#young frankenstein imagine

[rosesloveletters]

lucky star.

Pairing: Dr. Frederick Frankenstein x Fem. Reader

Word Count: 6,645

Warnings: sexual content / smut

Summary: ‘Frederick, you are my lucky star,’ Your skin was burning hot and you thought you might spontaneously combust, ‘your radiance was too much and I couldn’t help myself…’ // You had been burned before, but never like this. // Frederick and Reader spend a loving, passionate night alone inside the castle.

Author's Note: Hopefully you all can forgive me for taking a small break from writing Wonka fics to write for another of Gene's roles. If you haven't seen Young Frankenstein, please go watch it. It's so damn funny and Gene is so attractive.

Edited.

divider created by @/saradika on Tumblr.

The cold air seeped down into your bones, penetrating your thin nightgown the same way the moonlight cut through the clouds and bathed the dank night in a milky haze. There was at least a foot of snow on the ground and the cold air bled through the castle walls. December was a brutal month to be up in the mountains; the winters here seemed to last a lifetime. 

What little reprieve you had was the crackling fireplace in your quiet bedroom. You took up residency on the hearth, the stone-cold floors beneath your bare feet sending tremors through you, but it was nothing you wouldn’t suffer so long as you were able to stand before the fire. 

This was how he found you most nights, your silhouette red-rimmed and glimmering from the firelight as each fragile little flame arched in a furious, swirling dance. Encased in stone, the flames could not travel, but you imagined them swallowing you whole. 

Your body was a block of ice and you feared it would take a decade just to thaw your heart, but his presence melted the frost on your fingertips and got your blood pumping again. Such was your complicated relationship between this professor turned mad scientist. 

The lick of the flame never heated you up like he did. 

“Oh, you’re still there?” He asked in an amused tone as he entered your chambers, already shedding his coat to prepare for the long night ahead. He must’ve been exhausted, though you had no idea what he was working on down there in the laboratory. He abated your questions with affection, arms encircling your body like the flames you dreamed of and shielding you from the cold. 

You turned just enough to glance at him over your shoulder, “every night,” you responded and turned back to the fire. The flames reflected in your dilated pupils danced in a blaze of infernal passion as though you were lit from within. 

You heard him shuffling around behind you, but you paid him no mind. The flames enchanted you; you always dreamed in noire, but for the first time you could see in the color he had shown you. 

Soft violin music permeated your senses and you suppressed a full-bodied shudder. 

It was as if you had been summoned out of thin air, stagnant temptation veiled over you. 

With your curves accentuated in firelight, you resembled the moon in all her shimmering, shivering opalescence. In her craters all alone, you were a woman scorned, a maiden murdered in cold blood, a ghost of herself digging her own grave to be buried alive, but inside of the castle you were unapologetically yourself. You belonged here as much as any of the other residents, a misfit to the rest of the world, a crisis of consequence, the quintessence of vice and virtue and all alone in every way except physical. 

Your ears rang from the haunting harmony as you waited for warmth to come. 

It finally did, in the form of your lover’s arms wrapped around you. 

You saw less and less of him these days and you suspected a new achievement of his sometime soon, but he kept quiet about what it was. It was much easier to pretend he was falling out of love with you than to conjure any idea of what he had been doing for the last several days because in a state like this he was much more difficult to study than any lecture he might’ve once given. You would have gratefully taken down notes from him rather than pick apart his brain for the learning material. 

If your love was ancient history, then why weren’t you hanging up in a museum yet? 

As much time as he spent away from you it was imaginable that he forgot you existed, yet he always came back to you at night. 

It was all just an idea, the seed of all science, which bore roots of hypotheses and germination in study and, if one were lucky, might someday bloom into spectacular results. 

“I suppose you’ve still got no intention of letting me know what it is that you’re working on down there?” 

The way in which his arms tightened around your body indicated the affirmative, but you were always going to be curious. Your tired game of pretending was no longer enough to satisfy your hunger for the truth and he knew it. His tender love would not sate you forever and if he didn’t swiftly act, you might begin to demand more. Not that he minded, really. Being wanted was pleasant and not something he was used to. His romantic relationships were stinted and tense, stifled and repressed. He succumbed to your advances and gave answers to your questions ultimately because you made him a priority. 

He felt safe with you. No more longing glances at women who did not want him or elbow touches with the supposed “love of his life” because she didn’t want to mess up her outfit. He treated you with respect and with dignity because you offered him the same. He did not have to fit himself into a pre-cut spot in your life. You molded him into your heart, enveloping him in your love and holding him close to your chest because he meant that much to you. You wanted him there and he could feel it, all his nerve-endings alight with the sacred promise of love and mutual want and connection. 

A gentle chuckle came from him and he leaned in close, lips by your ear, “I promise to tell you more about it soon, my dear. I feel that I am nearing a breakthrough.”

A breakthrough or a breakdown, you were uncertain which word best suited where he was headed. His wild curls appeared more and more disheveled each day because he couldn’t be bothered to style his hair when more important things weighed on his mind. His work consumed him to the point that when he dragged himself back to you at night, his mind was still buzzing with ideas and he seemed distant even though he did not mean to be. 

Sometimes you caught him up reading long after you would have retired to bed for the night. When you thought he was sleeping beside you, he was poring over case studies and medical journals by candlelight. When your bed was cold and the spot beside you that he always occupied was empty, you would find him fast asleep at his desk, the rise and fall of his shoulders and gentle snores indicative of his peaceful slumber. 

On nights like those would you guide him back to bed where he would curl in beside you and hold you close, sheltered through the night in his embrace until morning light touched your face. 

Other nights were fitful and full of restlessness and nightmares. He would twitch and quiver, plagued by images no man was ever meant to see. He wouldn’t tell you what he dreamed of, even less about what frightened him, but you had reason to believe that his brain tormented him on occasion, such was the case of most, but with deep intellect came a price and he was much crueler to himself than any colleague of his might be. 

He needed to unwind, to take comfort in closeness and sanctity from insanity. 

He would work himself to death like this and you would be damned if you were to let that happen. 

“That’s good news, darling,” your gentle response made him grin and you could feel the slight upturn of his lips against your cheek, “but do you think we might not speak about work tonight?”

“Well, if not that, then what shall we speak about?” 

As he asked the question, he began to pull you in. Your bodies connected and with you flush against him you could feel his arousal, unabashedly betraying his aching need for you now more than he had felt in a lifetime for anyone else. 

The pungent scent of frosted Frasier fir, candle smoke and scintillating wit clung to him, lingering like twilight hues on the longest day of the year. You inhaled, apt to lose yourself in him the same way he lost himself in his work, only now did you understand that there was much more to it than that. His work was important, but you were his love and that took up more space in him than the chunk of matter between his ears and the story of your lives filled more pages than any of the studies in his medical journals. 

A night off would do him some good; for once, he could devote enough time to engage in a passionate, loving affair rather than a quick frolic and he would do well to remember how much he had always wanted something like this. 

He wanted you now and would not wait. You made him forget who he was for a while and that was such a beautiful thing. 

Dr. Frederick Frankenstein, a man whose names’ reputation preceded him, had learned that he could only put so much distance between himself and the truth. As absurd as it was to say, he had perhaps stumbled upon a secret that could not be contained, a truth so groundbreaking, a scientific discovery so unbelievable that it had to be believed to be seen…

Except, currently, the only thing he was seeing were blurred lines and the gothic undertones of lust which tinted his periphery. His lips slanted over yours and the modest friction from his wispy, sorrel mustache scraped deliciously against your cupid’s bow. The wet graze of your tongue sent a shiver through him and elicited a small grunt as his large hands swept down the length of your body and grabbed your hips. 

Your pelvis ground deliciously against his and he groaned, “you’ll be the death of me, my love.” 

Your closeness was the finger on the hairpin trigger of his desire. He felt like his aorta might burst at any moment and so, using every second he hoped he had left, he savored the warm press of your body on his and devoured every inch of your exposed neck. He was gentle at first, taking care not to mark your delicate flesh, but soon his intrinsic carnality corrupted him and he could not help himself from sinking his teeth into your skin. 

You let out a breathy gasp and could feel him grinning against the column of your neck.

Your arms were around him, holding him to you mostly to steady yourself because if your hands had nothing to hold onto, you would have fallen to your knees for reasons beyond just lacking support in your current state. He would have approved of it now, although he was squeamish about it at any other time. He would have even encouraged you, with hands in your hair on the back of your head to guide you in pleasuring him, but no. 

He wanted more. His body demanded more and he would have it so long as you were willing. He was tired of being asked to wait, his resolve worn down to nothing because he had gone without for far too long. 

As a physician, he knew well the needs of the human body and the satisfaction that came from indulging one’s desires. He did not think on it all too much, but whenever he found himself alone and steeped in eroticism and longing, he had no choice. Everything you did turned him on and his cock throbbed at the thought of him burying it inside you. 

It was inescapable. No matter how often he changed course or preoccupied his mind with other things, his thoughts always returned to you. 

He moved you back towards the bed, the backs of your knees coming into contact with the edge of the mattress and you dropped down onto it, pulling him on top of you. He collided with your body, an animalistic growl clawing its way out of his throat as his hips grinded against yours. 

This was unlike him, a version of himself that never saw the light of day – he kept it in a cage and fed it blood; only carnal desire was enough to sate its hunger. 

He dragged his teeth along your neck as your fingers fumbled with his shirt buttons. He couldn’t take his lips off you, he had to kiss every inch of you. He needed it far more than he could communicate through words and luckily for him you did not ask him to. You were busy undressing him while he worshipped your body with his mouth, his tongue tasting your succulent flesh as he inhaled your heady scent. Your body was ripe for him to take a bite and he would devour every bit of you until there was nothing left to satisfy him. 

He sat up enough to toss his jacket aside, undershirt now open to reveal the hint of bare skin and a dusting of hair several shades darker than the curls on his head. He looked ethereal in the low light, fire silhouetting him, and the edges of his body glistened as his dark pupils glittered and burned like glowing embers. A wildfire of its own raged within him as he was driven mad with lust. He kissed you feverishly, lips and teeth clashing with yours as he was anything but gentle with you in this moment. 

His kisses were rough, but his delicate appearance contrasted his movements. His long, thick lashes fluttered against his cheekbones, accentuating his shimmeringly blue eyes that, even in such low light, glistened like gemstones. He had the softest features of any man you had ever seen and you would have paused to admire him if only he wasn’t so tempestuous in his urgency for you. 

His hands slid up underneath your dress, fingers tantalizingly rubbing against the crotch of your panties and along your inner thighs. He unashamedly touched you and a smiled graced his lips as you moaned for him, arching your back as your hands splayed on his chest, scrabbling for purchase but you were hopelessly plummeting into the pit of your own desire with nothing to grab onto and no way to cushion your fall. 

He rubbed you a little bit through your panties, but it was not enough. 

