a/n: Oh, nonnie. The Creature doesn't just love fat girls. He adores them. Allow me to tell you why.
(WARNING: Smut at the end. Placed under a cut for convenience.)
The vast diversity in the human form has always been something that has endlessly fascinated him. He finds it remarkable how in such wide a world, every single individual is so unique in their design, in how vastly people can vary in size and shape, and in an infinite variety that seems at times almost dizzying. None, however, intrigue him more than a figure that is full.
There is something deeply moving to him in a portly corporeality that he finds difficult to put into words, though he may certainly try. He is enchanted by the transcendence of flesh in the rolls and folds of skin that flex and form over every limb, how delicate and elegant, yet sturdy and strong a rounded stomach seems to be. How wondrous it is the warmth that emanates from deep within the swell of flesh, expressed in every gesture and every movement with an uncanny grace that sets his heart alight with wonder. And if all that were not enough for him to be completely bewitched, it is your very countenance that is the seat of radiance itself in his eyes, rounded cheeks and chin, like the warmth of a rising sun driving off the cold contempt of night.
What he doesn't understand is how all the world seems to be completely and willfully unable to see any of these wonderful things that he sees in you and others like you. How clinical and abominable the language becomes when bodies like yours are discussed, with such derision and disgust. How it makes him think how you might feel to bear those grotesque words… to be treated with such cold and coarse language, with no consideration for the indomitably warm spirit that all of these words fail to embody. How great a disservice it does your very soul to be gazed upon as nothing more than a failure of self, or of God's design… without seeing that what is within and without is all divine as any creature who roams this bitter earth.
His hatred for such things said of you drive him mad… nearly even drive him to violence because he remembers the way Victor regarded him with that same cynical eye. How he held his every feature that he himself had shaped with his very own hands in the name of perfection with such utter contempt. He too held no consideration for what lingered in his mind, only for what his body could produce for his own vanity - and falling short, was dismissed as a failure and cast aside.
If his own body was constructed in the name of perfection, and yet deemed lacking in every regard to his own rage, then it would absolutely infuriate him to know that this was the very same repulsion and rejection you have faced for so much of your life. It shatters his heart to think that a soul like yours could know that same wanton cruelty when he sees the very perfection he lacks in you. To him, you are more beautiful in every facet than he ever could be… and it dismays him to his very core that you are not given the grace you're due.
So, if the world would treat you, who is perfection itself, as grotesque as he is, then he would be resolved to treat you with nothing but all the tenderness he can muster. If you and he would both be deemed terrible creatures by all the world for the flesh that makes you who you are, he would endeavor through all the love that is in him to give to carve out a piece of it where you could live and be loved freely in your own skin. For you know that you are loved not only for what you are, more than just your mind and soul, but that no God nor earthy vindication need grant love to each and every part of you where he would give it freely, without reservation or doubt or fear… that is his only wish for you.
But even for all that he would wish to give you, he would not be so bold as to suppose that you might return his affections. In spite of what he knows you feel to be true, in spite of all of these thoughts that swim in his head of all that pain and longing you share, in spite of all the yearning in his heart to be these things to you where others would not… he holds no expectation that one such as you could ever love one such as him, and would be contented enough just for you to know his heart, what he wishes for you, knowing it is only the same he would ever wish for himself, knowing that you may understand that want to only be affirmed…
But to learn that his feelings are not his alone… that they are shared by you… by one of the rare kinds of people who could comprehend what it would mean to be loved that way… to feel your warm touch upon him and know that you feel the same way for him and of him… he would be overcome with joy.
He would feel entirely fulfilled to hold you close- to feel the press of your plump flesh against his tattered and torn skin. He could ask for no greater comfort than to sink his fingers against your pliant figure and know that he has found home and harbor here. He would sigh into every kiss, every contour and resistance of your lips, your skin, everywhere you would grant him ingress to touch. He would know no greater joy than to be held in your arms and feel the weight of you on him and for one solitary moment feel more warmth and safety than he has ever known.
Making love to you is also equally transcendent. To bear your breasts for him to hold… he's never felt such softness… how they fill his equally large hands, and how strange it is that they seem to even dwarf them, in a strange contradiction that perplexes him to no end, and yet he could not imagine a sensation more pleasurable than to feel their mass against his palm, his lips, against his chest…
He would find no greater comfort than lying upon the plushest places of you- your thighs, your stomach… oh and how he would love to listen to the gurgle that emanates from within, quiet as a lullaby, an even more entrancing sound of life than even the gentle thud of your heart against your chest. How the sound would embolden him to kiss you there, even if it should make you ticklish to feel his lips peck at the tender flesh so. He simply cannot help it with the sort of joy it gives him to know that you are alive and in his arms.
