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⊠Theme of the Monthă»The Forest ⊠Monthly Miniseriesă»//

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Three Goblin Art
taylor price
Misplaced Lens Cap
Show & Tell
One Nice Bug Per Day
I'd rather be in outer space đž
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blake kathryn
hello vonnie
Claire Keane

Love Begins
h
wallacepolsom
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Aqua Utopiaïœæ”·ăźćșă§èšæ¶ă玥ă

romaâ
ojovivo
trying on a metaphor
Monterey Bay Aquarium
seen from United States

seen from Spain
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Germany

seen from United States
seen from United States
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seen from Brazil

seen from Malaysia
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seen from Canada
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seen from India
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@silkhunger
About
ă»âŠă»Havenă»20'să»she/theyă»MDNI 18+ă»monster loveră»haunted house enthusiastă»inbox - OPENă»anon - ONă»âŠă»
⊠Theme of the Monthă»The Forest ⊠Monthly Miniseriesă»//
Info
this is a sideblog mostly to post my monster romance stories and ideas! i have a sizeable backlog of works that i'm rewriting, but i'm working on new stuff and i'm always up for more ideas and opinions!
i love all interaction! likes, reblogs, asks, tag games, and whatever else are all welcome here! inbox and anons are usually kept open, but if, for some reason, i have to close either, i'll update the above info. all i ask is for people to be polite - blank blogs, ageless blogs, and anything rude or otherwise will be an immediate block.
Recent
Monster Monday - Mimic x F!Reader | link
Witch x F!Reader x Witch || masterlistă»âŠă»i.
Monster Monday - Necromancer x F!Reader | link
Friday the 13th Special - Serial Killer x GN!Reader | i.ă»ii.
Monster Zookeeper x Reader || masterlistă»âŠă»i.ă»ii.ă»iii.
April Fool's Day Special - The Fool x F!Reader | link
Easter Special - The Rabbit x GN!Reader | link
Monster Monday - Vulture x GN!Reader | link
Monster Monday - Rat King x F!Reader | link
Monster Monday - Bat x GN!Reader | link
Upcoming
Request - Slime!GF part 2
Request - Mermay
Request - The Fool (cont.)
Monster Monday - Ogre x Reader
Monster Monday - Swamp Monster x Reader
Monster Monday - Troll x Reader
Holiday Special
ă»âŠă»
Credits pfp ⊠joanmadethis (instaă»ko-fi) header ⊠Timo Ketola aka Timo Tapani Ketola (Finnish, 1975-2020, b. Helsinki, Finland, d. Rome, Italy)
hello hello here's a little blog update:
i got a new job so my writing schedule is a little thrown off so there's no monster miniseries this month, and no monster monday or wip wednesday for the first week of may!
instead the first week is gonna be the three requests i have finished, while saturdays and sundays are gonna be for finishing up the other monthly miniseries!
also next weekend i should have a masterlist and a request rules post up! requests are still open, so if you wanna send something in before the rules are posted you can send an ask or dm me!
i hope everyone has a great may đ©¶
final chapter of the monster zookeeper miniseries ended up longer than i thought and i'm still editing so it will be posted tomorrow instead of today! đ©¶
Can we suggest themes for months that don't have them?
sure!
WIP WEDNESDAY - ARACHNID X READER
âIsnât she talented?â
âShe?â he cries out, âThatâs aâthatâs a fucking spider webââ
The skittering cuts him off, eights massive legs moving across the webs with horrifying speed. She emerges from the shadows, the most beautiful thing youâve ever seen. Several feet tall when she rears up on her back legs, chitinous exoskeleton swirled with black and red patterns, and eight eyes gleaming wet with hunger.
Your dateâyour offeringâscreams.
âShh.â You set a finger to his lips, watching his limbs begin to struggle. The venom must be finally setting in, mixing with shock and the alcohol to turn him uncoordinated. âI brought you all the way here to meet my girlfriend, so donât be rude. The least you could do is say hello.â
MONSTER MONDAY - BAT X GN!READER
⊠WARNINGS: 18+ă»mild body horroră»monster transformation ⊠TAGS: established relationshipă»domestic fluffă»happy endingă»monster romance ⊠WORD COUNT: 1.9k
The villa sits on a cliff overlooking the Aegean Sea, all white marble with a sparkling infinity pool. He always picks somewhere beautiful, and, more importantly, remote. Somewhere you can watch the moon rise over the water while he frees himself from his human form.
Itâs your fifth vacation togetherâ
(your sixth maybe; youâve lost count by now)
âTell me about the view.â He floats on his back in the pool, face turned toward the late afternoon sun. His noseâup-turned, and slightly bat-like even when heâs humanâtwitches as the water laps at his cheeks. The tips of his ears peek through his wet, black hair, already more pointed than usual.
You describe it from your lounge chair, waxing poetic about the endless blue of the sea and the far off islands just a smudge on the horizon. When you run out of scenery, you start telling him about the villaâs terrace where youâll watch him transform tonight.
He hums, pleased. Then, with a small smirk, adds, âYou forgot the olive trees.â
You scoff out a laugh. Of course heâd know; heâs been here before. He brought you here three years ago for your second vacation together.
âThe olive trees are still there, gnarled trunks and all.â You roll your eyes, watching him drift through the water.
He stretches an arm out, and snaps his fingers twice as he approaches the edge of the pool. Itâs a habit he only indulges in when youâre alone, ears twitching as the clicks help him map the space around him. He kicks his feet, floating through the water until he comes to the edge. He turns gracefully, planting his feet on the pool wall to kick off and drift back into the center of the pool.
Youâve been together for years, since before the money and the fame. Youâve been there for all the sold-out concerts and the Grammy nominations. Youâve helped him navigate dealing with too curious fans who donât know that his hauntingly alluring voice truly is otherworldly.
Itâs been so longâ
(years and years, and hopefully more still to come)
âthat you have a routine for this.
Every few months, when his body starts preparingâwhen his hearing sharpens and you catch him clicking his tongue against his teeth in the middle of conversationsâhe books a trip. Somewhere expensive and scenic, where he can spoil you to his heartâs content and isolated enough no one will hear him scream.
This week itâs been massages and private beaches. At night, you indulge in dinners that cost more than most peopleâs rent, and sunrise swims where you float beside him in comfortable silence. Heâs bought you clothes you donât need, and jewelry youâll never wear anywhere but here.
âI want you to have good memories,â he told you the first time, years ago in Scotland. âBefore you have to watch me become a monster.â
Youâd kissed him, promised that youâd love him in any form, and youâve kept that promise through a dozen transformations. Maybe even more.
The transformation begins at sunset.
Youâre on the terrace, your love standing at the railing in loose linen pants and nothing else. His skin has been sensitive all day, hence the extra time in the pool. Youâd learned early on that clothes become unbearable as the change approaches.
âItâs starting.â Already his voice is rougher, harmonics creeping in at the edges.
You move to his side, but donât touch him. âWhat do you need?â
âJustâŠbe close. Talk to me, if you wantââ he tilts his head, listening for something you canât hear, ââThe moonâs almost up.â
Through him, you can feel it. His breathing goes shallow, fingers gripping the railing as his shoulders hunch and roll. His spine curves first. Bumps of new vertebrae press against skin, his shoulder blades pushing outward. He gasps, head falling forward. You move behind him to help with his pants before the change makes them impossible to remove.
âIâve got you,â you soothe, and he laughs breathlessly.
âYou always do.â Thereâs an edge of his excitement to his voice, anticipating the coming change.
The skin on his back splits cleanly. Membrane pushes through, folded dark, and wet with fluid that isnât blood. His wings unfurl slowly, extending wider than the terrace, blotting out the sunset.
You step back to give him room. This part is familiar, but youâre still not quite used to the sounds of his bones cracking and reforming. His face elongates, the lower half squishing in. Youâve seen it enough times that the horror has dulled to mild discomfort and mostly wonder.
(heâs stunning, even like thisânothing can change your mind about that)
When the transformation completes, he turns to you. Seven feet tall, covered in dark fur, wings mantled high. Those milky blind eyes are the same, though, fixed on you even though he canât see.
âYouâre staring,â he speaks, words limited in his true form and layered with high-pitched tones that make your ears ache slightly.
âSure am.â
A purr escapes him, rippling through the fur of his body. âGoing to hunt. Maybe sing. Donât wait up.â
âBe safe.â
âAlways.â He launches himself off the terrace, wings snapping out to catch the wind, and then heâs gone, melting into the dark sky.
For hours, you watch him from the terrace.
Sometimes he disappears, hunting in the mountains behind the villa. Other times he circles overhead, singing with that unearthly voice that make your chest ache and brings tears to your eyes. He flies for hours, testing his wings against the wind, diving and climbing in patterns that youâve learned are joyful.
(you brought a bookâyou always bring a bookâbut you donât read it, happy to just watch)
Around midnight, he lands on a cliff outcropping across the ravine. You can spot his silhouette against the moon, wings folded and head tilted back. Heâs singing properly now, the echo carrying over the distance.
Youâre so focused on listening that you donât notice him take off again. Circling closer, diving until heâs almost on you. You gasp as clawed hands close around your waist, lifting your feet clean off the terrace.
âTrust,â he calls over the wind, and then youâre flying. Actually flying.
Heâs never done this before. In a dozen transformations, heâs never grabbed you and taken you with him. Your heart hammers as the villa drops away beneath you, wind rushing past and his wings beating steady and strong.
âOh my god!â is all you can manage.