He wanted to feel your wetness saturate the soft cotton, however, it would be much more appealing to him if his fingers were to glisten with your juices instead of allowing all your sweet honey to leak into your underwear. He ached to feel your tight heat clench around his long fingers as they curled inside you, delicately massaging your sweet spot as he guided you towards a climax. It was a boost to his ego, knowing he could pleasure you that way and with little to no difficulty. He was a physician, after all, and had had many lessons in human anatomy. He knew what he was doing and, though he would never say it, was prideful over the fact that he could bring you to orgasm with just his fingers and a few heated, teasing whispers. 

Even if you were defiant and tried to hold out, those fingers of his were your weakness and he knew best how to use them. A stubborn girl presented a challenge and that interested him; Frederick wanted excitement and connection, not just clinical sex. 

His fingers hooked under your panties and teased them down your legs, watching you squirm as you anticipated what might happen next. It was up to him to decide and the thought made him dizzy. 

Your excitement was palpable. With sweating palms, you clutched onto the thin bedsheets and peered up at him, a halo of fire backlighting his frizz of curls. You were unable to keep still, thighs rubbing together in anticipation of his large, warm hands that would spread them apart. Your full-bodied blush was crushed into existence by rose petals and rouge and your exquisite form buzzed with giddiness and euphoria as he tenderly pulled your legs apart and nestled between them, shoulders against your thighs for support. You were hesitant to follow his lead, but you trusted him to care for you the same as he cared for his reputation.

He began almost immediately, wasting no time. Neck bent, head between your legs, he shamelessly suckled your clit and swilled your sweet nectar with instinctive, primordial hunger. 

The doctor tasted you with insatiable vigor, his tongue lapping greedily at your glistening folds as you squirmed and writhed on the bed. You were grappling with yourself, attempting to stave off your own needs as your fingers splayed and flexed on the sheets as though you were imagining grasping onto him instead of the linens. 

You wanted him, that much had been determined, however, you could see no end to his brutal self-satisfaction; he would take as much from you as you were willing to give, not because he had no thought of returning the favor, but because he had deemed himself a dying man long ago and you were his cure. This was what would set him free, seal his fate and claim his immortality, not whatever lined the pages of myriad medical journals he tutored himself with. 

That did not matter. Perhaps this was all he had ever wanted: a beautiful love to have and to hold, who would, most importantly, meet and master his needs. 

‘The needs of any man,’ he thought in defense of himself, ‘it isn’t just about love or sex…it’s science.’ 

That was what the young doctor told himself, especially during intimate moments such as these, when he found himself struggling to maintain consciousness as his tongue breached your center and delved into your core until your gentle moans crested into the shimmering, shivering crescendo of an orgasm. 

You were on the cusp of one already. 

You peered down at him and gasped; Frederick was a vision even when he wasn’t knelt between your legs, but such a position afforded you the best view of his facial features and he was a sight to behold. 

His long lashes fluttered against his high cheekbones, the light from the fire defining the subtle curves and valleys of his face, the creases of concentration on his forehead and the swell of his parted lips as they suctioned around your clit. He pressed one finger inside of you, followed in quick succession by a second digit as he gently stretched you. 

You moaned as his fingers scissored inside you and his tongue delicately teased and flicked your sensitive bundle of nerves. Tension coiled in your abdomen as you could feel the bud of an orgasm beginning to grow. 

Despite his lust for your body, his mind was focused only on your pleasure. No paltry sum would be enough to make him use his advanced knowledge for just his benefit; he loved you and even though he could only stave off his most primal needs for so long, there would be no mistaking his devotion. 

He pulled away and his parted lips glistened with saliva and your juices. His tongue darted out to lick his lips, savoring the essence of you left behind, “oh, my darling,” he crooned, hand reaching out and fingers burying into your soft hair, “oh, my only love…”

When he uttered those words to you, he meant them. 

You would not dismiss him whenever he made such professions of love. His words resonated within you, cut through you like a sharp scalpel through soft skin, peeled back the muscle and tissue that clung to your ribcage to nestle deep within your chest cavity, taking up residency inside your beating heart. Everything that he said made sense, as though you had been the one his words were always meant for. 

His outfit was disheveled to a state comparable to his wild mane which stuck out in curlicue flyaway strands going in all directions. 

Your heart was beating rapidly, pumping blood through your veins and carrying his love for you outwards and to every part of your body. Your core ached and throbbed with need and your lower lip jutted in a pout of disappointment at being denied your first orgasm. 

Frederick watched you squirm with a hooded gaze, taking in your exquisite beauty as you arched your back enticingly and rolled your hips despite the lack of friction, “May we continue, my dear? I’d say you’re as ready as ever…”

You felt far away from yourself as you nodded and nothing else was going through your mind other than connecting with your lover, physically, emotionally and mentally. 

He had a pleased expression on his face when you consented and he stripped off his undershirt, exposing his bare chest. You sat up and reached for him, warm hands caressing his stomach, his sides, his broad chest. Every inch of him burned with intense passion and desire and his heart skipped a beat with every touch of your hands on his skin. He took a shaky breath, entranced by the way you held him close, needy for his affection and craving more of his love. 

He bent his head and nipped at your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. 

His dominance pervaded your senses and hindered your ability to reciprocate in as many ways as you would have liked. Your fingers scrabbled for purchase on his lower back as he sat up a bit straighter and began unbuckling his belt. You were on your knees, the soft bed linens beneath your legs was comfortable as you nibbled and kissed his neck, drawing sweet, almost feminine moans from him. He could hardly focus on what he was doing because the touch of your lips was too intoxicating. He was drunk off your love and every bit of attention you afforded him stilled his fingers as he fumbled with the buttons on his trousers. 

After a moment, you had to help him. You tenderly popped open each button for him before your hand slipped inside and cupped him through his underwear. The sound he made was somewhere between a moan and a shrill whine; your lips turned upwards into a smirk and you leant over him, biting at his sensitive neck as your fingers danced over the length of his aching erection. 

“Oh ho ho, darling…” he grasped your wrist, but did not try to stop you, “oh, how you tease me…”

Perhaps it wasn’t fair to tease him in this state, but he could stand to wait a bit longer for you. As maddening as it was, you were enjoying the foreplay far too much to let it end yet. 

You quieted him with a kiss as sweet as the tulips in spring, stifling his moans of pleasure as your hand slid beneath the barrier of his underwear and held his rigid flesh in your hand. He mewled in ecstasy as you gave him a firm stroke. 

Your lips broke apart and he pressed his forehead against yours, “darling, I can’t wait any longer…you’re killing me.”

An unsurprising choice of words, given the status of his most recent experiments, though you would be none the wiser. 

If there were a way to achieve immortality and worldwide acclaim for his scientific achievements in the medical field, Dr. Frederick Frankenstein would find it; he would devote the rest of his life to such a cause if it meant he could spend an eternity in your loving embrace, to be brought to completion by your hands and your body. 

“I’m all yours, Frederick,” you whispered to him and you could’ve sworn the flames inside of the fireplace leapt for joy at that statement, “I always have been.”

He groaned at your words and his manhood throbbed in your hand, aching to be inside you. He nosed along your jaw, snuffling and nuzzling your cheek as his lips pressed kisses onto your face. His body was filled with love and that was what kept him alive, not the heart that was beating inside his chest. 

His head dropped down to your chest and his lips attached to the swell of your breasts that peeked out from the top of your dress. He murmured against your skin, fingers snagging on your dress as he fought to pull it off you, but your touch on his most sensitive area rendered him useless beyond simple measures of attention. For you to have isolated control over a mind as intelligent and focused as his was some feat and had you a mind to control him, it would have been easily done. 

However, the only control you had was already slipping away now that the cloying desperation had begun to take hold of you.

You gave his manhood several more deliberate strokes, savoring the little noises he made as he tried not to lose control. 

When you removed your hands, his cheeks were flushed and his chest heaved as he dragged air into his once-barren lungs which now bore flowers, petals of pining and passion blooming in this season of love and making it difficult for him to catch his breath. 

He grinned as you and he made eye contact and you were submerged into those icy blue depths, treading water out there in the deepest, lapis lazuli pools.

“And I am yours, my dear,” he whispered as he cupped your face, thumbprints kissing the rosiness into your cheeks, “now and forever.”

His kiss seared through you, sweeping the love back into you that had spilled out through the cracks in your soul. You were mesmerized by the feel of his mouth hovering over yours, breaths mingling and lingering between the two of you like morning fog between fir trees. 

You were one already, even without the connection between your two bodies, although that was to come as Frederick slipped away from you long enough to remove the rest of his clothing while you did the same. 

Completely naked, you were warm clay to be molded by his steady, capable hands. 

You hoped Frederick would shape you in the image of the love he had for you so that you could kiss his chiseled ivory cheeks, bringing your stone-cold lover to life.

He hesitantly touched your body, reverent in the way that he let his hands gently hold your hips and guide you beneath him on the bed. 

However many times he had done this, when he was with you it always felt like the first time. In truth, his first time was not what he had imagined: awkward, halting and less than satisfying for both him and his partner, but more than likely it had been a deep disappointment to her rather than to him. He cringed at the thought whenever it surfaced unbidden and stowed it away with the rest of his deeply embarrassing faux pas. 

The inexperience of his youth was not something he could fault himself for, as is the same for anyone, but now that he was older and wiser and had become a more experienced lover, he finally felt like he had earned the right to claim such a lovely woman as you. He had earned his right to be your lover, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, but in death he was determined that you should not have to part. 

Frederick made a mental note to put everything he had into solving the mystery of life after death, to secure yours and his immortality so that neither of you might face such sadness as to outlive the other. 

Nothing so melancholy would reach either of you tonight. 

Frederick loomed over you, catching your gaze as you wriggled into position beneath him. Your legs wrapped snugly around his hips and he propped himself on his forearms so that he did not put his full weight on you. 

He reached between your bodies, taking himself in hand as he guided himself to your entrance. He pushed into you, taking note of your slight wince and the way your body twitched as he entered you as gently as he could manage. Your wetness was the perfect natural lubricant and he had prepared you quite nicely to be able to accommodate him. 

One of his hands took hold of yours and squeezed, grounding you as he finally claimed your body. You held fast to him, your lips parted in a silent expression of pleasure as you adjusted to the fullness of him being inside you. 

Frederick eased into you slowly, taking care not to hurt you or cause you any unnecessary discomfort. If he could avoid it, Frederick would not ever bring you any pain. He wanted you to want this as much as he did and so he took his time with you, being as careful as he could be. Your pleasure meant as much to him as his own; he would have felt terrible if you got no enjoyment out of your shared intimacy. 

“Are you alright, my love?” he asked breathily as he bit back a moan. 

He stilled once he had slid in to the hilt, awaiting your approval and permission. 

