side of the car. She'd gotten the spare out, and the jack, but hadn't made much progress beyond that.
"I'm sorry," she said again to your back. "I'd normally look this sort of thing up online, but there's no signal here, and..."
Why does she sound like that? You removed the hubcap and loosened the lug nuts as quickly as you could, glad of the work to occupy your hands, glad you didn't have to look at her.
"I know everyone should know how to change a tyre, hah."
It got under your skin, to hear her sound so... Apologetic. It made you feel like you were doing something wrong to her, even as you hastily tried to help.
"I... I really appreciate you stopping. I've been out here for like thirty minutes. You'd think I'd have figured it out myself in that time-"
"Nobody knows how to do anything, 'til somebody shows them."
You only spoke to make her stop, and you regretted it instantly. God, you sounded angry, didn't you? You sounded like the insufferable, ill-tempered grunt you were. You squeezed your eyes closed in morbid embarrassment and urgently moved the jack into place.
She was quiet behind you, until she said, "that's a good way of seeing things... Thank you for showing me."
You hadn't realised you were showing her anything, and jolted a little to the side, suddenly very conscious that she should see what your hands were doing.
This is the worst moment of my life.
Perhaps you should have fantasized a little more. Perhaps it would have helped you prepare for this possibility. You'd never thought of yourself as charismatic, but now, in the present clusterfuck of this awful, self-imploding moment, you fully appreciated what a useless lump of nothing you truly were.
"I thought I might have to walk back to town," she started eventually, obviously uncomfortable with your silence. "I never see anybody on this road."
She was trying to make conversation. She was good at it, too. Her voice was soft and light and good-natured, and in spite of the tension, the words sounded easy coming from her. A practiced conversationalist. You tried hard, so hard, to think of something clever or charming or just not unbearably fucking dry, but your mind had ceased all operation. Only your hands still worked.
"You live in the cabin by the creek, right?"
Your hands stopped working. Right as you were fitting the spare tyre, you fumbled and dropped in clumsy shock.
"Sorry! Oh, gosh-" she reacted as if she were the one who'd dropped it. "I promise I'm not a stalker or anything."
She said it with a laugh. You almost got sick.
"I walk down to the creek in the mornings before work, and I- um, I passed your place a few times, but you never seem to be home."
In the mornings before work. She only came by when you were already out to work, then. How had you not noticed her tracks? You'd been so consumed with care in surveying her house, you never considered someone may be surveying your own.
"Sorry, um... I'm sorry."
She apologised a lot. It bothered you. It felt like an itch beneath your skin, beneath your muscle. An itch inside your bones. There was something under the words when she apologised, something lodged deep in her voice, and you couldn't name what it was but it bothered you.
"I've seen other cabins up here, but they all seem pretty derelict. I think it might just be you and me up here."
She laughed again, nervously. You took a breath, and picked up the spare tyre, and got back to work.
"Yeah, it's just us up here," you said carefully. "I thought I saw work trucks up this way a few weeks back. Wondered who'd moved in."
"That's me," she sounded brighter now that you were engaging. More enthused. "I basically had to tear the place apart and start from the ground up. New pipes, new floor, new windows, and hopefully a new roof, soon. Did your place need that much work? It looks- it looks cozy. I mean, from the outside, it..."
Her inflection changes when she lies. There was an upward lilt in her voice when she described your shitty little cabin as cozy, and you found it woefully endearing.
You finished with the tyre, and started re-attaching the hubcap. "It was the same," you muttered. "Good bones, but rotted floor, rotted roof."
"And- I'm sorry to ask, but you wouldn't still have the name of the people you got to fix it, would you? It's just, the guy I hired is kind of a cowboy, he hasn't really finished the job."
You tightened the bolts and shook your head. "Did it all myself."
"Oh..."
You stood, queasy again with self consciousness, and busied yourself with carrying the jack and old, flat tyre to the open trunk of her Toyota. Any excuse not to look at her. But she followed you the whole way there.
"Thank you. Really, thank you. You don't know how much you saved me tonight."
No, you knew. It just hurt to be thanked. Actually, it felt fucking awful to be thanked. Every second of this encounter was a transgression, a violation she didn't even understand was happening.
But finally, with everything put away and you softly closing the trunk of her car, there were no more excuses, and you were forced to transgress in the most irreparable way. Having no where else to look, and nothing else to do, you turned around to face her.