His laugh rumbles through his chest into your back. He climbs higher, over the olive trees and the ravine. The moon turns everything silver, and below, the sea stretches in infinite waves of darkness.
âFeel,â he says when he finally plateaus, âWhat I hear. What itâs like.â
Thereâs so much of his world that heâs already shared with you, but this⊠Itâs different to experience this way, seeing first-hand what itâs like when heâs unbound by gravity and human limitations.
âItâs beautiful,â you admit, adjusting in his arms to make yourself more comfortable.
His grip tightens, claws lightly digging into your waist. âYouâre beautiful.â
He makes that purring sound again, diving low over the water. You shriekâhalf terror, half delightâand his wings beat, pulling up just before youâd hit the surface so the sea spray kisses your face.
âShow off!â you shriek in laughter.
âYou love it.â
(god help you, you do)
He flies you for another hour. Over cliffs and forests, through clouds, and up to where the air grows thin. When he finally glides back to the villa, your legs are shaking and your cheeks are wind-burned. Yet, youâve never felt more alive.
He lands on the terrace with surprising gentleness, setting you down but not letting go.
âThank you,â you breathe, trying to steady yourself. âThat was⊠Thank you.â
He nuzzles into your hair, wings folding carefully to cocoon you both. âWanted to give. Something Good. To remember.â
You lean into his arms, laying a kiss over the rapid drumming of his heart and giggling at the purr you get in reply.
Around three in the morning, he starts changing back.
Youâre dozing on the terrace lounge when you hear him land, heavier than before. Your eyes open just in time to catch his wings retracting, and bones shifting back to human proportions.
âHey,â you call, sitting up. âCome here.â
He stumbles over, and you guide him to take your seat. The transformation back is usually slower than the first. More painful, you thinkâthough heâs never admitted itâbut you help him through it like you always do.
You fetch water, and he drinks with shaking hands that slowly pop back into fingers. You wipe blood from his mouthâhe hunted well tonight, it seemsâand donât ask what he caught. You run your hands through the fur thatâs receding into skin, and over the knots where his wings shrink back into shoulder blades.
âHurting?â you ask.
âSome. Worth it.â His voice is losing its echo, becoming ânormalâ again. âDid youâŠlike flying?â
âI loved it.â
He leans into you, still massive but shrinking with every deep breath. âGood. Iâve beenâŠwanting to take you with me. FinallyâŠfelt brave enough.â
âI donât think Iâve ever seen you not be brave,â you laugh lightly.
âNot with you. With you IâmâŠterrified.â Heâs mostly human now, just traces of fur and the memory of wings. âIâŠI think I keep waiting for you to realize what I amâŠand leave.â
âNever.â You punctuate it with a kiss to his forehead, then another to his cheek, and several more to his lips. âNever, never, never.â
By the time the sun rises, heâs fully human. Naked and exhausted, and happily curled in your lap on the lounge chair like a spoiled house cat.
âLetâs go to bed,â you suggest softly, running your hands down his warm sides.
He whines, nuzzling into your lap. âCarry me.â
âI donât think so,â you laugh, nudging at his shoulders.
âThen Iâll carry you.â He stands with sudden, surprising energy, scooping you up despite his exhaustion. âMy turn to spoil you.â
âIsnât that what youâve been doing?â
âMore, then.â He carries you inside, straight to the massive canopied bed with its ocean view. He lays you down gently and crawls in beside you, pulling you tightly to his chest. His up-turned nose presses to your temple, inhaling deeply.
âLove you,â he murmurs.
âLove you, too.â
He snaps softly, checking exits before he lets himself settle into familiar territory. He waits five extra seconds, ears twitching as he listens for anything his clicks may have missed.
(you donât know what he waits for when he does thisâa part of you hopes you never do)
âSleep,â he says once heâs satisfied youâre safe and alone. âTomorrow Iâm taking you to that restaurant. The one on the cliff.â
âYouâre going to spoil me rotten like this. I hope you know that.â
âHave to make sure you remember why you deal with me.â
You turn in his arms. Those striking white eyes flit toward you, finding you through sound and heat.
âIâm not just here for fancy dinners, you know? I stay because I love you. In every form,â you tell him firmly, sealing it with another, stubborn kiss.
He grins against your lips, nipping lightly with his fangs when you pull away. âGuess weâll have to keep doing this then.â
âFor as long as youâll have me.â
Outside the sun climbs higher, bathing you in soft golden light. Youâre lulled to sleep by the rustling of olive trees in the breeze and the distant crashing of waves and his quiet promise of:
âForever, then.â
MONTHLY MINISERIES - MONSTER ZOOKEEPER X F!READER
⊠TAGS: 18+ă»yearningă»slow burnă»fluffă»monster romance ⊠WORD COUNT: 1.5k ⊠AUTHOR'S NOTE: links to the masterlist and other chapters will be added as the story updates đ©¶
ă»âŠă»masterlist || i.ă»ii.ă»iii.ă»iv.ă»âŠă»
You donât mean to be found, mostly because you arenât trying to hide.
After years spent here, youâve learned to manage your tasks and your time well. The first days back are always the busiest, but once things have settled into your usual routine, you find yourself with a few extra hours of free time in the early afternoons.
The sanctuary makes a path for you, leading you to a spot in the eastern meadow where most of the noise canât reach you and the lighting is perfect. The creatures rest in their enclosures, the Zookeeper works at his bench with his records and his tinctures, and you are blessed with a few moments alone.Â
Youâve been doing this for three visits running without being caught. Though, today seems to be the end of that.Â
â
The hexwolves find you first, as they seem to do, Hyacinth, with her coat full of luster, leading the younger ones through the long grass and lullflowers. Theyâve been allowed the run of the meadow in the afternoons since Hyacinth discovered your not-so-secret hideaway, and the Zookeeper didnât have the heart to keep them penned.
You sit against the eastern wall with your sketchbook open in your lap when she pushes her nose into your ear, sniffing loudly.Â
âFive minutes, I promise,â you laugh, leaning your head away.Â
She sits, waiting patiently as the younger ones settle around you. One drapes himself across your feet, two more flanking you while the smallest sets her head in your lap. The meadow goes quiet again, allowing you to return to the page.
Youâre sketching the gloamflies today. Theyâve been coming to the meadow since you started appearing there, and you suspect that isnât a coincidence. Theyâre small creatures with the wing-span of a large butterfly, bodies like prismatic moths, trailing light threads from their tails that leave fading traces in the air. Normally, they donât approach people, but theyâve been fluttering around you lately, settling on the grass nearby and folding their wings, watching you with curious attention.
Youâve been struggling to capture the filaments. Itâs a technical problem, lines too messy when you try to sketch out how the traces of several gloamflies overlap. Youâve been working on it for three afternoons, not yet satisfied, but getting closer with every pencil stroke.
You hum absently as you draw. A habit from childhood and years of solitary work; your hands busy and mind elsewhere allowing your voice to find whatever melody comes. Sometimes it's something recognizable, but, more often itâs no more than a nonsense tune.
At least the hexwolves seem to appreciate it.
Youâre partway through a clumsy trill when the meadow faintly begins to simmer around you, the air growing hazy with pinks and golds. A few gloamflies drift into the air, swirling in lazy patterns, but the hexwolves donât stir. No sign of danger, and no need to worry.
You finish the line youâre drawing before you look up.
Heâs at the gap in the hedges where the path opens onto the meadow, standing quite still. You notice now, that heâs standing in the direction Hyacinthâs ear has been pointed for at least the last few minutes.
âHow long have you been standing there?â you ask with a playfully suspicious glare.
âLong enough,â the Zookeeper admits, but he doesnât move. âDonât stop.â
âToo late.â
âYou donât have to.â
You look at him across the meadow, past the flowery grass and the roaming gloamflies. His mouth subtly pulls to the side, his top teeth no doubt favoring the backside of his tusks. A nervous habit when heâs stuck too far in his thoughts.
âIf youâre going to stand there watching me, you might as well come here,â you call. You pat the grass beside you, head tilted impatiently.
He moves through the meadow without disturbing the gloamflies. You donât know how he does it; even after all your years here youâve never managed to sneak through them. They part around him and resettle in his wake like heâs another part of the ever-changing sanctuary. He probably is.
He carefully lowers himself into the grass beside you, mindful of your space. Hyacinth shuffles to accommodate him without fully waking. The youngest hexwolf eyes him from your lap, waiting until heâs sat to curl further into you and return to her nap.
You tilt the sketchbook toward him, holding it out for him to take. He takes it with both hands, attentive to his claws despite how filed down they are.
âThe filaments?â he asks without looking up from the page.
âI canât seem to get them right.â
âYouâre close.â He turns the page. The one before is an earlier attempt, less successful. He studies it long enough for you to study him, watching his eyes move over the line with great focus. He dips a claw beneath the corner of the page, preparing to turn back again, before giving you a sideways glance. âMay I?â
âGo ahead.â
He turns further back. The sketchbook is filled with the sanctuary. Pages of it, visit after visit, layered over years. Creatures in their enclosures. The view from the cottage. The eggs in their room, each with its own dedicated page sketched out over different visits with small notations beside each one. His workbench. His tools.
He turns to the next page and pauses, seemingly stunned at a sketch of his hands taking up a full set of pages.Â
Both hands around one of the eggs, viewed from above, and done in fine lines that had taken you an afternoon and evening to get right. It had also taken you a full night to stop being consumed by the thought of those hands onâ
âI, uh, forgot that was in there.â Not entirely true, but itâs not like you ever expected him to rifle through your drawings.