You let go of his hand and instead wrapped your arms around his body, clinging to him fully so that he felt the reciprocation of the love he was giving you, “I am, darling,” your whispered against his skin as you kissed his shoulder, making his eyelids flutter as his eyes rolled back.

He groaned, wanting to let instinct take over so that he could finally, finally have his way with you. His hips curved and bunched as he resisted the urged to let go and lose control of himself, but he did not allow himself to move until he sensed you were getting impatient. Slowly, carefully, he began to pull out, only to thrust back into you with a deliberate snap of his hips. 

The initial force of his thrust forced the breath from your lungs and imparted to you the desperation behind his every move. 

Frederick was a romantic at heart. 

Even though he was still just a man, his craving for love rather than sex for the sake of having sex made moments like this feel even more potent with raw emotion and need he had for his partner. He had made mistake after mistake in his past relationships and he was determined not to make a mess of things like he once had done. There was a sense of predestination between you and Frederick, as if the two of you were meant to be together before either of you were aware. Your paths only crossed because you were brave enough to grasp the string of fate and follow it until you came face to face with him. 

You believed it now to be the case because your soul had become magnetized, gravitating to him as he now became your orbital center. 

It was as if the planets and the fates had aligned to bring you together; you did not like clichés except for ones which reminded you of Frederick because no matter how many times those words were spoken, they rang true for the two of you. 

Frederick quickened his thrusts once you were properly adjusted to him. 

He glided into you with ease, taking care to soak up all your moans and pleasurable sounds as your bodies moved in unison. 

You clawed ferociously at his back, digging in your nails as his maddening pace awoke some deeply instilled, hidden carnality buried within your soul. Your kisses were reckless and rough, tying his tongue down with promises whispered in sloping cursive. 

The sound of skin slapping skin echoed throughout the room as you made love, the gentle groans and moans he emitted bringing you closer and closer to your release. You caressed him, gentle with him now as you wanted to convey to him that he was special. 

‘Frederick, you are my lucky star,’ Your skin was burning hot and you thought you might spontaneously combust, ‘your radiance was too much and I couldn’t help myself…’

The beauty of stars was meant to be admired from afar; inside of his eyes did they shimmer, but up close, they blazed. 

You had been burned before, but never like this. 

You gripped onto his hair, giving it a gentle tug, which made him groan even louder and his next thrust was perceptibly harder as he seemed to like when you pulled on his hair. 

“I love you, Frederick…”

The confession spilled out of you in a flood as you anticipated the light in his eyes leaving him as all the color drained out once the weight of your words set in. 

“I love you, too,” he panted, repeating those words back to you with no hesitation, as though he had been waiting to hear you say it. 

It still felt like the first time, as you had often been told was the truth with true love. You had not believed in it until you met Frederick, though even now it seemed foreign to your system. Perhaps it was that you were still in shock after plunging deep into those electric pools of blue, but you shone just as bright as the galaxies in his eyes and if this was love then you would have looked for him in every lifetime, anticipating the feeling he evoked in you the first time you met. 

He wanted you too, waded through tide pools and wept away the storm clouds in his eyes so he could see clear enough to find you. 

He clutched you to him, his rhythm faltering as he crept closer and closer to release. His moans took on a higher pitch and you savored his whimpering as the heaviness of your own release had sworn you to silence. 

At last, did he coax a moan from you and, once the dam had been broken, you were unable to silence the sounds which spilled tantalizingly from your lips like honey drizzle from spoon to teacup. 

You and Frederick were finally one with each other, two halves of a whole like a split peach fitted back together, the fruit of your consummation leaking juices from your pierced flesh. 

You devoured him, holding him close as your moans became louder and more drawn out until pleasure crashed over you like a tidal wave and plunged you into euphoria. 

Your orgasm spread outward throughout your body and your skin tingled, your core throbbing as he continued his thrusts until he released inside of you, announcing his climax with a soft cry of completion. Several short bursts of heat filled you, warming you from the inside as he came, his lips parted in sweet bliss and relief. 

His wiry, tufts of fluffy curls framed his round face and you gazed at him in amazement, in awe over what you had just done as well as his beauty. Sweat clung to his brow and he took several shuddering breaths before he was able to move again and pull out of you, taking up the spot by your side as he reached over you with one arm and brought you in against his side. 

You curled up against him, letting him place a lingering kiss on your shoulder as he held you in the dark room. Your sweaty bodies glistened, dewy, slick skin sticking to each other, a perfect testament to what had just taken place. 

Frederick’s body was a galaxy and every freckle on his skin formed a different constellation. 

You wondered idly which one were you a part of and how many ways there were to connect them. 

The graze of his nose on your arm made you turn your head to look at him and he was smiling at you as he held you. 

‘The human body is meant to hold another,’ he had told you once, ‘look at how perfectly our hands fit together…how easy it is for me to hold you in my arms.’

He was right, it seemed, for you fit perfectly against his body like you were made just for him, as though the universe crafted you as each other’s perfect lover.

There was no such thing as perfection, but what you shared was as close to that as a human being could ever get and, if Frederick had anything to do with it, he swore that he would find a way to share eternity with you even if it meant being buried with you till you were nothing more than two skeletons in each other’s arms. 

An end which did not have to be so grim, yet Frederick accepted that as a mere part of who he was. 

As he swept you into his arms now, pulled you on top of his chest as the two of you giggled and laughed like lovestruck teenagers, Frederick knew that he would do anything for you, even accept that he could not outrun his fate. 

He was a Frankenstein and some things could not be helped, but with you by his side it all became worth it and suddenly he could not understand why he had fought it so hard, other than the fact that he had something else to prove rather than letting himself be defined by the past, his fate determined by those who lived before him. 

His love for you cancelled out the afflictions to his spirit, the blows he had taken from turning a blind eye to what he only hoped now might be true. 

In this place, he would find it. 

He was on the cusp of making such a miraculous discovery, that much was he certain. 

Perhaps it should have concerned him that he was chasing something so morbid, but this dream, once realized, could mean the difference between life and death, between her heart and his. He was not doing this for the wrong reasons now, and maybe that would be enough for it to work. 

Perhaps that was the key to unlocking his grandfather’s scientific masterpiece. 

Your gentle kisses on his cheek comforted him as he slipped even deeper into thought, contemplating what he had that his colleagues did not: love. 

That was the difference. 

Science was supposed to be unbiased and supported by fact rather than feeling, but an impossibility transcended bias and factual evidence; would it not make some sliver of sense that if all things possible were supported by scientific evidence, that all things impossible were only able to be maintained by those who were bold enough to challenge science itself? 

Frederick’s peers were not led by love as he was, otherwise, it might not have been the name ‘Frankenstein’ that was known by many yet understood by few.

As you settled atop Frederick with the side of your face against his bare chest, letting the gentle rise and fall of his chest lull you as your eyelids grew heavier and heavier, you were content to be one of those few. 

Frederick held you to him, hands splayed lovingly on your back. 

He had never felt more himself than in this moment; for once in his life, he was proud of who he was. 

He did not think it would be the last time he felt that way, especially with you by his side. 

As the two of you drifted off, snuggled in the embrace of one another, you slipped into what would be and let the rest crumble away. 

You loved Frederick far too much to let yourself be consumed with worry for what was to come. 

Whatever you faced, you would face it together.

With love guiding you, nothing could come in between you, not even death. 

[snowsinterlude]

doll parts.

(coriolanus snow x bella baxter!reader)

summary: having been brought back to live recently, you seemed to have lost your memories and still had a lot to re-learn. with that being said, you were personally intrigued by whatever 'fucking' is. luckily, coriolanus knew exactly how to teach you.

based on this ask.

c.w: horror (based in frankenstein and poor things), smut, coriolanus snow, nymphomaniac behavior (on the part of reader), spitting, p in v, porn with plot, rough sex, slapping (m. recieving), overstimulation, angry sex, squirting, edging, creampie, unproctected sex, innocent reader, naïve behavior, dumbification. casca highbottom is mentioned but he's not the main focus, 'virginity' loss, there's gonna be a lot of 'of course's" here

with the shocks of the electricity running through your new brain, you had opened your eyes to the sight of casca highbottom, a scientist who wanted to prove the point that he could bring people back to life.

of course, playing god wasn't exactly allowed, but what does corruption doesn't do?

with a white curly lock in your lustrous hair being something new to your forgotten appearance, you stared at the man in front of you, whom claimed to be your father. and of course he wasn't. he wanted to prove a point; this point being that he could create the perfect woman and shape her into the submissive obedient element you were supposed to become.

you didn't like that idea, and on the first minute he looked somewhere other than you when he brought you to see the outside world, you ran away, wanting to learn whatever you had to learn without the chains that casca highbottom had you in.

it didn't took long for you to come across coriolanus snow, a renowed academy student who was always against highbottom's experiments in dead people and animals. and he was so gentle to you, probably because of your doe heterochromatic eyes (another result of highbottom's tests on your previously dead body), or probably because of your innocent smile and the way your experience with the dead of living beings was killing mosquitoes and butterflies, saying that "there is no meaning for me to let this thing live if it annoys me."

of course, he took that out of your head with the argument that "then, if i, someday end up annoying you, would you kill me?" and you seemed to thought for a long while (that was his concern and the moment he gulped down), shaking your head, but saying "if you gave me anything other than kisses and books and shelter, i would." and he laughed at the way you said that, your eyes almost jumping out of your skull, always so sickeningly wide. you were so naïve, he truly wanted to open your kull, unspool your brain and sifting through it, trying to catch and pin down whatever it was that passed through your head.

he would never do it, though. not when you looked so pretty when swallowing his spit on that same night, licking your lips after a kiss.

then, in the day before, sitting on the couch on his studies, you looked at the page of the book you were leavmfing through, you saw an image of a woman and a man's silhouette. taking advantage of the few things highbottom teached you, you read outloud:

"mis...sio...neh...ry" of course, you still had a lot of difficulty reading, but nothing that could cause harm, coriolanus still tried his best to teach you how to read. he was always so... kind. you wanted to eat him up. but pretty things sometimes are accessories that can't go into your stomach, and that's what coriolanus told you when you tried eating a ladybug, claiming she was too cute for you not to eat it. "coryo,"

"yes, doll?" he asked, reading the papers he had on his hands.

"what is missionary sex?" that caught him off guard.

so now, after explaining how it worked and why it existed, the platinum blonde man finished by saying it could bring pleasure to your body, but it was mainly used for reproduction purposes.

you didn't really care about that last part, the second you heard him talking about 'pleasure', you immediatly got up, almost abruptly walking to him, your bare feet stepping on whatever it had on the ground, the skirt of your dress, that he got used to seeing you without, the shows you were supposed to wear to an early party that you never put on, his jacket, some papers, and finally, you were in front of him.

"i wanna do it," you voiced, taking the papers out of his hand "i wanna do it with you." and "i wanna have missionary with you." you said, eyes wide open to stare at him, you almost never blinkedat all.

