summary: a monster keeps your cottage safe from wolves, believing you neither see nor want him—until spring comes, and you finally turn to the creature in the trees and let him know you’ve been leaving the bread, the clothes… and that you were never afraid.
pairing: the creature (adam frankenstein) x reader
word count: 3,299 words
warnings: gothic romance (set in 1800’s), talk of death and murder, slow burn, horror, MDNI (18+ only)
notes: hi first time writing in like 2-3 years so be nice please xoxoxo if you can’t tell i’ve gotten into writing horror/thriller and this was the perfect opportunity to dip my toes back in. anyways if you’re reading this here’s a kiss mwah
PART I | PART II | PART III | PART IV
SERIES MASTERLIST
He’d been haunting the tree line long before you ever saw him.
At least, that’s what he believed.
All winter, something bigger than any wolf stalked the border of your little cottage, keeping the growls and yellow eyes at bay. You’d wake to claw marks in the snow that didn’t belong to any animal you knew, to the broken bodies of wolves dragged far from your door, as if someone didn’t want you to see what he’d done for you. Your lanterns never ran out of oil. Your firewood stack never emptied. Sometimes, there were heavy footprints in the mud—too large, too uneven to be human—leading back into the forest and vanishing with the mist.
He thought you didn’t know.
But you saw him.
You always saw him.
The first time, it was only a shadow: a towering figure half-hidden behind the black skeleton of a pine tree, watching you as you hung freshly washed sheets beneath a washed-out winter sky. Another time, you caught the briefest flash of his eyes, pale and aching with something that wasn’t quite hunger and wasn’t quite hatred, as he melted back into the dark.
The creature.
Adam Frankenstein.
The villagers whispered about a monster in the woods, a patchwork horror that should have never drawn breath, but you knew better. Monsters didn’t leave bread on your windowsill on nights you forgot to eat. Monsters didn’t stack kindling by your step after snowstorms, or set down a freshly killed hare just close enough that your old dog could sniff it out in the morning. Monsters didn’t linger at the edge of your light like a shield, taking every blow the world had meant for you.
So you started leaving things for him, too.
A still-warm loaf of bread wrapped in cloth and left on a flat stone near the forest’s edge. A thick, clumsily sewn shirt you’d stitched by candlelight, big enough to fit the breadth of his shoulders as best you could guess. A pair of gloves with uneven fingers. Each offering would be gone by morning, and in their place there’d be… nothing. No note. No mark. Just a silence that somehow felt shy.
Spring came slowly, softening the snow into streams and coaxing green from the hard earth. One bright morning, you took your dog and followed the familiar path beneath the budding branches, letting the cool air kiss your cheeks. You could feel him behind you—no longer a rumour, but a steady presence in the spaces between birdsong and the crunch of twigs underfoot.
He was careful with his distance.
Careful with you.
You felt him before you saw him.
The air behind you changed—thicker somehow, as if the very forest were holding its breath.
Your dog’s ears flicked, tail giving the smallest wag, but he did not bark. He sat at your heel, as though he, too, had long grown used to the giant shadow that haunted the trees.
You stood in the clearing, sunlight painting your skirts in pale gold, fingers resting lightly upon your dog’s head.
“I know you are there,” you said, voice steady despite the pounding in your chest. “You have been there for a very long time, have you not?”
Silence.
The birds went quiet. A breeze stirred the budding branches overhead, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and something else—old smoke, metal, and the faintest trace of soap, as though someone had tried, clumsily, to scrub himself clean.
You swallowed your nervousness and smiled, though he could not see it. Not yet.
“Tell me, Adam,” you continued, your tone turning wry, “how much longer until you understand that I have always known about you… and that you do not frighten me in the least?”
Something shifted among the trees to your left. A heavy footstep, then another, crunching over last year’s leaves. Your dog gave a low, pleased whine.
Slowly, as though dragged forward by some unseen chain, he stepped out from the shadows.
He was larger than you had imagined, even after months of stolen glances. Broad shoulders strained the seams of the very shirt you had sewn by candlelight. The fabric sat oddly upon him, as if he were still unsure he had the right to wear something made with care.
His face—oh, his face.