He stares at the page for a long time. âYouâŠdrew this from memory?â
You donât bother to ask how he knows that; he always seems to know everything about you. âYes.â
âWhy from memory?â
âBecause I didnât want to be caught staring at your hands?â
A gloamfly zigzags between you, its filament arc shaped suspiciously like a heart.
âIâŠI didnât know you looked at me that way.â
You take the sketchbook back, closing it gently so you can set it aside. âIâve been careful.â
He goes quiet, teeth worrying at his tusks again. You donât push, letting him sort through his thoughts for the several, long minutes that it takes him.
âWhy?â he asks finally.
âIâŠâ You stop yourself, taking your own minute to choose your words carefully. âI wasnât sure how youâd take it if I wasnât.â
You donât look up at him, but your arm grows warmer as he leans in closer to softly ask, âAnd now?â
âIâm a little more sureââ You glance up at him, instantly getting caught in the overwhelming affection of his gaze, ââI think I have been since you took watch with Hyacinth.â
He gasps lightly, his fur bristling against your arm. You put your hand on his arm without thought, running your finger through his fur, feeling out his edges. His eyes drop to your hand, then flick back to your face. Then, he covers your hand with his own.
More paw than hand, itâs enormous over yours, but he holds your hand with a tenderness that belies his size.
âIâve beenâŠâ he sighs. âIâve been waiting for you to be sure for a very long time.â
âI know. Iâm sorry it took meââ
âDonât.â He doesnât snap, voice firm but soft. âI would wait longerâas long as it took.â
You allow yourself to take in the full sight of him, admiring his broad, familiar face, gazing deep into the pools of his eyes.
âThatâs,â you start, voice catching unexpectedly. You clear your throat, glancing away for a brief second. âThatâs a lot.â
âYouâre worth far more.â
The gloamflies drift through the grass. Hyacinth breathes steadily against your side as the youngest hexwolf shifts in your lap. The sanctuary continues on around you, unconcerned with the fact that your world is turning itself upside down. Or, rather, the right side up.
You lean up and press your lips to his. Not a shy kiss to the cheek, but a true, proper kiss. His hand tightens over yours, and he kisses you back with a purr that shudders through his entire body.
Sweet, and a little awkward around his tusks, but brief, and, when you pull back, he stays close. His forehead against yours, eyes closed as he exhales deeply.
âIâm going to draw that, later. From memory.â You donât know why you say it, but it makes him laugh, so youâll forgive yourself for your rambling nature.
âDraw whatever you like,â he teases. âYou can look as much as you want.â
âI mightâve been doing that already.â
âI know,â he says with another peck to your lips. His eyes slide open, mischief sparkling in their depths. âIâve been looking back.â
MONSTER MONDAY - RAT KING X F!READER
⊠WARNINGS: 18+ă»plague & sicknessă»death & diseaseă»mentions of bloodă»corruptionă»attempted murder by burning ⊠TAGS: dubiously happy endingă»monster romance ⊠WORD COUNT: 1.7k
The rats come first.
Skittering in the walls, scratching beneath the floorboards, their eyes little dots in the darkness. Youâve grown accustomed to their presence; the entire village has, living so close to the river and the grain stores.
But these rats are different. These rats wait, and these rats watch.
You can feel their stares everywhere you go. In the market, where dozens of them line the rooftops. In church, when they gather in the rafters during Mass. At night, especially, as they congregate outside your window and stare in with an intelligence behind those beady eyes that makes your skin crawl.
âTheyâre following you,â old Marya hisses when she passes you in the street. She signs a cross over her heart, âYouâve been marked.â
âI havenât done anything,â you protest, but even you can hear the uncertainty in your voice.
Itâs true. The rats do follow you. Theyâve been following you for weeks now, since the first person died.
(since the plague came)
The sickness spreads like wildfire.
First the bakerâs wife, covered in black buboes, screaming until her throat bled. Then the smithâs children, all three in one night. Then the priest, an exceptionally cruel death, dying while administering last rites, collapsing into the very grave he was blessing.
The village empties. Some flee to other towns, carrying the contagion with them. Others barricade themselves in their homes and wait for death or deliverance, whichever comes first.
You stay.
(where would you goâthe rats would only follow)
And follow, they do. More and more each day. Hundreds of them now, forming a layer of furry bodies wherever you walk. The few remaining villagers cross themselves and hurry past, muttering prayers against corruption.
You return home one afternoon to find W I T C H scrawled across your door.
Devilâs daughter, another message reads, dripping what you hope is paint but suspect is blood.
You scrub them away and try to ignore the rats gathering in your garden and on your roof. You try and try to ignore the way they watch, and the way they wait. For something or someone, you donât want to know.
The summons comes on the seventh day of the plagueâs reign.
A pull, in the pit of your chest, drawing you toward the river and the old tunnels beneath the city where no one goes anymore. Ancient Roman sewers run dark down there, deeper than you can fathom.
You shouldnât go.
(âyou shouldnât âshould âmust âthe rats are w a i t i n g)
Three steps from your door, and the torches appear. Twenty of them, the survivors and the desperate, led by the mayor.
âThere she is!â Old Marya points with a gnarled finger. âThe witch who brought this curse upon us!â
âIâm notââ
âThe rats follow you,â the mayor snaps. His face is gaunt, followed by grief. His wife died yesterday, his son the day before. âThe sickness spreads where you walk. You consort with vermin, and you shall burn for what youâve done.â
âI havenât done anything!â
But they donât listen, and the torches move closer. You can smell the pitch, the oil-soaked rags theyâve prepared.
(for burningâfor cleansing)
You scramble back into your house, slamming the door and throwing the bolt. It wonât holdâyou know it wonâtâbut maybe you can escape through the back? If you go through the gardens, into the woodsâ
Glass shatters. A torch flies through your window, landing on the curtains. The fire catches instantly, smoke filling the room. You cough, stumbling as you try to find the back door through the thickening haze. The air shimmers, the walls beginning to glow with heat-haze.
(youâre going to dieâburn alive like a witch in a fairytale)
You collapse near what you think is the back door, lungs heaving as darkness closes in on your vision. Through the smoke, you can see flames dancing, consuming the life youâve built.
The rats come.
Hundreds of themâthousandsâpouring from the gaps in the burning walls, through the shattered window, up from the floorboards. They swarm over you, and you should be terrified, but their small bodies shield you from the heat and the smoke.
TheyâreâŠprotecting you?
The doorâyou hadnât seen it openâand then youâre being moved, carried by a tide of wriggling fur and tails. Through the back garden, into the streets, past the mob thatâs too busy watching your house burn to notice the rats spiriting you away.
down,
down,
always down.
Into the sewers, the tunnels, the deep places beneath the village where light cannot reach. You should fight or struggle, refuse to let yourself be carried by vermin into the bowels of the earth, butâŠthe rats are gentle, and youâre so tired.
(and somewhere ahead, something is waiting)
â
The throne roomâbecause thereâs nothing else it could beâis lit by phosphorescent fungi and the eyes of ten thousand rats.
They cover every surface, a breathing coat of fur and whiskers and tails, all watching as their brothers carry you forward, through their midst, toward the figure seated at the far end.
The Rat King.
Youâve heard the stories. Legends of rats whose tails become knotted together, fused by disease or filth or malice into a single squirming mass. Creatures of ill omen. Harbingers of plague.
The stories didnât prepare you for how beautiful he is.
Terrible, yes. Wrong, absolutely. But beautiful, drawing you in with his strangeness like a poisonous plant.
Heâs tall, limbs stretched to funhouse lengths, joints bending at angles that make your own ache. His fingers end in claws broken off at the tips to form jagged edges curling in on themselves. His face, though. His face is almost human. Pointed features, a wiggling nose, and a mouth pulled into a toothy smile. His eyes, beady and burning, fixate on you from the moment you enter the throne room.
Behind him, you can see them. The rats. Extensions of him, their tails knotted together into a writhing crown of flesh and fur that pulses like a beating heart.
The Rat King rises, and his voice echoes through the throats of ten thousand rats.
âFinally,â he saysâthey sayâten thousand whispers and cries all in harmony. âWeâve been waiting for you.â
âI donâtâŠâ You cough, throat raw from the smoke. âI donât understand.â
âDonât you?â He descends from his throne, the rats parting before him. âThe plague, the deaths, the persecution. All of it designed to drive you here, to us. To where you belong.â
âYouâŠyou caused the plague?â
His smile curls viciously. Proudly. âWe are the plague. We are pestilence and disease. All the vile deaths that you humans fear.â
Heâs close enough that you can see the texture of his skinâsmooth in some places, furred in others.
âWhy me?â you ask.
âBecause youâre like us. Overlooked, despised. And when we watched you, you watched back.â
You remember noticing them first, when no one else did. You left out scraps, broke traps, treated them like more than vermin. You hadnât meant to, but you saw them.
âThe villagers blamed you for our work, and punished you for our choices. Do you know what we did to them?â he asks, thumb brushing your cheek.
You shake your head, unsure if you want to know.
âWe showed them what real plague looks like. Every hand that held a torch, every mouth that chanted for your death. We rats do not forget, and we do not forgive.â
You should be horrified, scream and run and return to your village to mourn the people youâve known since you were a child, butâŠ
(but they tried to kill youâpunish you for crimes you didnât commit)
âWhat do you want from me?â you ask softly, lips brushing over his thumb.
The Rat King laughs, and it echoes through the chamber, picked up and repeated by ten thousand throats. âNothing from you. We want to give you everything.â
He releases your face, stepping back. The rats surge forward, clambering over each other, and, before you can protest, theyâre covering you. Noses against your skin, whiskers brushing your arms, small bodies pressing close in a thousand little hugs.