"it's sex, doll. missionary is just a position." he said, laughing. though the thought of you riding him made his dick throb.

"position?" you asked, cocking your head to the side. "then there's more?" he nodded to you.

"there are much more positions on the kamasutra than pages on the bible." he said, and you smiled happily, your teeth showing up as well as your voice echoed:

"show me." you said "sex me- fuck, is fucking, right? fuck me. in the positions of the kamasutra." you said.

and god, he was so happy to take you by the waist, kiss you and lead your leg to wrap around his waist.

it didn't took many minutes for you to be without your bloomers, your panties put aside for him to grind his cock on your cunt, teasing you, and you didn't knew, but you felt like you were soaked up in something sticky- your wetness. "t-that's not missionary," you moaned, bucking your hips back at his teasing moves.

"you're right," he answered, groaning as he kissed your frowning face. "that's the clasp position, doll." with his hands on your waist, and yours on his shoulders, he finally penetrated you, earning a long moan out of your mouth.

you weren't a virgin, though you didn't know that, you used to have a husband on your previous life before you died, but you were never satisfied and you have never been- not until he slowly thrusted inside your pussy, making you feel every inch of his dick inside you.

"fuck!" you cried, a cry without tears as you undid the buttons of his shirt.

"what is it?" he asked, a moan leaving his throat as you ripped the shirt and bite his neck, too impatient to unbutton all of the buttons that were prohibiting you from seeing his body.

"i wanna see you," you moaned, slowly bucking your hips back, mouth agape as you let a rude moan leave your head "i wanna see your body."

he chuckled at your words, his hands still holding your body to keep you still as he fucked you. however, it wasn't bad, but you wanted to see how it would feel if it was fast.

"f-faster, please. just wanna see- s-see how it feels." you pleaded, your eyesight blurry as you looked down, seeing how your bare pussy took him in so well, almost devouring him into you.

he promptly obeyed you, going faster and deeper, a moan leaving your throat as his skin slapped against yours. and to see you squirming under him felt like heaven- a sight that no one but him could capture.

even when your walls squeezed his cock and you came around him, your pussy gushing around him, your stamina was still higher than his, which led to you edging him, not letting him cum until you felt so tired that you'd be passed out by his side.

which didn't happen for a long time. for at least six rounds, you were still edging him, slapping him every time he was ready to cum. you didn't allow it.

and by now, you were riding him non-stop, your eyes shut closed as you yourself abused your cunt on his cock, who throbbed painfully and made him throw his head back when he finally cummed inside you, stuffing you rope after rope.

"hey!" you called out slapping his chest, as he still gripped his nails on your skin, marking small crescent moon phases on your skin. he looked at you with an angry frown. "i don't wanna stop just now! i want more!" you said, not caring about his growling state, you thought it looked cute on him.

"god, you're terrible." he grunted, changing positions. "just this one more time and it's over." you nodded, agreeing with him as he finally slapped your clit, making you mewl and squirm under him. "see? you're too sensible, if we keep going," he thrusted "you're gonna have a difficult time walking straight."

"i can always dance." you said, legs spread to let him pound into you. he chuckled, slapping your thigh.

"let's see." he kissed you with a slight open mouth, his tongue battling with yours as he thrusted into you, letting you be a pillow princess for once in the day as you scarred his back with your nails, his pace was quicker than before, probably quicker than yours, and it made you melt entirely, your breathing became heavy and rapid.

when he pinched your clit, you felt strangely dumber, moaning into the kiss that was soon broke apart.

he spit into your mouth, his eyes boring into yours. "swallow it." and you did, crying from the pleasure as he rubbed your clit. "good girl, doll." he smiled.

"d-don't stop, coryo, please. just a bit more and i'll cum- i-i promise i'll let you rest after!" you mewled, squirming as he pound into you.

"hm, i don't know, doll. when i said i wanted to cum you didn't really allowed me to. why should i allow you?" he asked, pecking your temple.

"please. please! i can't hold it in!" you said, your boobs bouncing into the corset you were still wearing. he got rid of it in the blink of an eye, and you didn't even noticed where it had gone, too focused on the pleasure in between your legs as you cried.

he smiled to the view of your body. of course there was a bunch of scars there and there that were already healed, specially the one that connected your neck, but it didn't really mattered to his dick, neither to him. he loved just how doe eyed you were, how dumbly you asked about things and how you didn't questioned him more than once about something, like now.

"i-i'm sorry, i-i just wanted more. i didn't thought about your pleasure- s-sorry, please, let me cum! pleease!!"

"hm. no" he said, grabbing your ass and kissing your temple oh so kindly as he fucked you raw. "let's see how long you will last since you were so hungry for it."

and you didn't last much, just likenhe thought. the more you concentreated on the feeling of his dick on your cunt and the way his balls slapped against your ass, the closer you were to cumming again, and you did just after he came inside you again, smiling dumbly at him as you squirt on his cock, too sensitive from your previous orgasms.

"i'm sorry, coryo" you said, still teary eyed as you hugged him, hand pawing at his chest.

"for?" he frowned, he had already pulled his trousers up, guarding his dick into the fabric.

"f...for edging you, 'm sorry." you said, sleepy and pouty. he chuckled.

"it's okay," he said, caressing your head "at least you said sorry."

and you slept the most comfortable sleep of your post-mortem life, even drooling a bit on his chest, but he loved you just too much to do something about your innocent, naïve nature other than love and cherish it.

[an-aura-about-you]

lying on my couch eating chips and wondering when people will give me money for my brilliant idea(the local symphony orchestra should do one of those live movie soundtrack nights with Megamind)

[stalkerthetiger]

Learning that a show I watched as a child was from the 30s and 40s is quite remarkable

[wereshrew-admirer]

(chine realizes😝 he can ask 🔥for other, bigger 🍆, things💗)

(sorry)

Chine has a lot of valuable life lessons to give, actually

[probablyasocialecologist]

Mary Shelley’s 1818 novel Frankenstein is not, of course, an example of the imperial gothic but instead a still relevant anti-Enlightenment fable. If a novel ever illustrated how the sleep of reason begets monsters, it is Shelley’s story of how a scientist’s urge to create artificial life leads to utter destruction. However, in Universal Studios’s 1931 Frankenstein, the many pertinent philosophical issues that the original gothic novel explores reshape into thinly veiled imperial gothic through the introduction of a eugenic and highly racialised discourse that changes the monster from a rightfully vengeful and eminently intelligent being into an atavistic criminal. In its Hollywood guise, the monster is not a tragic, lonesome and then understandably vengeful product of unethical science but instead a reincarnation of the degenerate criminal whose brain the monster is provided with in the film. This takes on a peculiarly American dynamics in the movie. As Elizabeth Young suggests in Black Frankenstein: The Making of an American Metaphor (2008), a connection between the monster and the supposedly primitive black American was made as early as during the immediate post-Civil War period when ‘the “hideous progeny” of Shelley’s novel was symbolically reborn in racist parody as the symbol of the miscegenated nation’. An important reference to American Reconstruction history is also the ending of the movie. Instead of escaping to the North Pole, as is the case in Shelley’s novel, the monster is exorcised by what amounts to a lynch mob. In Frankenstein the movie, as in the American South, justice is done by the people on the spot; by ‘lynch law’. The violation of the sanctified space and body of Frankenstein’s fiancée, Elizabeth, as much as the accidental drowning of the little girl, justifies this public rage in the eyes of the movie audience. This is the end that comes to those who dare violate the purity of white women, or oppose the progress of modernity in any form, be they black Americans in the South, Native Americans on the reservations or unruly natives in the Philippines. Like so many lynching victims, Frankenstein dies in flames. In this way, the discursive conditions that informed the British colonial enterprise as well as the racism that structured black and white relations in the US permeate Frankenstein. The childlike and aggressive monster is an example of the kind of human category that can never ‘possess the intelligence to make a rational choice of political allegiance’, as Lansing put it. In addition to this, the audience is also free to imagine an alternative narrative in which Fritz never drops the jar with the ‘normal’ brain to the floor. It is not science or faith in modernity that Frankenstein fears, it is atavism. The resolution to the crisis that atavism constitutes is the sad but necessary violence of the lynch mob. When the monster has been burned, the movie can end with the happy union of the film’s central white couple.

Johan Anders Höglund, The American Imperial Gothic: Popular Culture, Empire, Violence

[endemise]

✻ DEMO

→ Latest Update: Prologue — 3 February 2024

17+ The Fall of House Black — A gothic, supernatural, mystery interactive fiction story. Lightly inspired by The Fall of the House of Usher and Frankenstein media. (Work in Progress)

Synopsis has mentions of death and suicide. See extended content warnings below.

The fall of House Black, your house, was an imminent thing. A name had never been so cursed that all it could do was bring about death.

First, your younger sister in a swimming accident, then your older brother in a case of mistaken identity. As the rest of your family sought to grieve and bring justice to your brother, your older sister was killed in a hunting accident at the end of your father’s bow.

The three of you, mother, father, and child, became inconsolable. Broken beyond repair. Your mother unable to bear the weight of life any longer took her own while your father disappeared, gone into the night. When you remain the sole survivor of House Black, you know you must leave, and on the night of your decision, your home goes up in flames with you inside.

Then, you awake, dazed with no recollection of anything, and when you look down at your body, you scream. It is wrong. So wrong.

Play as a reanimated, customizable character.

Learn how to be a person again.

Try to survive in a society that fears the unknown.

Develop relationships. (4 ROs: All gender-selectable + 1 secret RO)

Aid in the investigation of your family’s untimely deaths.

Learn about your family’s curse.

Aesop/Almira Hammond | Detective | 36 Years Old | RO

A is an observant and clever person, stoic in nature. They put their all into their work, striving to find the truth in every case. They take on the case of your family’s sudden deaths despite pushback from others. It was an occurrence of events all too strange, and they are determined to figure it out.

Cyprian/Cecilia Atterton | Writer | 28 Years Old | RO

C is an imaginative and creative person, quiet in nature. They write not only from their own experiences, but the experiences of others as well. They are interviewing people about House Black, intending on writing a book about your family’s ill fate and eventual demise.

Sebastian/Sabina Farwell | Doctor | 34 Years Old | RO

S is an intelligent and kind person, caring in nature. They are a most trusted doctor, hardworking and honest. They were the young doctor that tried to help your father and sister. They helped without question, never calling your family cursed as you so often were.

Elias/Elosia Osborne | Coroner | 30 Years Old | RO

E is an empathetic and hardworking person, cheerful in nature. They put their heart into their work, aiming to bring closure to people as swiftly as possible. They are the one who investigated and confirmed the death of your elder sister. They never could for you though.

Unknown | ??? | ??? | RO

A secret. Who knows when they will appear.

SUBJECT TO CHANGE

Mentions of death, child death, suicide, violence, blood, injury, burning alive, body horror, mutilation, slight gore, amnesia

asks are welcomed!