He also would find no more a comforting sensation than that of your thick arms wrapped around his shoulders, draping off his form with such a weight that he cannot help but fall into their embrace, anchoring him to you. Though this is not the sort of bondage that he willingly, the one place he never wishes to leave, and yet how easily he can bear to hold you to him, to even lift you off the ground with a surprised yelp, which is something he always delights to hear.
Oh, and then to find how plush the lips between your legs are… how they are more infinitely soft and pliant as anything he has ever touched. He wishes nothing more than to bury himself between them, feel each lip under his mouth and tongue as he explores their tender depths, finding treasures untold between them the further he delves. How luxuriant it feels also to push himself between and into them… that each and every thrust should be cushioned against your form, assuring him of the safety that only your warm embrace might ever bring him both within and without, the greatest comfort he has ever known, and to be so enveloped by such softness that he forgets what it is to be ashamed …
To see your visage so enamored by him in turn, to look so overcome in the love and happiness that you give to each other… it reminds him that being simply who you are- who both of you are- is a blessing, not a curse. That both of your forms in their entirety were made for love to be loved by one another, and the mutual understanding that lies in your coupling… it is an experience he never thought he would know, but now that he does, he knows what it is to feel utterly, completely, and unabashedly whole.
Imagine touching his cheek, and kissing his sutures, and telling him how pretty he isssss
In Eyes To Behold
A/N: ah so just. The stuff I imagine every single day of my life for the past 2 weeks. right. here you go.
He did not know how long it had been since all conversation passed into silence. It was not an unwelcome sort of quiet, not the kind he'd learned from Victor in all his infinite displeasure, it was certainly more comforting than that, but neither could he ignore the uneasiness in the air between him and all that he might say. How all the words he knew now felt utterly short of the mark for what he felt, and how he still longed to say them all, yet could not help but remain silent for that niggling doubt that rang ever present at the back of his mind.
Saying any of it would not make them mine to hold. There are not enough words in all the world that could ever do that...
But when his eyes found courage to seek yours again, he finds that yours had never left him. How you gazed upon him now was nothing short of all he had come to know of you- a gentle warmth that seeped into his limbs that even unending life could not provide, and how it fluttered something fierce inside his chest - for good or ill, he could not tell.
Your hand came upon him, a caress so warm it made his stomach ache. And you said the words. Just five simple words that haunted him to his very bones to hear.
"You are beautiful, you know".
He felt the air run out of his lungs in a charge. A breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. It had taken him off guard, this sudden candor turned on him that threatened to undo him at his grizzly seams and all he'd learned in what little time he'd been alive would mean nothing. All that had been left in the place of him was his eyes gazing doe-like into yours.
Then you leaned toward him and joined his lips to yours. It felt like nothing. It felt so little on him that it felt like everything. He'd read of stars being birthed from a great compaction, surged forth into being from the implosion of matter so acute it could hardly exist in its own space. He wondered then if this is what it felt like to be born, as your lips parted from him, yet lingered so close they might touch him again at the slightest motion.
"You… love me?" he asks. The only question he could think to ask. A disbelief that ran so deep it made tears fall unbidden from his eyes to even say it. And still in saying it, your lips brushed again against the corner of his mouth where his cheek and jaw were joined in their unholy union.
"Yes," you whisper, lips tracking along that same seam across his pale skin as a balm; as though your warm breath could scar them over by their will alone, to make him whole and unmarred by his creator's crude design, lifted by something more natural and divine. His eyes shuddered in repudiation.
"Does love not… make one blind?" he mused. Something he'd read from an English poet who lived long ago. Something rang true about the phrase, especially now.
You chuckle, shaking your head as though he made some gentle jest.
"Not in my case, I don't believe."
He grimaced to think it so, turning away so that he might shrink into the thought.
But your hand stayed him. Touch lingering and following in a way he could neither shirk nor ignore. It was when your thumb stroked again at his sutures that he could not help but to lean his face into its careful tracings, well charted and routed in an unspoken familiarity that only well-studied eyes might know.
"I see you," you soothed, "just fine. And you are more beautiful than you know."
In his eyes now came a requiem. A flash of reckoning in the reflection of his one malignant eye. In the way you held his face in your hands, resting softly against his marred and patch-worked flesh, he found a singular truth; that these winsome things were not defined by flesh and bone. How that truth had been defied by all he knew of the world, what little still he knew... But with this truth also came a startling clarity; that this same cobbled flesh would know the love it craved by your hands and yours alone, and that it would not fade lightly.
It was the turn of all doubt and fear to pass into silence now as he pressed his forehead to what all thought held dear, and by that same grace invite his own lips to seek and want and be met with only welcome. For if this tender godlessly begotten flesh might know love then what words would supplant what it could give in its turn?
we've discussed Victor getting handsy with the corpses, but it occurs to me that uh. he got some parts from people on the gallows too, right? He uh. inspected them.
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