âYou are alone,â the Rat King says. âUnwanted. Cast out. So are we, as we have always been, but here, in the dark, in the deep places? Here, you will be adored.â
The rats weave around your head. You feel their tails braiding together, forming a crown of squirming flesh.
âHereââ he kneels before you, ââyou will rule.â
The crown settles on your head, pulsing with warmth and so perfectly wrong. Ten thousand rats bow, and the Rat King smiles. He rises, taking your hand in his careful claws.
âMy beautiful, vengeful queen,â he murmurs.
Were you of sound mind, youâd refuse, tear off the crown and run back to the surface. Return to the world of humans and daylight, butâŠthat world tried to kill you.
Here, in the dark, you are wanted. âpowerful. âseen.
âYes,â you tell him.
The Rat Kingâs kiss tastes of copper and rot. His arms wrap around youâarms too long with too many jointsâand you kiss him back with everything you have.
Six months later, the village is empty. Has been for months. Abandoned after the plague, and the deaths. The rats made it clear that humans were no longer welcome.
You walk through it sometimes, your crown of tails gleaming in the moonlight. The Rat King at your side, his hand in yours, Ten thousand subjects following in a writhing parade of devotion.
(this is your kingdom, now)
The Rat King pulls you closer, nuzzling into your hair. The rats chitter and squeak, his delight singing through them.
âHappy?â he asks.
You think about your old life, you crown twisting uncomfortably at the memories of loneliness and persecution. Empathy ripples through your subjects; they, too, know what it is to be unwanted, too strange for the human world.
âYes, Iâm happy.â And you mean it.
He kisses you again. You smile, squeaks of laughter bubbling from your throat, and the rats swarm closer, celebrating their queenâs joy.
In the distance, you hear the bells of another village. A funeral toll; the first of many, many more. More humans, more people who might learn what happens when they forget that the rats are always watching, and they are always waiting.
MONTHLY MINISERIES - MONSTER ZOOKEEPER X F!READER
⊠TAGS: 18+ă»slow burnă»cheek kissesă»sick animals ⊠WORD COUNT: 1.9k ⊠AUTHOR'S NOTE: links to the masterlist and other chapters will be added as the story updates đ©¶
ă»âŠă»masterlist || i.ă»ii.ă»iii.ă»iv.ă»âŠă»
The hexwolves greet you a few days later, just as the Zookeeper predicted.
Itâs early, the gravelwyrms are already rumbling their morning complaints, and the color-shifting creature pulsing a rapid amber that youâve begun to think means hurry up. Youâre on your way to the eastern feeding run when the enclosure gate opens, by neither your hand nor the Zookeeperâs, and the hexwolves file out one by one onto the path in front of you. Six of them, ranging in size from large dog to small pony, their oil-slick coats catching the morning light in shifting blues and greens, and, occasionally, a startling violet.
They donât rush. They stop a few feet away and regard you with golden eyes, and you give them a polite nod, holding your hand out, palm up. The eldestâthe pony-sized oneâsteps forward and presses her warm nose to your outstretched hand.
âHello,â you coo.
Her tail flicks once, slowly. The others follow her lead, approaching in twos and threes, and within minutes youâre standing in the middle of six hexwolves conducting a thorough investigation of your pockets, your bootlaces, and the cuffs of your jacket. You laugh helplessly, drawing the Zookeeper out onto the path.
âThey like you,â he laughs.
âTheyâre eating my jacket.â
âThey like your jacket, then,â he amends. âHigh praise. They ignored the last volunteer the whole time he was here.â
âHow long ago was that?â
âFour years.â
You glance at him, and he looks back with a tender smile. The eldest hexwolf sits on your foot, tail swishing across the back of your leg.
You name her Hycanith, and she barks, bumping her head against your thigh before the name has finished leaving your lips.
â
Six days later, Hyacinth falls ill.
You notice it before the Zookeeper, which surprises you. He notices everything, and misses nothing; youâre not sure how it works, but you know he has some connection to the sanctuary allowing it to become an extension of his attention.
Maybe itâs because youâve been spending your afternoons in the hexwolf enclosure, sitting in the grass while they play around you. You know enough to catch the difference between Hyacinthâs normal midday nap and when sheâs keeping purposely still during her playful prowling.
This isnât either of those. Sheâs lying apart from the pack, all six legs tucked in with the oily colors of her coats muted to near black. She doesnât perk up, even when you offer her favorite treats.
You find the Zookeeper in the main building, at the long workbench that runs the length of the ground floor, working with his odd mix of alchemical veterinary equipment. He looks up as soon as you step through the door, smile stopping halfway when he notices your face. You donât get a word out before heâs setting down his tools and reaching for his coat.
âWhich one,â he says.
âHyacinth.â
The deep ridge of his brow furrows. âHow long?â
âI donât know. She ate a little around lunch, but sheâs been sluggish all day.â
He nods once, coat on, and heads for the door. You follow silently, neither of you wasting time on reassurances.
â
Hyacinth lets him examine her with no fuss, a sure sign that something is definitely wrong.
She knows himâthey all know him, some of them for their whole livesâbut she always nips at his fingers when he tries to pet her. This time she lays with her head in his lap, eyes half-closed, while he examines her. Careful hands move over her in odd patterns as he mutters words to himself in a language you donât know.
You sit at her other side with a hand on her neck, feeling the rise and fall of her slowed breaths.
âHer secondary hearts,â the Zookeeper speaks up. âHexwolves have three, and it seems her third is running slow.â
âIs thatââ
âIt happens, especially during the colder months. Something about the sanctuary passing through the northern planes,â he sighs. He keeps his hands on her, a steady pressure where her second and third hearts must be. âSheâll need a few days' rest and a specific tincture.â
âSoâŠsheâll be alright?â
âYes.â He gives a comforting smile, running a soothing hand up Hyacinthâs side. He stops just shy of yours, his filed claws skimming over your fingertips. âSheâll be alright.â
âThank goodness,â you exhale in relief, letting your hand inch forward to slip your fingers between his. âWhat do you need me to do?â
â
The tincture takes two hours to prepare.
You follow his instructionsâhalf-spoken, half-demonstratedâat his workbench. The Zookeeper is a better teacher than he believes himself to be, clear in his direction and willing to repeat anything you need. You grind the dried herbs and scales he passes you, and maintain the phoenix ashes in the burner.
You always forget how easy the work is during your off months. It isnât just the work, either. Everything seems to become easier around him. You talk freely between instructions, telling him about the months between your visits, your life, your neighborâs cat that sneaks onto your porch in the afternoons. He listens fully, never once interrupting, and offering little comments in the empty spaces.
âI kept thinking about the eggs,â you tell him. âWhether anything had changed with them.â
âI thought the same,â he says, playfully nudging your arm with his elbow. âIâve found myself thinking of them more than I used to.â
âDo you think this visit is different?â
âI thinkâŠâ He takes a moment to consider, claws tapping over the wooden workbench. âI think the sanctuary thinks so.â
âThe fourth enclosure?â
âStill being built.â
You glance at him, taking in the broad, fluffy lines of his profile. âWhat do you think itâs for?â
He gives you a one-sided smirk, shrugging half-heartedly. âI have a theory, but Iâm not ready to share it yet.â
âMm, how convenient.â You roll your eyes, turning back to spark another phoenix feather in the burner.
âI know,â he winks.
âI could just wait you out, yâknow?â
âYes, youâre very patient when you want to be.â
âOnly with you,â you laugh. Itâs true, and youâre almost surprised at how easily the confession slips out.
âI know,â he says, softer this time, smile fonder when he looks over at you.
When the tincture is finished you carry it back to the hexwolf enclosure, and Hyacinth will only drink it from your hands. Youâre not sure what that means, but the Zookeeper watches you with a fondness that makes your heart stutter in your chest.
â
Heâs the one to suggest watching her through the night, offering carefully to take the first shift. âYou donât have to stay,â he says, âI donât need as much sleep, so I can watchââ
âIâm staying,â you tell him firmly, leaving no room for argument.
âI figured,â he huffs. âAt least let me take first watch.â
You sleep in the chair beside Hyacinthâs nest. Itâs not comfortable, but two of the younger hexwolves press themselves against your legs to keep you warm. Through the enclosureâs high window you can see the lantern foxes drifting in slow patterns. Distantly, you can hear the gravelwyrms nightly rumbling. At some point in the night, youâre vaguely aware of the Zookeeper draping a blanket over you, tucking it around your shoulders to keep it from falling.
You wake sometime later to find him sitting across the enclosure, Hyacinth curled beside him. Her breathing seems steady, her coat already a little brighter, even in the dark.
You watch him for a while without him knowingâor without him acknowledging itâletting yourself fully wake before you sit up and stretch.
âGo sleep,â you yawn quietly, âI have her.â
âYou sure?â he yawns, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes.
âIâm sure. Go.â
He rises, careful to not disturb Hyacinth, and crosses the enclosure. He stops beside your chair, and rests a hand on your cheek when you crane your neck to look up at him.
âThank you,â he murmurs with a tired smile. He catches himself quickly, clearing his throat to clumsily add, âFor staying.â
âSheâs my girl,â you shrug, leaning your cheek into his palm. âObviously Iâm staying.â
He nods once, letting his hand linger for a few moments longer before he goes.
You sit with Hyacinth for the early morning hours, keeping a tender hand on her side to feel the strengthening of her breaths.
â
Hyacinth is eating again just a few days later.