DISCLAIMER

this is a demo/work in progress. everything is subject to change until the final version. it is by no means a finished or polished work.

LINKS

✻ demo | same one, just another link

✻ itch.io | my creator page

✻ @ethersic | my main, art, etc. blog

INFO

word count w/o code: 6.3k

made with tweego + vscode + sugarcube

[naofairy]

Haikyuu!! June fic recs

Happy July everyone! Honestly I am so surprised that I still haven’t run out of fic recs, I love whenever I stumble upon a really great fic or when I see my favourite authors post something new! Here are my favourite fics that I had the pleasure of reading in June! I hope something in this list will pique your interest!

As always, remember to support these wonderful writers with kudos and comments! Be mindful of the ratings and tags!

sakuatsu

soft landing in a crater heart by discokonomi

Again, until it's perfect. by fairycake

Miya Atsumu, Adored By All (loved by some) by honest_pebble

frankenstein's monster by starbeyy

bokuaka

How I’m Imagining Him by Novus_deusz

I'll Always Be With You (Even When We're Far Apart) by Fawn_Eyed_Girl

venus tonight by eldureira

ushiten

Like a Sunflower Unto the Sun by discokonomi

The years shall run like rabbits by ladyoflalaland

daisuga

Soulmake Adventures by KingsHighway

drop in the ocean by Mooifyourecows

The Rules by semipeaceful

kagehina

Silver Linings by KarmaHope

An Atmosphere Enveloped by Young Love by sailorkooks

Pinion by KarmaHope

getting to know you by emleewrites

MSBY

The MSBY Black Jackals Read Thirst Tweets by cherry_apples22

Akaashi & Udai

werewolves coming into the light of day by eurydicees

my fic recs masterlist

[bimbo-baggins17]

kinktober req, james kelly with the sfw picking out costumes prompt. i just imagine him being the older boyfriend being dragged along to pick out a costume he didn’t want then ends up LOVING it.

This one was really sweet oh my goshhhhh. Accurate description of how he’d be though tbh

James sighs, letting you drag him into Spirit Halloween. He didn’t care to dress up. Honestly he hadn’t since he was a young kid with Frankie but he’d do anything to keep the smile that he loves so much on your face.

You lead him to the adult costumes side and scan the choices. “Hmm..I don’t think you should be Michael Myers. You already wear a mechanic uniform so it wouldn’t be much of a costume.” You say.

He nods his head. Honestly if you let him, he’d just grab one of his spare ones and smear fake blood on it and call it a day. He won’t ruin your fun though.

“We could always match? Ooo! Or you could go as Jason Voorhees at least,” You list off a few more costume ideas before turning to look at him, “What do you think Jamie?”

James was only half listening so he just shrugs. “Whatever you want, pretty girl. Doesn’t matter to me.”

You huff, “You weren’t even listening were you?”

James gives you a guilty look and shakes his head a little, “Not really..no..I’m sorry. Dressing up just ain’t my thing.” Your lips turn down into a small frown and he immediately feels bad. That wasn’t his intention. “I’ll let you pick whatever you want.” He offers.

Slowly you nod your head and then re-examine the choices in front of you, humming in thought. “How about we match?”

That’s even cheesier than just dressing up but for you he’d do it, if it meant seeing you smile so he nods. “Alright. Lay it on me then. What am I being lassoed into?”

You pluck the costume package off the hook and hold it up for him, grinning happily. “This!”

Frankenstein’s monster. “You want me to go as a green oaf?” James questions with an amused smile.

You roll your eyes, “No, he’s not an oaf. Just misunderstood. Like you.”

He takes the package into his calloused hands and turns it over, looking at the contents. “I ain’t wearing a mask.” He states.

Your smile returns. He was actually giving in. “That’s fine, I’ll put some black on your eyes, put a couple stitches on ya and you can wear the neck bolts.”

He sighs again but nods his head almost reluctantly. “Alright alright. What’re you being then?”

You pick up another packaged costume and show it to him. “The bride of Frankenstein.” **IGNORE MY PROFILE PICTURE OKAY**

He looks between the two. “Is there a euphemism here I’m missing?” He asks with a small smirk.

“Only that we are perfectly imperfect and made for one another.” You say softly looking up at him before you lean on your tiptoes, giving him a sweet kiss. “Now c’mon you big oaf, let’s go check out.”

[starrysvn]

angel | park seonghwa

pairing: fem!reader x non idol!park seonghwa

genre: soulmate au

word count: 3.5k

warnings: mentions of food, fluff

playlist: inception - ateez, francesca - hozier, unknown/nth - hozier

networks: @cromernet

author’s note: happiest birthday to my lovely star bai @hwaightme , i love you more than words can say <3 i hope today has been filled with nothing but happiness and laughter and love. thank you for being a precious friend and my partner in delulu. ilysm, sending the biggest warmest hugs <33333 please enjoy this delulu frankenstein

masterlist | navi

“Are you quite sure we should be doing this?” 

The night was drawing to an end, and so was your wit. You could no longer stand to be in the suffocating ballroom, the amount of people spinning around was making you dizzy to the point of nausea. That was when he offered you a way out, seeing you struggle to maintain composure while sitting all alone.

“Absolutely not,” you heard the smirk in his voice while he led you out to the garden, sure you were following after him.

“How irresponsible of you to draw a young lady away to a dark secluded corner of a garden,” he laughed. “Should I be fearing for my life?”

When he stopped walking you almost ran into him, looking around to see you standing in the heart of the English Garden of the palace. During the night it was almost dreadful, as opposed to its beauty in the daytime, if it weren’t for the few scattered lights. 

“Not at all,” he turned, but you couldn’t see his face. The thought confused you only for a second, for you knew this man. You trusted him with your life. He reached for your hand, holding it in his warmer one. “Not long, now.”

“Not long,” you whispered back, your surroundings slowly fading as he pressed his lips to yours. 

Sometimes it was more than just a dream, you could feel it in your bones. It lingered during the day, the unshakable conviction that it was all true. That it had been true. It could not have been just your mind making up the ballroom dancing, whispered poems and a soft piano echoing during a sunny afternoon. So you wrote it all down in letters you kept under your bed. Most times the dreams had already escaped your memory, so all there was were jumbled thoughts scribbled quickly before even those could fade away. Other times, you woke up in the middle of the night, so convinced you were still there, still surrounded by warmth and love you never dared imagine could exist. Your hand blindly reached for the notebook you kept on your nightstand, chasing after the vivid imagery in your head. 

The words you kept closer to your heart were the ones he whispered one night, you could hear vivid chatter from somewhere far away and the evening breeze making goosebumps erupt on your skin. But he was there, standing tall and faceless beside you, his hand guiding yours to his lips. 

“Farewell, my angel,” he had whispered against your knuckles before you woke up. 

In shades of dark and moonlight, you waited for the distinct feeling of the lingering feather-like kiss to vanish, both hoping it would and wishing it wouldn’t. Alone in your bed you hesitated to turn and reach for the notebook like you usually would; you had the feeling you could never forget the way his voice spoke the words that made every hair stand on ends. 

And you never did, for each night you would be in his company in dreamland and, each night, he would call you his angel. He showed you a world of colors, of hushed whispers in the dark, a warm murmur by your ear as he enveloped you in his arms. It was all you ever wished to hear in the daylight rather than just inside your head. 

It was another day waking up itching to know more, wanting to know if you were going insane or if this was the twisted way in which fate had decided to assign you your soulmate. All you had ever had were dreams that made no sense, yet gave you hope. Even when you did not know where to start, if to even dare at all.

There was little you could do, really, except live in a dream. Because even as you made your way down a busy street, en route to work, chopped away whatever you needed for lunch or dinner, every other thought was stuck on him. This illusion of a perfect man who faded as moonlight gave way to another day. Sometimes it felt so real that it was hard to discern from reality itself. The phantom brush of a hand, the faint memory of a scribbled note, of his contagious laughter. It was as if you could hear them, as if they refused to go and stay where they belonged. 

But you couldn’t live in a dream, could you? You could hold out for however long it took, but you could not give up life in the meantime. 

“I swear, just trust me!” Your colleague would not give up. The constant nagging had become almost unbearable, so much so that it made you want to give in. “One date and if it sucks, I’ll leave you alone forever, I pinky promise.”

The copier rapidly dished out the papers you needed to bring back to your desk, giving you the perfect excuse not to look up at San. You sighed, he had been on a mission to get you to go out with this guy for a while now. He swore up and down that you two were destined, but you usually were able to dissuade your colleague pretty fast. Not today, it seemed. 

“Listen,” busying yourself counting the copies, you won another few short seconds before the time came to face San’s begging eyes. “Just one coffee?” 

“Please, please, believe me you guys would be perfect togeth- hold up,” smile opening up on his lips, eyes shiny and wide, San almost did a double take. “Are you saying yes?”

Sighing again, you fiddled with the top corner of your papers - that you were now hugging to your chest - before nodding. 

“One date,” you agreed, holding up your pointer finger right in front of his face. “And you have to stay near in case he’s weird and I need to escape.”

Proud of the conditions you laid down, you watched as San furiously nodded along, albeit a little offended that you’d think I’d set you up with some random weirdo. Thus, he ran back to his desk, murmuring about texting his friend. You let out one last sigh before returning to your station, too. 

You hoped you’d made the right choice. 

The first hints of autumn were making themselves known, a cooler breeze than usual surprising you as it caressed your face upon walking out the glass doors, the sun already on its way to set. You hid your face a little further into the scarf around your neck, walking out of your workplace beside San. 

It had been a week since you gave into his pleading and he’d been very secretive about the infamous date. You were starting to worry. Maybe his friend had said no? Or was he planning something elaborate? Was he not saying anything because, really, this friend of his truly was just some weirdo?

You were pulled out of your thoughts by San himself, catching him wave and say something along the lines of there he is. He quickly found your elbow, gently hitting it with his, snapping you back to reality. You barely caught any detail of the man walking towards the two of you.

“Alright, that is the friend I was telling you about,” your head snapped into San’s direction, eyes wide as saucers. “Looks like you’re going on a date.” 

Your friend was smiling his Cheshire grin, making you want to wipe it clean off his face.

“Choi San, this is an ambush!” You yelped, alarmed by his quiet giggling and eyebrow wiggling. “High treason even, could you not warn me at least-”

“Hi.”

Stood there, wrapped in a warm looking coat, was quite possibly the most gorgeous man you had ever seen. His smile was timid but friendly and his eyes were just as bright and warm, reflecting the lights from the lamppost. A few strands of wavy, chocolate hair fell delicately just above them.

“Well, I’ll leave you guys now, have fun!” 

Oh, you were going to kill San.

“Hi,” you greeted, eyes leaving the retreating figure of your friend to focus back on the man in front of you. 