You had prepared yourself for horror.
Instead, you found sadness.
Features too sharply cut, as though chiseled in haste and anger. Eyes a pale, unnatural blue, ringed by the kind of weariness usually reserved for much older men. There were scars, yes, and those patchwork seams that betrayed the unnatural hand that had pieced him together, but beneath them all… he was simply a man who did not know how to occupy his own skin.
He stopped several paces away, hands held slightly out from his sides, as though to show he carried no weapon.
“You… you ought to run,” he said at last, his voice rough and low, the words strangely precise yet hesitant, like a man learning to speak again after a long illness. “The villagers would tell you to flee.”
“The villagers,” you replied, “have never once stacked firewood by my door after a storm.”
His jaw tightened. He glanced away, as though ashamed.
“That was nothing,” he muttered. “A mere… task. I happened to be near.”
“And the hare left upon my step in January? Was that another mere task?”
He shifted his weight, great hands curling into fists. “You were thin,” he said grudgingly. “There were no tracks near your home. I deduced you did not hunt.”
“And the wolves?” you pressed gently. “The ones that never cross the boundary of my field, though their howls wake me in the night?”
His throat worked. For a moment, the creature looked almost… irritated. “They are foolish animals,” he said. “They do not understand when they trespass upon what is mine to guard.”
Your heart stuttered at that word.
“Yours to guard,” you echoed softly.
At last his gaze met yours. There was a terrible vulnerability in it, like a child braced for mockery.
“You ought not look at me so,” he said, voice rougher now. “You ought to scream. Or at the very least, avert your eyes.”
“I shall do neither,” you answered. “You have been my unseen champion all winter, sir. I should think it discourteous to shriek at you now.”
He frowned, as though the very notion of courtesy applied to him was offensive.
“I am no ‘sir’,” he said. “The man who stitched me together did not deem me fit for such a title.”
“Then what shall I call you?” you asked, ignoring the chill that raced down your spine at his choice of words. “The villagers speak of a monster. A demon. A fiend. I do not care for any of those.”
A shadow of something like humour passed over his face. “He called me Adam,” he said quietly. “As though I were the first of my kind.”
You nodded once. “Very well, Adam.”
Your dog, emboldened by your calm, trotted forward and sniffed at his boots. Adam stared down at him as though the small creature were some strange, new invention.
“He does not fear me,” Adam murmured, almost to himself.
“Animals are often better judges of character than men,” you replied. “He knows you have watched over us.”
A muscle jumped in his cheek. “I watched to ensure no harm came to you,” he corrected. “Whether you knew of it or not is of little consequence.”
“On the contrary.” You took a small step closer. His eyes widened, as though you had moved a mile instead of a foot. “It is of great consequence. You believed yourself unseen, did you not?”
He hesitated, then gave a small, reluctant nod.
“Then you must also have believed that the bread, and the shirt, and the gloves appeared by some miracle of the woods.” You tilted your head. “Or did you imagine the forest itself had begun to sew?”
Colour—faint but unmistakable—rose along the visible seam of his throat. He looked past you, toward the stone where you always left your gifts.
“I thought…” He paused, visibly searching for words. “I wondered if perhaps you had set them out for the poor. For some wandering soul more deserving than I.”
Your chest ached. “And yet you took them.”
“Yes.” His gaze dropped to his hands, as though the gloves were still upon them. “I told myself I had stolen them. That you would never know. That is the sort of thing a monster does, is it not? Take what is not his?”
“If I leave something upon the edge of the wood with no name attached,” you said gently, “is it truly theft for the one I hoped would claim it… to do so?”
His eyes snapped back to yours, startled. “You… hoped…?”
“For whom else do you suppose I stitched sleeves of that length?” you asked, lips quirking. “There is no man in the village with shoulders so broad as yours, Adam.”
He stared at you as though you had struck him. Not in pain—more in stunned disbelief.
“You… knew,” he breathed. “You knew I was there. All this time.”
“Yes.”
“And you were not afraid.”
You considered this. “I was wary,” you said honestly. “At first. One does not wake to strange footprints and dead wolves without a certain degree of alarm. But then I saw you. Hiding like a boy behind those poor trees, trying very hard not to be seen. And I thought—”
You broke off, biting your lip.