The rest of the sanctuary is already up and awakeâthe bog pups keen for the Zookeeper to appear at their fence, glints of morning light from the mirror mothsâ wings bouncing through the sanctuary. Youâre in the hexwolf enclosure with their morning feed when Hyacinth takes a deep stretch and stands on all six legs. She trots over to her bowl and eats with a more than healthy appetite.
Your shoulders drop, body sagging in relief as you catch another exhale behind you.
âThere she is,â the Zookeeper says.
You turn, finding him leaning against the gate post with his arms folded, watching Hyacinth. âYou were so worried.â
âIâve known her since she was born. Iâm allowed to worry,â he scoffs, keeping his eyes on Hyacinth.
âHow long ago was that?â you tease, making your way over to him.
His shoulders tense slightly before relaxing, casting you a sidelong glance. âWhat if I said it a hundred and twelve years ago?â
Hyacinth digs into her food without a care, tail wagging happily.
âShe looks good for her age,â you laugh.
âHexwolves are long-lived⊠Most of the sanctuaryâs residents are.â
âIncluding you?â
âLonger,â he shrugs. This isnât new to you, nothing about this place really is anymore. âIt matters less than it used to.â
âOh?â
âTime passes differently when you have something to look forward to returning to.â He says it so simply, not shying away when you turn to him.
Minutes pass in easy silence, both of you leaning against the gate as you watch Hyacinth finish eating her food. She noses at one of the other bowls, taking a sneaky bite of her siblingsâ food before trotting away.
The Zookeeperâs eyes follow her, and you take your chance, leaning over to place a kiss on his cheek.
âThanks for letting me watch her,â you say softly, âand for staying with me.â
âYou donât have to thank me for that,â he sighs, inclining his head to rest atop yours. Parts of his mane tickle your cheek, but you donât move an inch.
âI know,â you say. âI wanted to.â
Hyacinth makes her way back over, dropping her full hundred and twelve year old weight against your legs with a tired huff. You let her settle before resting a hand over her head, stroking through her silky fur. The morning light seeps into the enclosure, and neither you nor the Zookeeper nor Hyacinth move, pressed comfortably against each other for longer than you should allow yourselves, and not long enough, still.
â
That evening, the Zookeeper makes dinner. You sit across from him at the kitchen table, the conversation moving through everything and nothing. At some point, he refills your glass without being asked, and you catch his hand as he sets the bottle down. You donât quite hold his hand, more rest your fingers along the back of it.
He looks at your hand, then at you.
You let go, but you donât look away, and neither does he. The kitchen is warm, the sanctuary buzzing around you, and, somewhere outside, Hyacinth barks three times. The corner of the Zookeeperâs mouth slides up into a knowing smile, one of his ears flicking against his head.
âSheâs bossing the younger ones around,â he chuckles.
âAs she should.â
You hold his gaze for a beat longer, and his half-smile turns into something far more genuine.
Then you both look away, and the evening continues.
30 minutes sketch
WIP WEDNESDAY - RAT KING X READER
The rats come first.
Skittering in the walls, scratching beneath the floorboards, their eyes little dots in the darkness. Youâve grown accustomed to their presence; the entire village has, living so close to the river and the grain stores.
But these rats are different. These rats wait, and these rats watch.
You can feel their stares everywhere you go. In the market, where dozens of them line the rooftops. In church, when they gather in the rafters during Mass. At night, especially, as they congregate outside your window and stare in with an intelligence behind those beady eyes that makes your skin crawl.
âTheyâre following you,â old Marya hisses when she passes you in the street. She signs a cross over her heart, âYouâve been marked.â
âI havenât done anything,â you protest, but even you can hear the uncertainty in your voice.
Itâs true. The rats do follow you. Theyâve been following you for weeks now, since the first person died.
(since the plague came)
Helluuu âšïž
In the span of a day, I've stumbled upon: THE FOOL -> FAERIE/F!Reader -> UNDEAD!KNIGHT/Queen!Reader.
And through each story, I've come out utterly speechless. Your writing is truly MASTERFUL đ I hope you get the recognition you DESERVE!!
UNDEAD!KNIGHT is by far my favorite đ I love how you perfectly set the tone to be morbid and grotesque. If your goal was to make us uncomfortable imagining ourselves (as the reader) perform such disturbing acts, but still keep us intrigued and rooting for a happy ending, you DEFINITELY succeeded!!
I'd like to ask if you'll ever be open to moving your completed work onto AO3? I don't know about anyone else when I say that I have an semi-irrational fear of my favorite writers deleting their work off Tumblr, and I have no way of reading them again.
That's all from me (for now~). I immensely look forward to reading more of your work to come! â€ïžâšïž
hiiiii đ©¶
you are so sweet, thank you so so so so much for reading! i always get super nervous when i post because creepy and unsettling i've always been fine with, but i've never been too strong at romance or the combination of the two. but people have been so kind and supportive and i really appreciate everyone that takes the time to read or interact!
i actually haven't considered moving stuff to ao3, mostly because it's original fiction rather than fanworks, but if that's something that people are interested in, then i'd be happy to do it! though, it would probably happen a little later, after i've gotten my masterlist and request rules up!
I've been having a rough time, but your monster vulture fic was so adorably macabre it really cheered me up. It was so beautifully written. How did you think of the different gifts or offerings? I kept rereading the descriptions.
first things first, i'm sorry you've been having a rough time! i'm glad i was able to cheer you up đ©¶
the whole idea for it came from watching videos about crows that leave people gifts, and then i thought "what if it was more fucked up" and went from there. i also looked at excerpts from gothic fiction and a lot of older folklore to kind of help with the atmosphere and getting the charmingly unsettling feeling that i wanted.
most of the gifts were actually inspired by things i have in my real life. the bird skull with the violet's was based off a close friend's halloween decorations; she has a plastic skull that she uses as a vase year round.
the creature in the amber, i based off of a trinket i bought at a con years ago. it's a branch of "dragon skulls" in a small vial. i've also been rewatching the earlier seasons of game of thrones, and combined that with mirri maz duur's description of daenaerys's son.
the tooth was something i saw at a ren faire! there was a pirate who had a handmade necklace of carved and painted teeth that i think about constantly.
the garland wasn't inspired by anything in particular. i had an idea for giving a garland to a lover and, from there, tried to make it as "vulture-like" as i could.
the braided sinew i actually thought of here while i was looking up vulture references. i saw a video of a turkey vulture pulling muscle from a (i think?) rabbit, and pictured the vulture character taking what it doesn't eat and braiding the pieces together. i ended up liking the imagery so much i went back and added it to the first gift, too.
the gifts that reader gives in return were meant to be mundane, but thoughtful, things that i've given and received as gifts irl. a jar of homemade jam, lotion, teas, pressed flowers, etc etc. things that would fit in a village setting, and could make sense for giving to someone or something you don't know too well, but still be thoughtful and, more importantly, useful.
MONSTER MONDAY - VULTURE X GN!READER
⊠WARNINGS: 18+ă»mild body horror/animal body horroră»lots of bonesă»odd and macabre gifts㻠⊠TAGS: ambiguously happy endingă»monster romance ⊠WORD COUNT: 1.4k
The village has a name for the creature that travels the roads between settlements, trailing its retinue of dark wings.
Carrion Merchant, they whisper behind curtains. It peddles in things best left buriedâbone-trinkets and relics that smell of grave-earth and places where the sun curls away. Its cart moves behind something that might have once been a horse, before the skin peeled away and the lungs went wrong. Look too long at what it offers on its cloth, they warn, and youâll discover hungers in yourself not thought possible.
Do not trade with it. Do not linger.
Youâve never been one to heed their warnings.
â
It comes through your village in the thin part of autumn, when the leaves have gone past gold into brown and the mud on the road has hardened into ridges.
Youâre at your window when the cart rounds the bend. You see the birds first. A dark cloud of them, circling and settling and circling again, their cries filling the air.
Then the cart, then the figure walking beside it.
Itâs taller than the door frames of this village, moving with an odd lean to its too-long neck. Feathers run from its shoulders down its arms, dark, oiled and overlapping like armor. Its head is covered with a wide-brimmed hat, pulled low over its face. Its feet on the muddy road are talons left bare. It doesnât turn toward you, but the crook of its head sends a chill down your spine.
(it knows youâre there)
The villagers press back from their windows. A child is pulled inside by a firm hand. Old Marya across the square makes a sign with her fingers thatâs older than the village itself.
(older, possibly, than the word for what sheâs signing against)
You watch the creature spread its cloth in the square, wares appearing on it as soon as itâs settled. You feel the pull, the growing need to explore the Carrion Merchant and its odd wares.
You go inside, resisting the urge to venture into the square. Instead, you stand in your kitchen, and listen to the crows.
â
The first gift appears on your doorstep two days after the cart has gone.
A little bundle wrapped in oiled cloth, tied with a cord of plaited sinew. You unwrap it with cold fingers and find a birdâs skull inside, stripped clean, its eye sockets packed with violets dried to a bruise-like color. Thereâs no note with it, no boot prints or talon holes in the mud.
All there is is the faint smells of road dust and tallow, and the distant cawing of a crow.
You keep the skull. Place it on your windowsill where the light shines prettiest. Try not to notice how the dried violets cast shadows like grasping fingers across your floor, or how they seem to reach for you in the thin hours before true morning.
â
The second gift comes in spring. Another bundle, this one heavier.
A glass jar sealed with black wax, full of amber fluid that preservedâŠa fetal thing curled into itself, no larger than your thumb with too many fingers and the nubs of ungrown wings. You turn it in the light for some time, watching the amber catch on the monstrous thing.