“I’m Seonghwa, San’s friend,” he smiled again, melting your heart a little just by the sound of his voice. “It’s nice to meet you and I apologize for the suddenness of this all… it appears he didn’t need help with document boxes after all.”

“He sure didn’t,” you tried to keep the bitterness out of your voice, for it was San’s brilliant planning that landed you here, not his friend’s. So, you introduced yourself as well, suggesting to go to your favorite cafè just around the corner and trying to take the surprise blind date in stride. 

“It’s the only place I could think of,” you said, almost apologetic as you sat down. Truth was, the little hole in the wall cafè was special to you. It housed memories of tranquil mornings where you got there early enough to sit down for a coffee before work, joyous lunches with friends to celebrate achievements, quiet afternoons spent in the company of your favorite books. Your feet had taken you here on auto-pilot. 

“It’s lovely,” his smile could melt snow, you figured right then and there, after he’d looked around with curious eyes to the unique decor and shelves of literature, poems and papers.

Seonghwa was just as San had described him, after all. He made sure to open the door for you as you entered the cafè, he asked your order so he could go up to the register while you found a table you liked and even offered to pay. He was charming and a great listener, and he had managed to make you laugh until tears pooled in your eyes. It was so warm to be around him, easy to talk to as if you’d known him your whole life, almost as perfect as two puzzle pieces fitting together. 

When it was time to leave you almost didn’t want to. You wanted to stay there with him and keep talking, keep sharing your interests and favorites, exist inside the cozy bubble that had formed around you two. So, with the promise of another date and Seonghwa insisting to at least walk you to the nearest bus stop, you went home. 

“I’ll see you soon,” he said, taking you by surprise when he dipped down to land a kiss on your cheek before you could get on the bus. It stayed with you, making you feel like a teenager all over again. 

You went through the motions of preparing dinner and getting ready for bed as if floating on a cloud, barely believing you had it in you to feel so light. And if, while laying down on your bed with the lights off, you had felt so full of hope for something good, happiness and giddiness enough to make you giggle to yourself, then you woke up the following morning as empty as ever. A foreign hollow in your chest, that you had trouble identifying, was steadily painting everything gray, from the breakfast you made to the commute home. It was only then, sitting on the bus staring out to the traffic, that you realized you hadn’t dreamt of him that night. For the first night ever, you weren’t chasing after his fading figure. 

Each night you went to bed hoping to hear his voice and see on which adventure sleep would take you. Then, each morning you woke up well rested and clear-headed: no more piecing together the fragments of dreams you couldn’t remember, no more trying hard to see the face of the man that made you feel loved. Months of empty nights went by until, with time, you even forgot to remember him unless you stumbled upon your notebook. 

“You seem quiet today,” Seonghwa piped up, still browsing through the vinyls in front of him. 

“I was just thinking,” you shrugged, making your way over to him and taking his hand in yours. His smile, soft and contagious, made your heart flutter. Still focused on his search, now led with one hand only, he intertwined your fingers. It was at times like these, when he would kiss the back of your hand, that you wondered.  

“About what?” 

Finally, he looked at you, eyes bright and welcoming and saying what his words hid: you can tell me anything. You just shook your head, smiling back at him, shrugging as if the wandering thought didn’t lie heavy on your head whenever it knocked on the doors of your consciousness. 

“Alright, then, I have a surprise for you,” he pulled you away from the vinyl stand, almost as giddy as you felt, and into the busier paths of the market. Under string lights that festively shone, between the other passersby, it was easy to feel like you were the only two people in the world. That’s how Seonghwa made you feel; in his presence, living life was easier. If he was holding your hand, you were sure you could face any hurdles that may come. It was a feeling so real that you could almost taste it in his sweet kisses, his loving embrace, and no longer only dream of. 

As he dragged you - arm lazily thrown on your shoulders or hand on the small of your back if too many people forced you two to walk in line - remnant, persisting memories almost made you dizzy with deja vu. His hand squeezing yours to make sure you were still following, to tell you he was still there, his voice pointing out whatever caught his attention as you passed by, the wintry breeze and the cacophony of voices, laughs, faraway music surrounding you. 

“Here we are,” you almost bumped into his back when he stopped and stood facing the cafè that held the memory of your first date.

“It’s closed,” you pointed out, hearing his chuckle shortly after.

“Good thing I’ve got the keys,” he jingled them in the space between the two of you, a proud smile on his lips. You cocked your head to the side, brows furrowed. 

“You’ll see.” 

Seonghwa made quick work of opening up and leading you in, turning on the softer lights, leaving the sign on “closed”. As if on autopilot, you wandered around the room to the one table that had caught your eye. On it, laid few of your favorite pastries and pictures of you together, a colorful bouquet in the middle. 

“Seonghwa… what’s all this?” 

“Happy birthday,” his arms embraced you, bringing you to rest your back against his chest, holding you close. Speechless, you turned around in his hold, ready to speak but the words wouldn’t come. “I know you said you were working and were probably going to go home and do something on the weekend, but I didn’t want to just text you happy birthday and go about my day. Today is your day and you’re very special to me and I wanted to do something to wish you-”

You kissed him - interrupting his rambling and pulling him closer - gently like his arms were around your waist, warm like your cheeks and slow as if you had all the time in the world. 

“Thank you,” you whispered against his lips, hands still playing with soft strands of his hair. “You didn’t have to.”

“But I wanted to,” he pecked your lips once again before sliding away from you and pulling out the chair for you to sit. As he did, another confused memory swirled in your head. You pushed it away. Sitting in front of you, Seonghwa asked about your day and let you ramble on and on, so you asked about his, too. He left his hand out on the table for you to hold, so you did, not missing the way he quickly hid a smile after you intertwined your fingers. Whenever he was close to you, Seonghwa wondered if you could tell how furiously his heart was beating in his chest; be it by brushing your finger against his pulse or resting your head against it. 

When he deemed dinner over, he pulled out of its box a little cake and stuck a candle right in the middle of it for you to blow out - only after he’d sang happy birthday to you. Seonghwa found the way you covered your blushing cheeks with your hands the most adorable thing you could ever do. He seemed antsy, itching even, to give you your present, though. So you pushed the platter with your slice of cake aside. 

“You could’ve finished,” he pouted, making you laugh over the rustling of a paper bag.

“You looked like you were about to explode, Hwa,” you accepted his present, wrapped pristine and precise, insisting that he didn’t have to. He kept on saying he wanted to (and also, what kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t?).

A smile so bright it rivaled the sun opened up on your lips, seeing the art cover of your favorite artist’s album peeking from the torn wrapping paper. 

“Is this why you were hogging the stand earlier?” You beamed at him, who sat with wide eyes hanging by your every word. You could tell his leg was bouncing. 

“I couldn’t have you buy it when I got it for you,” he brought a hand up to scratch the back of his neck, a nervous habit of his you’d noticed, with a sheepish smile. You stood and, on the way to the record player of the shop, you kissed his cheek, murmuring a soft thank you. It was a look you wished to forever have engraved in your mind, the one he gave you when you offered him your hand to take, asking if you could have this dance. 

Seonghwa stood as if in a trance, nodding his head, only for you to guide him where less tables were. He pulled you close once again, slowly swaying to the beat of his fluttering heart or the music, he wasn’t sure. Time and time again he’d asked himself, in his time with you, how could he have been so lucky to meet you. To somehow hold your attention for long enough to make you see him, care for him. For you to want him to be this close to you. He hoped you’d allow him to be forever.

He twirled you around and waited for you to land back in his arms, feeling as dizzy as he often was when you found yourself there. 

“Thank you,” you whispered, cheek resting against his chest.

“Please, don’t thank me, my angel,” he whispered back, freezing time. 

The first time he’d called you angel, your heart had leapt from you. And yet, it wasn’t then and there, but back in your dreams. You didn’t know whether you were breathing still, all you knew was that when you looked up, Seonghwa was already searching for your eyes. 

“Say that again,” your voice was barely above a whisper, just as fragile as a piece of glass. 

“My angel,” his was too, broken by emotion and you had a feeling you knew just why. Seonghwa’s hands came to cup your cheeks, eyes drinking you in as if it were the first time. Perhaps it was, because you were looking at him like you finally found who you had been looking for. Like you could finally see the face that had populated your dreams. 

“It’s you,” it sounded crazy, absolutely mad to say something like that, but when he nodded back with unshed tears in his eyes, you knew. Seonghwa’s arms were quick to hug you to him once more, holding close like he never had before. Both your figures were shaken by sobs, but your hearts were being mended. Behind your eyelids, scenes of you through time played; all your dreams finally making sense as memories of past lives spent together, consumed by a love so fierce that it found you in every life. 

 “I can’t believe I found you again,” Seonghwa whispered as your sobs died down. He was still holding you, in the middle of the cafè while the music played, as if he were afraid you’d vanish. 

“I can,” you sniffled. “I dreamed of you for so long, I should’ve known…” 

“I thought I was going out of my mind,” his watery laugh pulled a chuckle out of you. “I longed for the day I’d see you again.”The record had gone quieter, maybe because there was only so little you could focus on when you finally were in the arms of your soulmate. There was no need for words, not now. Not when you could feel the love pouring out of your fingertips. Not when Seonghwa was placing kisses on the tears running down your cheeks, your temples, your forehead, your lips. Not when his whispered my angel made up for the time you’d spent apart. All this running around in circles every night, chasing after figments of what you thought could only be your imagination had finally brought him to you. You both laughed at destiny for making you dream for so long, secure in the newfound conviction that you’d be together no matter where it brought you.

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Could you do a yandere Idia, Malleus, and Floyd with a darling who acts like Jane Doe from ride the cyclone? (If you can’t do this I understand!)

I liked the play

and I love her ballad

🖤🖤🖤🖤

Jane Doe Reader | Yandere Twisted Wonderland

(Y/n) (L/n) is known best for your stiff motions and disconcerting observations. Usually met with fear, impervious to insults you don’t understand, and often forgetting your name you certainly become a person of interest to many. And the many that get to know you realize you’re not nearly as frightening as they perceived nor do you mean to be creepy just confused. Unfortunately for them the more people who begin to realize this about you tend to get closer to you. Not on their watch:

Idia Shroud

“You know what I think is scary? That a bear who happened upon some cocaine started eating and became addicted. What stopped the bear was not his desire to use the energy he got from this new prey but because he died. It disturbs me how far addiction can disguise the hand of death.”

“If this is some round-about way to tell me to stop gaming then I don’t buy it.”

He’s not as off-put when he realizes you don’t fit into that ‘normie’ category

Nor do you fit in his slot as an ultimate gamer

Well he can fix that really fast

It starts with putting a controller in your hand

And he slowly finds he doesn’t get nervous around you…for awhile

He still finds his hair alighting in pink flames when your cheeks touch as he governs you over your shoulder

Or how he overheats at your willingness to follow his menial acts for your friendship affection

“Y-yeah n-normal friends sit very close no matter the setting!”