He took a half-step forward despite himself. “You thought what?”
“I thought,” you said slowly, “that no true monster skulks in the shadows to keep a woman’s cottage safe through a winter as harsh as this last one. No true monster leaves food instead of taking it. No true monster looks at another living soul the way you looked at my dog last month—do not pretend you were not there, I saw you through the curtain—like you were afraid to even breathe in his direction for fear you might somehow break him.”
He said nothing. His breath misted faintly in the cool spring air, harsh and uneven.
“You should not look so kindly upon me,” he managed at last. “It is… improper.”
“Improper,” you repeated, amusement bubbling up despite the solemnity of his tone. “We are alone in the forest, Adam. There is no vicar here to scold us.”
“It is not the vicar I fear,” he muttered. “It is myself.”
Your smile faded.
“Why?” you asked.
He looked down at his hands again, turning them palm up as though they were strange objects he’d found rather than parts of his own body.
“These hands have done terrible things,” he said quietly. “I have torn wolves apart, as you have seen. I have broken men who sought to harm me. I have throttled hatred at its source and found only more hatred beneath it. I was created in violence and I fear I shall end in it as well.” His eyes lifted to yours, desperate. “I cannot trust myself near that which is gentle.”
Your throat tightened. “You have been near me all winter.”
“At a distance,” he insisted. “A barrier of trees. Of shadow. Of night. It is different now.”
“Is it?” You closed the gap between you by another small step. He sucked in a breath, shoulders going rigid. You could feel the heat radiating from him now, unnatural in its intensity, like standing too close to a forge. “I feel no danger from you, Adam.”
“You should.”
“But I do not.” You lifted your hand, giving him every opportunity to retreat. “May I?”
He stared at your outstretched fingers as though they were some holy relic. “I… do not know.”
“We shall discover it together,” you said softly.
After a moment that stretched thin as spun sugar, he extended his own hand, large and scarred and trembling just enough for you to see. You laid your palm against his.
Warm. Solid. Very real.
He flinched, not from pain, but from the shock of contact.
“See?” you murmured. “You have not broken me.”
“Not yet,” he said hoarsely.
You squeezed his fingers. “Nor shall you, if I have any say in the matter.”
For a heartbeat, the forest was nothing but the two of you and the soft panting of your dog at your side. A bird dared a tentative trill somewhere above, as though deciding the danger had passed.
“You treat me as though I were… a man,” Adam said quietly, almost accusingly.
“You are,” you replied simply.
His brows drew together. “I am a collection of parts stolen from graves. I am a blasphemy against God and nature both.”
“You are standing in the sunlight speaking to me with more courtesy than half the men in town,” you countered. “If that is blasphemy, then perhaps we have misjudged Heaven.”
A startled, rough sound escaped him—half laugh, half exhale. As though he had forgotten how ordinary mirth should feel in his chest.
“You should not say such things,” he chided, but there was no true censure in it. “You are too bold.”
“You have been listening to me mutter to myself all winter,” you reminded him. “You ought to know by now that my tongue is not easily tamed.”
“I know many things about you,” he admitted, voice going soft. “I know you speak kindly to your dog even when he chews your shoes. I know you hum that same song each morning when you light the stove. I know you eat too little when you are anxious. I know you cry when you believe no one can hear.”
Your breath caught. “You ought not watch a lady in such moments,” you said, flustered.
“I know,” he said, guilt flickering through his gaze. “And yet I could not look away. Your sorrow… it frightened me more than wolves ever could. I wished to tear apart whatever had caused it, but there was nothing there. Only you, and your hands shaking, and your tears falling into the dough you were kneading.”
You blinked rapidly, your throat thick. “You saw that.”
“Yes.”
“And you still think yourself a monster,” you whispered.
He hesitated. “Do you not?”
You stepped closer until there was barely a breath between you, your hand still cradled in his. You had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes fully.
“If I say no,” you asked, “will you believe me?”
“I… do not know.” His voice cracked on the words.