Beautiful, you think.
That night, you leave a gift of your own on the doorstep. Youâve been preparing it for a week: a length of ribbon woven through crow feathers gathered from the field. You tie it around a jar of your own preserves, and leave it out in the dark.
In the morning, itâs gone. The jar, too.
â
Autumn again. Crows linger on your fence, now, watching you when you go out in the mornings.
A tooth this time. Long, slightly curved, pulled from the maw of a creature you donât know. Itâs been carvedâcarefully, by a skilled handâinto the shape of a bird in flight. The craftsmanship is extraordinary, far better than anything you can find in the village stalls.
You hold it, feeling the residual warmth of the hands that made it.
In return, you leave: a small tin of salve you made for cracked skin, good for long winters and longer roads; a packet of the tea you drink when you canât sleep; a pressed flower from your garden, plain but tended with care.
Youâre not naive. You understand thereâs something happening here. A negotiation, or a conversation of some kind.
(âor a courtship, whispers something in the back of your mind)
You leave your gifts anyway. Theyâre always gone by morning.
â
The garland is hung at springâs thaw. Crows line your fence posts, their feathers still damp with melted snow, watching you in silence.
(watchingâwatchingânever eating, never flyingâalways watching)
This time, no bundle awaits on your step. Instead, the garland hangs from the hook where you hang your coat each evening. A creation draped across your door, anchored by a yellowed talon driven deep into the wood of your wall.
A grotesque wreath of sun-bleached finger bones and nightshade blossoms threaded onto braided sinew, hung with care. Itâs hideous and oddly festive.
You know what this means. A garland in the first days of spring is what lovers leave at doors in your village. Though, those are made with sweet herbs and ribbons.
(a mockery or unintentional perversion, learned by watching from a distance, and, somehow, that makes it all the more sweet)
One of the crows squawks, drawing your attention to your gate and the latch that still sits on the inside.
There are no scrape marks, and the hinges are undamaged. The gate wasnât forced, and your fence, which sits solid and at shoulder-height, shows no sign of anything having gone over or through it.
You look at the crows on the fence, who look back with their empty eyes and say nothing.
Then, you unhook the garland and bring it inside. You hang it over your kitchen window where the light shines best, and your gift can be seen from outside. Your heart hammers wildly, as you stand, transfixed. Your tea goes cold, steam disappearing into the early morning chill.
(an acceptance, unspoken but unmistakable)
â
The knock comes on a night at autumnâs end when the airâs begun to go frosty and the wind howls through the night.
Youâve been awake for some time. You canât quite place the feeling, but youâve been on edge all day. The fireâs burned down to coals. The bird skull gleams on the windowsill, the violets dried to dust but shadows still holding their shape.
Something is coming, youâve known all day. Now, itâs finally here.
(it was always going to end this wayâwith a knockâwith a choice)
You open the door.
The coat is dark, travel-worn, smells of every road between here and nowhere. The hatâs off now, clutched in one talon-fingered hand, giving you the chance to see the face the village whispers about.
The head of a vulture, naked and red. Its bone-beak sits closed, the eyes, pinpricks of pale yellow, fixed on the middle distance. The eyelids slide closed then open againâflashes reflecting back at you that speak of centuries spent perched above the dying.
(it has been waiting for you, specifically you, for longer than youâve been alive)
Its beak parts, and what comes out is neither bird nor humanâcaught between the two, effortful, grating, a rasp that catches in the back of your throat.
âMate,â it says. The word is almost unrecognizable, flattened and strange, pushed through a throat built for different sounds. âWant. To mate.â A pause, the beak clicking once. Its head twitches, trying to find the right cadence to the syllables. âBring good things. Will keep bringing.â
The feathers at its throat ripple, the vulture equivalent of a swallow. âGood mate. Will be.â
Your throat closes, knot building so tight you can barely breathe.Â
The crows have gathered, watching from the fence all the way to the trees beyond your garden.
(theyâve been waiting for this, too)
The word slips out on your breath, like a secret youâve been keeping from yourself, finally admitted. âYes.â Your voice is steadier than you expect. âAlright.â
The wings at its shoulders spreadâinvoluntary, a ripple of muscle and feather that speaks what that bone-beak cannot. The feathers catch the moonlight, absorb it, drink it in. The crows lift from the branches all at once, a dark explosion against the winter sky, their cries raucous and celebratory.
(they knew before you did, that you would say yes)
You step across the threshold.
The creature falls into step beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth coming off its feathers. Together, you walk into the deep of the wood where the cart waits, peeled horse stamping impatiently against the frost-hardened earth. The crows follow, their wings beating to the rhythm of your heart.
The village behind you grows small, then smaller, then is gone.
EASTER SPECIAL - THE RABBIT
⊠TAGS: 18+ă»x gn!readeră»injured rabbită»domestic fluffă»kissesă»happy ending㻠⊠WORD COUNT: 2.4k ⊠AUTHOR'S NOTE: happy easter! đ©¶
You find him early in the morning when youâre dressed in your gardening clothes, hair unwashed, carrying a trowel and thinking only about how the sweet peas need staking.
Heâs tucked under the lavender at the gardenâs edge, lying still, one hind leg held at an angle that makes your stomach turn. An ordinary brown rabbit, a bit larger than average but fluffy and soft-eared, watching you with one eye as you crouch down to examine him.
âOh,â you coo, âyou poor thing.â
He blinks, nose twitching, but he doesnât run.
(that tells you everything you need to know about how bad it is)
You go inside for a box and a towel, and carry him in with as much care as you can manage. You set him up in the spare bathroom with water, leafy greens, and a folded blanket, fully intending to take him to a wildlife rescue in the morning.
You donât take him to a wildlife rescue in the morning.
You tell yourself itâs because heâs too stressed to move, which is true, and because the leg needs another day of stabilizing. Also true. You ignore your third reason, which is that when you check on him in the late hours of that first night to find him watching the door with those dark eyes, your chest aches at the thought of parting with him.
On the third morning, you sit on the bathroom floor with your back against the tub and your tea going cold while you talk to him.
You donât have a specific topic in mind, just rambling about whatever comes to you. Itâs the garden, mostly, and whether the sweet peas have come up yet or what you think might be wrong with the soil in the north bed. He sits in his box on the bath mat and watches you, ears turning at varying angles.
Youâve come to learn their little quirks. Both ears forward means heâs paying attention. One ear sideways means heâs thinking. Both flat means heâs uninterested, which, so far, has only happened when you started mentioning the drainage issue in the lower corner.
(you canât blame himâyou get bored just talking about it)
âI donât know what you are,â you tell him while checking the splint before bed. âI mean youâre a rabbit, obviously, butâŠyouâre also⊠Youâre too calm. Rabbits arenât like this with people. They usually run.â
He holds still while you work, both ears forward.
âIâm not complaining.â You donât know why you hurry to say it. âItâs just something Iâve noticed.â
His nose twitches. You donât know what thatâs supposed to mean yet, but you take it as a good sign.
By the end of the first week, heâs eating from your hand without an ounce of the nervous hesitance youâd expect from a healing rabbit. You bring him a sprig of parsley from the garden, and he takes it from your fingers, happily chewing while you sit on the bathroom floor and watch him.
âYouâre welcome,â you tell him.
His left ear tilts.
Toward the end of the second week, when his leg has healed enough that he can move without favoring it, you start leaving the bathroom door open during the day.
He doesnât venture out immediately, and you decide itâs best not to push him. You go about your mornings in the kitchen and the garden, and, at some point, become aware that thereâs a rabbit in the hallway watching you through the kitchen door. You continue on, purposefully not making a big deal of it.
âTeaâs on,â you call to the kitchen.
You wait, and thenâŠcareful hops across the floor.
He settles himself in a patch of morning sun near the back door where, you notice, he can see you and the door at the same time. You bring your own tea and sit at the table with an open book, and simply exist in the quiet morning.
You start talking to him the way you talk to yourself when youâre alone. You donât realize it for several days, accidentally offering a running commentary on whatever youâre doing, and the occasional rhetorical question. He listens. His ears track you around the room. When you sit back down at the table, he moves, gradually, until heâs at your feet. He settles against your ankles with a fluffy flop and a weight that feelsâŠtoo heavy for his size.
He puts his nose on your knee while youâre reading one afternoon.
You look down at him, and he looks up at you with still ears. You set a hand on his head, and, gently, scratch behind his ears. He closes his eyes, and leans into your palm.
âYouâre spoiled,â you tell him, days later, as he settles into your lap for his routine pets and hand feeding of parsley. His ear twitches at your voice, lightly nipping at your fingers before returning to his treat. âCompletely spoiled.â
Twenty-one days after rescuing the rabbit, you wake to find the spare bathroom empty and a man in your kitchen.
It wouldnât be the worst way to start your morning had you been expecting it, but you werenât, and the scream you let out is shrill enough to startle the birds outside.
Heâs tall, taller than the kitchen can accommodate, broad-shouldered, and leaning against your counter with his arms folded and his ankles crossed like heâs been waiting for you to arrive. Youâd make a comment about his casual nature if your eyes werenât stuck on the long ears sprouting from atop his head. They are distinctly, unarguably, rabbit ears.
Thereâs a faint dusting of fur along his forearms where they emerge from a shirt that fits him well. His eyes, when they find yours across the kitchen, are the same dark brown youâve spent three weeks looking into across the kitchen.
âGood morning,â he says. You can tell heâs trying to sound calm, but thereâs an unmistakable quiver of amusement.