It was different, violently so, from watching her at a distance. She was barely an arm's reach away, and she was looking back with those big, dark eyes, and she was seeing you. Her pretty, round face was tilted slightly to the left. There was a soft smile lifting her cheeks a little. You fought the nausea as you stared at her staring at you, watching her gaze flit across your features, making mental notes you weren't sure you wanted to know. It was strange now, with this proximity, to understand the size difference between you. She wasn't short, but you were tall, and that made you deeply conscious of the threat you posed. She was chubby, and delicate, and there was a roundness to her features that made you imagine she'd be wonderfully soft to the touch. Too soft for you. You clenched your hands to fists at your sides.
"I'm Lunasa," she smiled.
Lunasa. Autumn leaves and soft rain and peat fires came to your mind when you heard the name. The sound of drums and the taste of cider and the silver moon itself all latched immediately to this new word. She was holding out her hand for you to shake. And you knew at once, with sickening clarity, that you had nothing at all to offer this woman.
"... People call me Punch," you muttered, keeping your hands to yourself.
She laughed, like she thought you were joking, and then again when she realised you were serious. "Well, good!" She announced. "Since I moved here I've been struggling to remember everyone's names. That's one I'd never forget."
She could not have understood what those words did to you. You prayed their impact wasn't obvious on your face.
With a nod that you hoped would communicate a polite goodbye, you shuffled past her, very careful not to let your arm touch hers as you did. Behind you, she called another thank you - and you sped your walking pace to reach the truck quicker. You had no memory of closing the door or restarting the engine, you weren't entirely lucid until you were lurching up the road and nearly missing the turn to your own long driveway. It was only when you found yourself standing on the porch of your cabin that you had any real appreciation of what had happened.
You'd met her. And she'd met you - she knew you now. And everything was changed. Everything. You could never go back to a version of life before you'd met her. You could never go to watch the cottage again - not when she was awake, anyway. If she'd spied you before, you could have pawned it off as innocent curiosity, as a neighbour discovering a neighbour for the first time. That excuse was gone entirely. You could never risk being seen there, now. You could never go back to the routine you'd grown to love.
Entering your cold, lonely house, you found you could not take a step further. You knelt on the floor, and then sat, and then lay there in troubled thought, realising that this meeting had doomed you in every way imaginable. Now you would be relegated to distant neighbours who had no reason to visit one another. Now that she knew you, she could be disappointed by you. Betrayed by you. Repulsed by you. She was no longer a piece of territory to be watched and guarded. She was Lunasa. And you were nothing. Not a guardian. Not a friend. Not even a good fucking stalker anymore. You were less than nothing to her - you were an acquaintance.
"There's no way to move forward from this," you whispered to Scowler, who came to sit triumphantly on your stomach. "I didn't even make a good impression."
And you didn't move forward, not really. You stopped visiting Strawberry Cottage at all, save a few minutes in the dead of night before you left for your 4am shift. You missed seeing the house as she moved within it. You missed the lights turning on and off, the sound of her singing or laughing at the TV. The cottage felt unlived in at night. But you couldn't risk exposure at any other time.
The snow on the mountain stopped feeling so cleansing, and began to pale the colour from the world. The Christmas lights in town became visual noise to contend with. You barely slept, and when you did, your anxiety conjured nightmares of Lunasa running through the woods - running from you. The cougar inside you wanted to chase. The man wanted to wither.
It was Christmas Eve, and you were preparing for the first full moon you would ever spend in a cage. Before her, you'd let yourself run free through the woods. One of the Divine Rights it felt safe to indulge in, with no humanity on the mountain. But now... Now. When there was something you so hungrily wanted to chase, someone you ferociously yearned for, it was imperative to be contained. You built the cage in the center of your small living room, hopeful that you could provision enough meat and stimulation to keep yourself occupied within for the hours the moon was up. It wasn't easy to find chains large enough to outfit the cage interior. You hoped you weren't that much stronger than a rottweiler...
Satisfied that it was as fortified as it would ever be, you began to strip down - when there was a knock on the door.
In the decade you'd lived in that cabin, there had never once been a knock on your door.
Wary and miserable and agitated by the impending moon, you opened the door with a very short fuse-
"Hello!" Lunasa beamed. She was half-buried under a large woolen scarf, and still shivering from the cold outside. She presented a shiny little gift bag to you. "Merry Christmas!"
Imagine going to the kitchen for a midnight snack, but you see a dragon digging through your silverware, stealing the shinest stuff for his hoard. This is after you tell him that he cannot have all your spoons at least three times prior. What would you do then? You bap him on the head with a broom, that's right. Dragons will trick you into thinking they're majestic and kings of the realm, but they're overgrown fire-breathing raccoons.
Loveable Monsters @acreepqueen - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