“Then I shall tell you as many times as necessary until you do.” Your lips curved into a small, earnest smile. “You are not a monster to me, Adam. You are the reason I have slept safely these many months. You are the reason my dog still runs through these woods without fear. You are the reason I am standing here today, whole and unharmed.”
He swallowed hard. “Any man might have done as much.”
“But no man did.” You lifted your free hand to his chest, pressing your palm lightly over where his heart would be—if it beat. “You did.”
His breath hitched. For a moment, he seemed to forget how limbs functioned, standing utterly still as though one wrong move might shatter the moment into fragments.
“You should not touch me so,” he said weakly.
“And yet,” you murmured, “you do not step away.”
He closed his eyes, jaw clenched. “Because I am selfish. Because I have spent a season watching you from afar and I am not yet strong enough to deny myself this one brief… kindness.”
“Adam,” you said softly. “Look at me.”
He obeyed. Slowly, hesitantly, but he obeyed.
“There is nothing ‘brief’ about what I intend,” you told him. “You have guarded my cottage as though it were a kingdom. Will you not allow me, at the very least, to guard your heart in return?”
His lips parted, but no sound came. You could see the war waging behind his eyes—fear and longing and disbelief all tangled together.
“You… would keep company with me?” he managed at last. “Knowing what I am?”
“Knowing who you are,” you corrected. “A man named Adam who walks the tree line at night so that I may sleep. A man who refuses to let wolves cross my field. A man who looks at my foolish old dog as though he were some creature made of glass.” Your fingers curled briefly against his chest. “If that is monstrosity, I shall gladly consort with monsters.”
Another laugh—clearer this time—escaped him. It transformed his face, smoothing some of the harsh lines, revealing the man beneath the scars.
“You are very stubborn,” he said.
“So I have been told.”
“And you would not… flee, if I came nearer? If I…” He faltered, gaze flickering to your joined hands. “If I visited your cottage when the sun has set?”
“I should be most put out if you did not,” you said lightly. “I have an extra chair by the hearth and no one to fill it. My dog prefers company. As, I suspect, do I.”
He stared at you as though trying to determine whether this were some cruel trick of the mind. At last, cautiously, he lifted his other hand to hover near your cheek, stopping inches away.
“May I?” he asked, echoing your earlier words.
You leaned into the space between, closing the distance yourself. His fingers brushed your skin—calloused, uncertain, trembling. He cupped your cheek as though cradling something far more fragile than you felt.
“You are warm,” he whispered, wonder in his tone.
“And you are real,” you replied.
His thumb swept once, reverently, along your cheekbone. “If I frighten you,” he said softly, “you must tell me at once. I will go, and I shall not trouble you again, though it break what passes for my heart.”
“I do not believe you capable of breaking my heart,” you said. “Guarding it, perhaps. As you have guarded everything else.”
His eyes shone, sudden moisture gathering there. He blinked it away quickly, as though ashamed.
“I do not understand why you would offer such mercy to me,” he murmured.
“Perhaps,” you said gently, “it is not mercy. Perhaps it is simply… affection.”
The word seemed to strike him with more force than any blow.
“Affection,” he repeated, voice barely audible. “For me.”
“For you,” you affirmed. “For Adam, who walks the forest so that I might live another day to bake too much bread and scold my dog and sew shirts far too large.” Your smile softened. “Stay with me, and I shall show you there is more for you than shadows and solitude.”
He drew in a long, shaky breath. When he exhaled, something in his posture eased—the line of his shoulders, the set of his jaw. As though a burden he had carried alone for far too long had shifted, just slightly, into your waiting hands.
“Very well,” he said at last, voice low but resolute. “I shall try.”
Your heart lifted, light as the first spring breeze.
“Good,” you replied. “Then you shall walk me home, Adam. And after that, if you wish, you may sit by my fire and tell me all the things you have seen from the edge of the wood.”
He glanced once toward the deeper forest, then back to you—the woman who had left bread and stitched shirts and dared to speak kindly to the creature everyone else feared.
“As you wish,” he said quietly.
And when you turned toward the path, his heavy footsteps fell in beside yours—not behind, no longer hiding in the trees, but at your side. Where, you suspected, he had always longed to be.