âWho⊠Where did you get that shirt?â Itâs not really what you want to ask, but you canât think right now, and thatâs what comes out of your mouth so you go with it.
âYour spare room.â He tilts his head, his noseâhis human noseâtwitching familiarly. âI hope thatâs alright. I didnât want to scare you.â
âI think that shipâs sailed.â
He smiles. He is, you notice with mild irritation, extremely good-looking.
He steps aside, giving you space and time to make your morning tea. He keeps quiet, watching while you rely mostly on muscle memory to get you through your morning routine. By the time you have a mug in your hands and four feet of kitchen between you and him, you feel almost human enough to have a conversation.
âSoâŠyouâre the rabbit?â you ask, and it feels ridiculous.
âI am,â he nods happily.
âThe rabbit I found in my garden?â
âWith the broken leg, yes. You set it very well. Iâve broken that leg twice already, and this was by far the easiest recovery.â
âYouâŠâ You take a sip of your tea, juggling words around in your head. âYouâve broken your leg three times?â
âIâm not always as careful in the dark as I should be,â he chuckles, reaching up to scratch at the back of his neck. âOr in the daylight, if Iâm honest.â
âRight.â
âIâve been meaning to thank you,â he says, perking up. âProperly, that is. You were kind to take me in, and you wereââ he pauses, glancing down as a flush of color warms his cheeks, ââvery gentle.â
You look at him over the rim of your mug. âI couldnât just leave you there.â
âMost people would have,â he shrugs. âIâd like to repay you, if youâll let me. There areâŠcustoms among my kind, for debts like this. The traditional repayment would be an offer to mate. SoâŠIâm offering.â
You blink at him, mouth caught open. âToâŠâ
âMate, yes,â he confirms.
âIââ âmight faint âam going to scream âmust be hallucinating from drinking too much tea
ââthink Iâll need a moment.â
âOf course.â
You take a sip of your tea, staring out the kitchen window. You look back at him at the long ears, and the fur along his forearms, and his annoyingly handsome face.
âI appreciate theâŠoffer. Really, I do, but I think Iâm gonna say no for right now.â
His ears dip a fraction, but he peers at you with a hopeful glint in his eyes. âFor now?â
âItâs barely eight in the morning, and weâve only just met. Technically.â
âThatâs fair,â he sighs. âI probably should have led with just thanks.â
âProbably.â
âI apologize.â
âItâs alright.â You take another sip. The tea is helping, you think. Or itâs making your hallucinations worse. Though, if all of your tea-induced hallucinations are going to be this good-looking, maybe you wonât mind. âWhat happens if I say no? Full stop. To theâŠtraditional repayment.â
âNothing,â he says. âItâs an offer, not an obligation. Iâd still like to repay you, though. Some other way.â
âYou donât have toââ
âIâd like to,â he insists. âI can be useful, andâŠI find Iâm not quite ready to leave yet.â
This is, by far, the weirdest thing to have ever happened to you.
âI have a spare room,â you offer before you have a chance to talk yourself out of it.
He smiles, fully and with two adorably buck teeth at the front, and his ears lift slightly.
âIâll try not to eat all your parsley,â he grins.
The joke pulls a laugh out of you, what remained of the tension easing out of your shoulders. âPlease donât. I need it for soup.â
He is, as advertised, useful.
He fixes the gate latch thatâs been sticking since autumn without being asked, appearing one morning with your toolbox and returning it to you an hour later with the gate swinging smoothly and a sly wink. He weeds the back beds with a thoroughness that makes you feel faintly ashamed of your own efforts. He carries things for you, and reaches things from high shelves without the step stool.
(you try not to think about that too hard, or how tall he is when he stands directly behind you in the kitchen)
You discover that his attentiveness has carried over to his hybrid form.
He refills your tea when heâs noticed itâs gone cold. He can tell when youâre growing tired before you do, and kindly suggests that the weeding can wait until tomorrow. He sits with you in the evenings, watching the light go golden from the garden step, close enough that his arms presses against yours. He asks you questions about the garden, and what youâre reading, and so many other things with a genuine curiosity youâve rarely received.
âWhy do you look at me like that?â you finally ask him one evening.
He tilts his head, smile sliding into more of a smirk under his twitching nose. âLike what?â he asks, and you donât know if his teasing lilt is more frustrating or endearing.
âLike IâmâŠâ You huff, glancing off the side so you donât have to face him when you admit, âLike Iâm something to look at.â
âI canât help it,â he admits, like itâs the most obvious thing in the world. âYou are.â
You feel the heat rise to your cheeks, spreading down your neck all the way to your shoulders. He sees it because he sees everything when it comes to you, and when you glance back at him, heâs grinning from ear to ear.
âYouâre insufferable,â you scoff with no malice behind it.
âYou keep feeding me parsley,â he laughs, leaning forward until his chin rests on your shoulder. âYou have only yourself to blame.â
He kisses you for the first time in the kitchen, where most things seem to happen between you.
Youâve been showing how to make your parsley soupânot that he needs to be shown, but you seem to keep finding excuses to be near himâand heâs an attentive student until he isnât. His gaze shifts, watching your face instead of your hands, and when you catch him you find a warm affection in his eyes that steals the breath from your lungs.
His hand comes up to cradle your neck, careful as he always is with you.
âIs this alright?â he asks, leaning in until his forehead is pressed to yours.
âYes,â you breathe, lifting your chin to close the distance.
He kisses you softly, just once, then pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes search yours, checking, you think. When you smile, he smiles back before kissing you again, not as soft this time, pulling you in as close as he can with both hands on your neck.
The soup burns a little at the edges. You donât notice until later, nor does he, and neither of you care.
.
.
.
âIs your offer still open?â
Heâs sitting in the grass, pulling up the last of the winter weeds while you sit on the step with your tea. Itâs a perfectly normal morning in all aspects exceptâŠyouâve been thinking about this for four days, and your mouth seems to have run out of patience.
He pauses, ears perking as he looks up at you.
âWhich offer?â he asks carefully.
âThe one you made when you firstââ you gesture vaguely, already feeling the heat in your cheeks, âWhen you first⊠You knowâŠâ
He sits back on his heels and stares at you. His ears sit upright, the corners of his mouth twitching as he triesâand failsânot to smile.
âI recall making an offer,â he hums playfully, âI guess I should admit it wasnât totally out of gratitude. It wasââ he pauses, tapping his chin thoughtfully, ââIt is considerably more selfish than that.â
âI know,â you say. âIâm asking anyway.â
He rises from the grass in one fluid motion, crosses to the step, and crouches in front of you so youâre eye level. He sets his hands on either side of you, looking at you with direct attention.
âI would like to court you properly. Stay, and beâŠwhatever youâll have me be.â His ears dip, just slightly, before flicking back up again. âIf youâll have me.â
âIf Iâll have you,â you laugh. âLike I havenât doubled my parsley crop since you arrived.â
âI noticed,â he grins.
You set your mug down on the step, bringing your hands up to rest against his soft cheeks. You look him straight in the eyes so thereâs no mistaking you, and tell him, âI accept your offer.â
In the middle of your garden, on a perfectly ordinary Sunday with sweet peas swaying in the spring breeze, he captures your lips with a kiss that tastes of parsley and promise.
CREDITS
header ⊠monsterSOVKA (tumblr ⊠twitter ⊠bluesky)
MONTHLY MINISERIES - MONSTER ZOOKEEPER X F!READER
⊠SERIES WARNINGS: 18+ă»eventual smută»yearningă»fluffă»sick animals㻠⊠ADDITIONAL TAGS: slow burnă»monster romance ⊠AUTHOR'S NOTES: while there are warnings listed above, each chapter will be posted with its own individual warnings and tags.
i. returning to the sanctuary
ii. hyacinth
iii. the sketchbook
iv. coming soon
MONTHLY MINISERIES - MONSTER ZOOKEEPER X F!READER
⊠TAGS: 18+ă»yearningă»slow burnă»fluffă»monster romance ⊠WORD COUNT: 2.2k ⊠AUTHOR'S NOTE: links to the masterlist and other chapters will be added as the story updates đ©¶
ă»âŠă»masterlist || i.ă»ii.ă»iii.ă»iv.ă»âŠă»
The gate finds you on its own.
It always does. Never the same gate twice, but youâve learned to recognize the feeling that precedes its appearance.
(a light at the edge of your vision, the sudden catch in the back of your throatâgone when you finally realize it)
Youâre standing in your kitchen in your oldest sweats, the ones with stains that wonât wash out. Your bag is already packed, which you always do in the weeks around your visit. In it: your worn leather gloves, your good, waterproof boots, a change of clothes, and your sketchbook. Youâve added the small jar of honey from your garden this time, and the seeds you dried on your windowsill all autumn.
The gate appears in your back door, perfectly fitted inside the frame.
You pick up your bag, and go through it.
â
The sanctuary smells the same. Green and earthy from things growing in odd soils, and the brisk layer of ozone that comes from traveling between realms. Underneath, thereâs always a hint of something electrical, like a storm thatâs been building for centuries.
You stand just inside the gate and breathe it in.
Home, the unhelpful part of your brain offers. Not home, the sensible part corrects, but familiar.
You hear him before you see him. Heâs quiet, the Zookeeper, words always soft and chosen carefully, but thereâs no hiding his weight on the grass. His footfalls are gentle, hurrying down the path that winds from the main enclosures toward the gate.
You turn just before he has the chance to call your name.
Heâs larger than you remember. It happens in the longer stretches between visits; your memory grows hazy around the edges, the shapes of him and the sanctuary start to slip through the cracks of your reality. Then the gate appears, and so does he, and you remember all over again.