“Like this?”

“Y-yeah!”

“And I should wrap my arms around your waist like this?”

“Y-yup!”

And you are none the wiser when you’re practicing all his lessons with others that he’s watching with absolute rage

So like the game master, he is he keeps his eyes on the field having cameras anywhere and everywhere watching your every awkward movement

Fanboying when he gets the perfect angle of you curiously tilting your head

And for the trash NPCs that bother you him+ he’s using his technical prowess to put them six feet under

“Ha, stupid NPC they really thought I’d let that slide?! Fat chance.”

Malleus Draconia

“Would you like to brush my doll’s hair?”

“I would like to but it seems her head is missing.”

“Hmmm, that reminds me of something.”

“Oh? How so?”

“I’m sure I can–” 

*Detaches head from body Frankenstein style*

“Oh yes I still can.”

“Oh my–”

Not only do you have no fear of him but you are the most interesting character he has the pleasure of meeting

You're so unorthodox he’s never bored

Not that he ever would be

He truly falls when your blunt affection for him as friend lover+ stirs something deeper in him

He can’t begin to imagine life without you being beside

Him learning from him and freely sharing your observations

And despite many others cringing at your creepy statements

He delights in them

“It truly is horrific how easily guinea pigs decide to cannibalize their young.”

“Haha! Yes, that is true. If you were in their place would you do the same? I ask because I can relate to the jealousy of the male. I would rather keep you to myself for all eternity.”

He doesn’t hide his affections and immediately dives into courting you 

And you don’t have the knowledge to turn him away though

But should any unfortunate interloper put it lightly on your radar that you don’t have to accept

He’s smiting them then and there

“See. (Y/n)? He says such negative things and the lightning struck him immediately after. It is only the balance of cause and effect.”

Floyd Leech

“(Y/nnnn)!”

“....”

“(YYYYY/nnnnn)!”

“....”

“(YYYYY/NNNN)!!!!

“Ah, that is what I’m called…right?”

“Hmmmm nope, your name is Shrimpy!”

He’s had the most fun with you in a long time

Anything with you around is fun

Whether its because everyone’s reactions are fun when you talk 

Or how you make people run perfect for an ambush

To say he gets angry at your occupied attention is an understatement

It's more than joy 

its you 

your his, his territory, his name-forgetting shrimpy that belongs to him

“Your eyes are nice.”

“Ahah that’s cute Shrimpy! I share them with Jade!” 

“They’re wild…like that of a carnivorous predator. The kind that gut their prey while still alive.”

“Awww Shrimpy! Marry me.”

If it isn’t a given that he squeezes anyone who diverts your attention

But he can’t help but decide you don’t need to move at all from his reach

[canyousonicme]

Frankenstein: The Read with Alex Kingston

Alex Kingston breathes life into Mary Shelley’s gothic masterpiece.

A young and gifted student, Victor Frankenstein, develops a secret technique to “infuse a spark of being” into lifeless matter - but his unorthodox scientific experiment backfires. His Creation is not the perfect specimen he imagines that it will be, but rather a hideous creature who is rejected by Victor and the world at large.

Written more than 200 years ago, and published when Mary Shelley was just 20, the story of Frankenstein and his monster still resonates today: a classic horror story and a tragic romance which examines the battle between ambition and morality.

This performance reading by Bafta-nominated Kingston is an abridgement which preserves the hard-hitting and politically charged aspects of Shelley's original writing, as well as her unflinching wit and strong female voice.

A Rural Studios production for BBC Four and BBC iPlayer. It is directed by Rachel Lambert, produced by Julie Colman. The Executive Producer is Grant Black and the commissioner for BBC Arts is Stephen James-Yeoman.

BBC Four on 3 March at 7.55pm to 9pm

[mswyrr]

an object in motion wishes to stay in motion: corrupt societies and the Capitol adults in THG

I wrote about here and here that I think of Ballad as a powerful depiction of the acculturation of a young person into a corrupt society. IMO, the quote from Frankenstein Collins chooses to start the book with very much supports that view. Coriolanus is still in formation, on the cusp of adulthood. He's deciding who he will be and his choices are all shaped by his society. But I think it also shows us, through the adults, what that looks like once it's become ossified. The adults show us why these books are about teenagers and their agency in how they treat other kids, rather than the adults.

They've become such a part of the perverse incentive structures of their society that they act them out almost thoughtlessly. Even Highbottom, who hates what he's done, sees no other choice besides slowly killing himself with morphling as he nonetheless perpetuates this thing.

In that sense, while the adults are responsible for what they do in shaping the next generation--and, with Snow, actually helping shape someone who will make things worse--they're acting out decisions made long ago. They help create a future that is in keeping with the sins they, in their turn, chose when they were young. And it's all for nothing; within a short period of time, this system will become so hollow that a slip of a girl with a bow can light the spark that sets it ablaze. It won't even outlive this child they're shaping. There's an overtone of dramatic irony to all of it.

1-Highbottom is a morphling addict who is rarely, possibly never, sober. When he looks at the child in front of him, all he sees is Coriolanus' father. There IS a possibility for things to go better - but he's so absorbed in the horror of a decade of watching children die due to his idea (an idea he NEVER meant to be realized) he can't see it, he won't do anything but push things further.

He's given up on life and just drags himself through the day, lashing out at the image of a man he hates in the face of a child. He is not capable--he has made himself and been made incapable--of the self-awareness and inner strength to change this story. That's partly why his death has bitter dramatic irony too it: Coriolanus kills him with the morphling he was slowly killing himself with anyway.

2-Strabo Plinth is a war criminal and an arms manufacturer who refuses to really connect with his own son, his only child. If he did, he'd have to look at what he is and what he's done. In many ways, his son is lost before his death because Strabo refuses to see; he wants the resources and power of the Capitol and refuses to see what a death of the soul it is and how someone like Sejanus just... can't live like that the way he can. There's too much truth in his own child's eyes. Like Highbottom, at first all he sees when he looks at Coriolanus is his father. In the end, though, Strabo gets the perfect Capitol scion son he always wanted, a boy who would never challenge him or make him look at his own sins; he gets that son in the form of the boy who got his own child killed.

3-And Dr Gaul -- obsessed with war and the necessity of control, her only legacy to find and shape a child to make sure the spirit of the war continues as long as possible. She's pretty clearly neurodivergent and seems prone to sadistic impulses. HOWEVER, there are plenty of neurodiverent, low empathy people and/or people who are sadists who never commit any crimes, who are decent people. I can only imagine what being neurodivergent in the kind of society the Capitol was in her youth was like. It's the kind of society that rewards people like Coriolanus' father. For someone with her brain - well, I can see why she came to believe people are fundamentally chaotic and violent and need to be controlled. It explained the things she must have gone through and it justified her desire to inflict pain on others. The war, as she says, was a gift. It proved her "right" about people and it made her skills in science very important. Finally, people saw the world as she saw it. Finally, nobody could push her around. She wants the Hunger Games to continue because she wants to keep pushing on other peoples' trauma so they don't forget she's right and don't stop seeing her relevance as someone who designs weapons.

And I think it's important that this idea of control that she believes in is one that Collins references in another quote, to Hobbes' Leviathian. As I wrote here, that kind of idea isn't simplistically evil at heart - other people historically irl who had seen war and chaos have truly believed in it too. There is evidence she's not seeing, about how she's applying pressure and creating the "human nature" she believes is there already - but it's not as if there's not plenty of experiences and povs of people who see it too. It's not as if the horror and trauma of how people behave toward each other (especially if, for some reason, a person feels cast outside the circle of community and acceptance) isn't a real thing people experience.

However, I think there's a bitter irony for her too - ultimately, Snow makes the Games such a success as an entertainment that younger people in the Capitol lose track of it as a memory of war, an object lesson. He keeps it alive, but her intent dies over time. Someone like Seneca Crane truly doesn't understand what this thing IS, what it is for, not even--in the films--when Snow tries to outright tell him the realpolitik of it. The thing Gaul feared happens: people forget and "chaos" overcomes her beautiful, violent order she wants to keep alive in Snow as an instrument of legacy.

4-Adult!Snow's legacy himself is of failure. Unlike Gaul and Strabo, he actually doesn't have a legacy for someone else to continue at all. Nothing of the schemes and ideas he gave his entire life to survives to rule. The chaos he feared wins and, specifically, it wins in the form of someone who is able to break the cycle truly - if the Games with Capitol children had been allowed to go forward--and it's entirely possible they could have! That's the thing; they're not "insane" people basing their bs entirely on nothing, there's reasons and experiences and a whole social structure of very real rewards and punishments motivating them-- that would have supported Gaul's and Snow's beliefs.* Instead, they are repudiated by Katniss ideologically as well as practically.

Why don't any of them do better in Ballad? For the same reason 84-year-old Snow cannot and will not: he's already committed. He doesn't even really see what is possible in the now, he's so stuck in the rut he's made for himself. Adults can change, sometimes, but they find it harder and harder to as they walk deeper into their lives, build themselves and their identities and their material comfort around certain ideas and practices. They are responsible for their actions, but they also made themselves instruments of this society, serving to perpetuate it for the survival of their own sense of self and for their material survival.

That's why, on a meta level, the main trilogy and the prequel have to focus on the choices of children coming of age. Psychologically and sociologically, they have a period of decision and possibility - not without intense pressures on them, but with more flexibility and room to change than most adults who are already committed and most prone to doubling down. And it's important that what Katniss ends is the Games - and that is the key thing Coriolanus kept alive - not exploitation, not greed, not the tendency of corruption and cruelty even within democracies. It is a challenge scaled to their age, about other people their age and younger, and fits with Collins' refusal to do superpowered YA leads.

Beyond the scope of the Games, Panem finds democracy and change. But not certainty. That doesn't exist in history, in their world or ours. We, like Katniss, simply have to remember "every act of goodness I’ve seen someone do" and choose and choose and know there's always a price to be paid, so you might as well pay it for what truly matters to you--as Katniss and Peeta did--instead of living in fear, as Coriolanus did. Choose and hope.

*It's not as if there aren't plenty of examples of revolutions where that does happen. If the only reason you're being moral is because you think other people will be nice and fair and just if you do, that -- doesn't necessarily hold out long when it meets reality. Reality doesn't "reward" decency like that. You have to do it willing to pay the price and not expecting a reward - that's why Coriolanus choosing not to pay that price is human even as it is awful and why Katniss kills Coin believing she will die for it.

[nicolovespancakes]

I feel like, if you know you know for this post, but-

I feel like a young Dr. Easterman would be very, Victor Frankenstein-esk, in how he went about things.

And how he looked.

Kinda like this.

(Art credit is @/kyuwko on X and kyuwkuo on Instagram!)

White streak from stress of his early days working on Prject Lathe, the threats of violence when he didn't comply.