The full, towering height of him, and the breadth of his shoulders always stooped to make himself smaller and more approachable. He picks at his claws, freshly filed, with hands large enough to wrap around your head. He usually keeps them tucked in the pockets of his worn work coat, but he never seems to know what to do with them around you.
(a lionâs mane on a buffaloâs head, tusks of a boar, but eyes of human, and nothing less than perfect in your mind)
âYouâre back,â he breathes, still catching his breath. His voice carries a distant echo that ripples across the grass and lands straight in your heart.
âMiss me?â you laugh.
He pauses, eyes falling to the ground in that familiar, shy gesture that you know means yes, very much. You donât tease him for it; you missed him, too.
âThe gloamflies have been restless,â he says instead, glancing back up at you. âTheyâll settle now.â
âFlattering,â you scoff, shrugging your bag from your shoulders as the gate clicks shut behind you.
âItâs true,â he says with a roll of his eyes. He holds out a hand, happily taking your bag for you, and letting you take the lead toward the enclosures.
He shows you around, as he always does when you return.
Youâve been coming here long enough to know better than to think you know the sanctuary. It moves, between your visits, sliding itself through the planes and the in-between places, taking on new enclosures, welcoming new residents and sending off others. The bones of it stay the same: the long central path, the gate behind and the main building ahead, and the Zookeeperâs quarters above it, but the enclosures that branch off the path rearrange themselves. They grow and contract as needed, sometimes appearing where there was nothing before.
You recognize some from your last visit. The growls of the gravelwyrms rumble in your teeth before you reach them; the bog pups watch you, tails moving in slow unison as they chomp and drool acidic water all over their fence; the lantern foxes sleep piled in the far corner of their habitat, dimmed to embers.
You press your fingers to the bog pups fence as you pass and one of themâthe one with the half-cut earâpresses her nose into the netting to sniff. She barks once, tailing wagging as she begins to bounce on her peat-covered paws.
(she does this every time, and it still makes your chest go tight)
Overall, thereâs seventeen enclosures you recognize, and four you donât.
The first new one is a low structure almost completely submerged in a sparkling lake thatâs grown where the old meadow used to be. Through the crystal clear water, a shape moves through the depths. Snake-like and many-finned, but seems to absorb the lakeâs shimmer as it swims.
âThis is new,â you say, tipping your head back as the Zookeeper catches up to you.
âShe came through the northern passage three months ago.â He moves to the fence line, and you follow. The shape in the water stills, then begins to rise. âShe was injured, but sheâs almost healed now.â
The creature that surfaces is the length of a small boat and the color of deep water. Her eyes are a filmy pale, and fix on the Zookeeper as soon as she breaches the surface.
He makes a noise that, to you, sounds like a purr, and her fins spread in a display of trilling bioluminescence.
âDoes she have a name?â
âShe named herself, but itâŠdoesnât translate well.â
You watch her for a while, transfixed by the kaleidoscope colors of her fins. She watches you back with those pale eyes, head tilting curiously. She lets you stare for another minute, then performs an elegant backward dive that sends a gentle wave against the fence posts. The wave recedes, and she is gone.
The second new enclosure is pitch black inside, the entrance sealed with a heavy blackout curtain. You spot a small placard beside it that reads: LIGHT SENSITIVE - DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT CLEARANCE.
âWhatâs in there?â
âA family of umbra crawlers. Theyâre shy, but youâll probably hear them tonight when the dark comes on.â
âWhat do they sound like?â
He thinks about it with the same seriousness he gives all your questions.
âRain or something close to it.â
The third new enclosure makes you halt in your steps.
Itâs built against the sanctuaryâs eastern wall, a structure of dark stone with a high ceiling and wide, arched windows. Inside, visible through the glass, are creatures shaped like large dogs but with six legs each and coats that shine like oil on water. They watch you back with golden eyes, staring with an attentiveness that goes beyond an animalâs understanding.
âOh.â
âHexwolves,â the Zookeeper says softly. âA smaller pack. Theyâll want to meet you once youâve gotten settled.â
âTheyâre beautiful.â
âThey think you are, too,â he murmurs. You glance at him sideways, only to find him looking at the hexwolves with great focus. You decide, as you often do with him, to let it be.
The fourth new enclosure is still being built.
At the far end of the eastern path thereâs a foundation and three walls surrounded by a lot of silver scaffolding. The Zookeeper stops in front of it with his hands in his pockets.
âWhatâs this one for?â
âIâm not sure yet,â he shrugs. âThe sanctuary started building it two weeks ago.â
âBut it hasnât told you yet?â Thatâs unusual given his connection to your home away from home.
âI trust it.â He glances at you with a crooked smile. âIt has good instincts.â
â
Once the tour is over, the work begins.
This is what youâre here for, technically. The volunteer work, the cleaning and feeding and all the small maintenances that keep the sanctuary running. The Zookeeper has never been good at accepting help from peopleâyouâve gathered that over the yearsâbut he doesnât seem to mind you. You tell yourself itâs because you wore him down gradually, coming back year after year until the sanctuary began to seek you out for your exceptional work.
(deep down, you know itâs more than thatâitâs been more than that for you for a long time, too)
Itâs lighter work today. Cleaning the gryphon enclosure while theyâre at their morning exercise, then the feeding run for the eastern residents, and then checking on the eggs.
The feeding run takes you past the gravelwyrms, who put their rocky noses up at the food until you turn away, and past the dreaming-pool where the mirror moths cluster on the surface with their wings folded and undersides reflecting the sky, and past a small enclosure that you donât have a name for yet. Thereâs a single creature in it that communicates only in fluctuating colors across its skin, turning red then orange then a deep blue as you pass.
The gryphon enclosure, next. The gryphons are magnificent, but they often leave evidence of that magnificence all over the enclosure, and cleaning up after them requires a set of strong gloves and a stronger will. The Zookeeper works beside you, doing twice the work in the same time with his impressive strength.
Somewhere in the middle, when the work and the smell starts to get to you, he talks. He usually does when youâre working side-by-side, giving quiet comments that grow into longer tales. Today, he tells you about the three months youâve missed. The umbra crawlersâ arrival, a nest found in the gloamfly enclosure, a creature that passed through the northern passage and chose not to stay, and an unusual migration through the skies above the sanctuary on its coldest night, thousands of them, filling the dark with the jingling of bells.
âI wish Iâd seen that,â you sigh wistfully.
âI know,â he says. âI thought of you.â
You pause, turning to look at him. Heâs not looking at you, his attention on the task at hand, but the fur along the mane of his neck bristles as if heâs just had a chill.
âNext time you could just text me, you know.â
âThe planes donât always allow it.â
âThey allow it more than you use it.â
He stops, sighing in defeat. âYes. Yes, they do.â
You go back to work. The gryphons return from their exercise and observe you from a distance before returning to their home. The morning moves on, and the sanctuary settles in around you, welcoming you back to where you belong.
â
The eggs sit in the center of the sanctuary.
Youâve remember when the room that holds them was just a room. One of the main buildingâs lower chambers, stone-floored, with windows that let in only the gentlest of light. The eggs appeared gradually over the years, three of them, each roughly the size of a large watermelon, with shells that shift in color depending on how you look at them. No one knows where they came from or whatâs inside them.
(theyâve sat in this room for as long as the Zookeeper has kept records, and the records go back further than you can imagine)
You pull on a clean pair of gloves and crouch beside the nearest one, pressing your hand to it carefully. Theyâre warm to the touch, even through the thickness of your gloves.
âAny changes lately?â you ask.
âThe same.â He kneels beside you, and rests one handâbare, he rarely bothers with gloves when handling themâagainst the shell. âThoughâŠmaybe a little moreâŠâ
âMore warm?â
âMoreâŠpresent? The pulse feels stronger.â
He stares at the egg with such tender focus. It must weigh on him, not knowing what kind of creature will hatch from these eggs. Heâs always taken great pride in tending to the sanctuaryâs residents, often knowing what they need before they do. How can he care for something when he doesnât even know what they are?
âThatâs good,â you offer.
âI think so.â He moves his hand, carefully skimming the eggâs rough texture. âBut Iâve been wrong before.â
You move your hand from the egg to his shoulder, giving a soft squeeze of reassurance. He gives a low, appreciative growl deep in his throat, tilting his head just enough to lean against your fingers. You stay there a while, both of you crouched beside the eggs until your legs grow sore, and even for a little while longer.
â
At the end of the day, he walks you back to the gate.
Itâs one of his rituals, developed over your years of visits. You walk the long, central path in the early evening, the sanctuaryâs creatures going about their routines around you. The gravelwyrms shake off for their nightly dusting; the lantern foxes wake with eager flickering; a shadow, large and slow-moving, passes through the tree line to the north; the bog pups splash as they circle their peat beds.
You talk about what you want to do tomorrow, and which enclosures need attention. At the gate, which has become the door of a small cottage at the pathâs end where you stay during your visits, he stops.
âDinnerâs in an hour if you want,â he says lightly.
âI always want,â you tell him.
The corner of his mouth twitches around his tusks. You wish he wouldnât fight back his smiles so often, but heâs given his feelings on baring his teeth before, and you donât want to push.
âI know,â he laughs softly.
He turns and heads back up the path. You watch him go, the familiar pull of your chest urging you to follow.
You go inside, instead. You unpack your bag, your gloves and boots and sketchbook and the jar of honey that youâll set on his workbench in the morning.
Through the window, the sanctuary drapes itself in evening, and, somewhere in the dark, the umbra crawlers begin to sound like rain.