How skinny he was, slender and tall.

Especially with how people draw him as he gets older, since he has no really canon "look."

Working on the same drugs that he'd use on the reagents later on.

I feel like he was young, and charismatic, of course. Handsome, and used his attractiveness as a lure.

Before his brother and wife, at least.

Went to nice parties and pyschology symposiums.

Victor Frankenstein-esk.

Still cruel, but somehow kind.

The parallels between they are so similar, from the book's version of Victor at least. I can't help but feel like they'd look similar with the mad scientist aspect especially.

That's how I imagine young Easterman to look. Rugged. Messy hair. Blood on his gloves at random. Eye bags the size of a duffle bag. Glasses before he corrected his vision somehow.

Does anyone get what I mean?

[vamp1r3gf]

So Harry died in that forest but came back nice and peachy right after dying and going to and back from limbo (sans horcrux)?

You’re telling me he’s fine and dandy after dying and coming back? NUHUH! I say his whole world is knocked of kilter from that moment on. He had a horcux, a however small piece of soul nestled in his own for 16 years and to have that ripped out must be HARROWING! Imagine someone taking a bite out of YOUR soul. That soul piece was in all essence merged with Harry’s, if you ask me.

Anyways what I wanted to get at is the potential of the ‘came back Wrong/Changed’ trope in fiction. Think Falin, think Dokja(/joonhyuk/sooyoung), Buffy, Frankenstein’s creature if you must, think Tom Riddle slowly disintegrating as his soul gets chipped away, idk any others rn!

But imagine him coming out of that forest, still Harry but some part of him will be forever changed, forever left in that forest. Others won’t notice, but Hermione and Ron will. it would take him very long to get used to a distant hollowness now haunting him. Something which was there, now not. It might be discarded as trauma from the war, but this lay deeper. A chip carved out of his soul. Young warrior boy will never completely get to leave the war truly behind him, with the print of it so obviously left on him.

There is so much left to be explored there it’s honestly such a shame Jo Ro never explored it, but also REALLY GREAT that the fandom can now just take that shit and run.

[robertwaltons]

i am not immune to blasting my favourite characters with the neurodivergent beam — i think there is something very comforting about a character from a book written long before these things were understood (at least with the vocabulary we have today) articulating things about themselves that you can see something of yourself in

with that in mind, let me take you on a journey where i explain in far more detail than probably necessary

Why Captain Robert Walton from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheus (1818) has ADHD (in my non-professional neurodivergent opinion)!

i’ll be going through some common ADHD symptoms and presenting evidence from the text to demonstrate how Walton, in his own representation of himself, can be interpreted as displaying these traits

this got Long so analysis under the cut!

— INATTENTIVENESS AND FOCUS

Walton has a strong and active imagination, and seems prone to excessive daydreaming and letting his mind wander, even becoming distracted by sensory input (the sublime beauty of nature, lol):

Inspirited by this wind of promise, my daydreams become more fervent and vivid.

He feels that he is set apart by his own manner of thinking, that his mind is in need of "regulation":

Now I am twenty-eight and am in reality more illiterate than many schoolboys of fifteen. It is true that I have thought more and that my daydreams are more extended and magnificent, but they want (as the painters call it) keeping; and I greatly need a friend who would have sense enough not to despise me as romantic, and affection enough for me to endeavour to regulate my mind.

The "keeping" that Shelley refers to is artistic terminology meaning

The maintenance of the proper relation between the representations of nearer and more distant objects in a picture; [...] the maintenance of harmony of composition. (X)

I would interpret Walton's meaning here to be that he understands his thoughts to be somewhat "all over the place" or lacking practicality; he is aware that he has an overzealous and ambitious personality, and requires a sense of harmony (ideally, in the form of an understanding friend) who will keep him focused.

Even Victor comments on Walton seeming to become impatient with him or lose focus during his own tangent:

Victor: But I forget that I am moralizing in the most interesting part of my tale, and your looks remind me to proceed.

(adhd bitches be like let me infodump my entire brain at you and tell you seven unrelated stories before getting to the point but the SECOND someone else goes off topic it's so over)

Walton's inattentiveness is best demonstrated by his lack of concentration on things like his education in favour of his interests when he was a boy:

My education was neglected, yet I was passionately fond of reading. These volumes were my study day and night[...]

and speaking of!

— HYPERFIXATIONS

I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven, for nothing contributes so much to tranquillise the mind as a steady purpose—a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye.

^ me when i will go insane if i don't have my silly little Topics to obsess over. this guy gets it

Walton is clearly influenced heavily by his fixations; polar exploration and his "passionate enthusiasm for the dangerous mysteries of ocean" are lifelong special interests for him. He refers to his voyage as "the favourite dream of my early years", and also developed a love for poetry from a young age:

[...] for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a common and read nothing but our Uncle Thomas’ books of voyages. At that age I became acquainted with the celebrated poets of our own country;

When he is forbidden for pursuing a seafaring life by his father, and in doing so prevented from indulging his main interests, Walton becomes fixated solely on literature, attempting to become a poet himself:

These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets whose effusions entranced my soul and lifted it to heaven. I also became a poet and for one year lived in a paradise of my own creation; I imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the temple where the names of Homer and Shakespeare are consecrated.

Interestingly, when he fails to achieve his literary goal, his attention seemingly switches seamlessly back to his previous interests when he is finally given the opportunity to pursue them - jumping between hyperfixations in search of dopamine is often experienced by many with ADHD:

You are well acquainted with my failure and how heavily I bore the disappointment. But just at that time I inherited the fortune of my cousin, and my thoughts were turned into the channel of their earlier bent.

Walton claims that he is “practically industrious—painstaking, a workman to execute with perseverance and labour” but this mostly seems applicable when he can hyperfocus on tasks that are stimulating to him and related to his interests - for example, when he prepares for his voyage while working on whaling ships:

I often worked harder than the common sailors during the day and devoted my nights to the study of mathematics, the theory of medicine, and those branches of physical science from which a naval adventurer might derive the greatest practical advantage.

— HYPERACTIVITY, IMPULSIVITY AND RESTLESSNESS

i mean. i think most people would consider sailing off to explore as-yet unknown and extremely dangerous parts of the world completely of your own volition impulsive no matter how long you've been planning to do it

Even so, Walton seems to display a reduced sense of danger even upon "the commencement of an enterprise which you [Margaret] have regarded with such evil forebodings":

These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native river.

Walton's hyperactivity can be seen in his innate restlessness and never wanting to feel “settled” or too comfortable:

My life might have been passed in ease and luxury, but I preferred glory to every enticement that wealth placed in my path.

His wanderlust drives him forward, literally physically sending him to places very few have ever been:

[...] there is a love for the marvellous, a belief in the marvellous, intertwined in all my projects, which hurries me out of the common pathways of men, even to the wild sea and unvisited regions I am about to explore.

To me, this line indicates that Walton has an awareness of his own overwhelming eagerness (and tbh this is also how I would describe what my own ADHD feels like sometimes):

I am too ardent in execution and too impatient of difficulties.

Walton also seems prone to excessive talking and infodumping, demonstrated even by the act of sending his sister such long and detailed letters in the first place. He is a grade A yapper and that is why we even have the story in the first place!

My favourite evidence of this is when Walton is so taken by the romantic story of his ship's master that he derails his entire letter to his sister to tell her about it, saying:

This, briefly, is his story.

Reader: the story was not brief.

My swelling heart involuntarily pours itself out thus.

you don't say!

— POOR PLANNING AND PRIORITISATION

Despite committing himself to his voyage for six years and having thought of it for much longer, Walton doesn't seem to have uh. much of an actual concrete plan:

I do not intend to sail until the month of June; and when shall I return? Ah, dear sister, how can I answer this question? If I succeed, many, many months, perhaps years, will pass before you and I may meet. If I fail, you will see me again soon, or never.

In relation to this, let me just leave this extract from Jessica Richard's article '“A paradise of my own creation”: Frankenstein and the improbable romance of polar exploration' here:

Shelley subtly indicates Walton’s incompetence as an expedition leader (despite his extensive reading and apprenticeships on Greenland whaling vessels) when she has him begin his journey on a rather late date, July 7th. Whether Walton is simply a poor planner, or, as Frankenstein himself fears, he “share[s] my madness,” a departure date so late in the season all but dooms his enterprise to failure from the outset. (p. 299)

ouch!

He seems to have little awareness of this aspect of his personality; he assures his sister that:

I shall do nothing rashly: you know me sufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness whenever the safety of others is committed to my care.

Yet to Victor, he describes:

how gladly I would sacrifice my fortune, my existence, my every hope, to the furtherance of my enterprise. One man’s life or death were but a small price to pay for the acquirement of the knowledge which I sought[...]

Not only does he neglect his duties as captain to care for Victor, even while his ship is imperilled by pack ice…

Thus has a week passed away, while I have listened to the strangest tale that ever imagination formed. My thoughts and every feeling of my soul have been drunk up by the interest for my guest which this tale and his own elevated and gentle manners have created.

… he is highly averse to abandoning his voyage even when his crew threatens mutiny:

We were immured in ice and should probably never escape, but they feared that if, as was possible, the ice should dissipate and a free passage be opened, I should be rash enough to continue my voyage and lead them into fresh dangers, after they might happily have surmounted this. They insisted, therefore, that I should engage with a solemn promise that if the vessel should be freed I would instantly direct my course southwards. This speech troubled me. I had not despaired, nor had I yet conceived the idea of returning if set free.

oh robert........

— EMOTIONAL DYSREGULATION AND SOCIAL DIFFICULTIES

This seems to be a persistent issue for Walton; he continually refers to the fluctuation of his own emotions and his inability to regulate them on his own:

My courage and my resolution is firm; but my hopes fluctuate, and my spirits are often depressed.

I have no friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm of success, there will be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed by disappointment, no one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection.

He is deeply desirous of understanding and community with others, but is left feeling lonely and like an outsider, having difficulty connecting with most people including the men he sails with:

A youth passed in solitude, my best years spent under your gentle and feminine fosterage, has so refined the groundwork of my character that I cannot overcome an intense distaste to the usual brutality exercised on board ship:

Walton implies that he is insecure of aspects of his personality, and is in need of external validation and someone to “sympathise with and love” him:

How would such a friend repair the faults of your poor brother!

Lastly, this line appears in the 1831 version of the novel only but it is one that, for me, ties together a lot of the book's themes especially with regard to neurodiversity and is generally one of the most affecting for me personally for that reason:

There is something at work in my soul which I do not understand.

me too, buddy. me too

aaaaaaaand that's all(!) i have to say for now

most of this is really just based on my own experiences and traits (am i projecting? absolutely. but am i correct? also yes) and just my own interpretation and i’m sure i’ve left out SO much but i had fun putting my hyperfix spinterest hat on and hopefully it was interesting to read! let me know your thoughts!