Babies learn language by being immersed in a context driven by that language, by imitating the mouth movements and the sounds they see and hear around them. They often reach for their parent's faces, touching cheeks, lips and throats to feel the movements and vibrations that come with every word. That creates the base for their pattern recognition to kick in, slowly creating mental rules for language and its combinations.
Which makes me think about Creature!Ghost, who finds any and every way to look at your face and specially your lips when you talk to him.
He leans closer and you think he might not hear your properly, so you enunciate your words a little more, making emphasis in the vocalisation. When he reaches a hand up —slow and careful, always mindful of not making you feel like it could be motivated by any aggression— and gingerly places it on your sternum you understand what's really going on.
So you rest your hand over his, pressing it closer to your chest so he can feel the vibrations caused by every word and repeat what you had been saying, eventually moving it to your throat so he can notice the physical difference between a silent and a sounded consonants.
It doesn’t surprise you that the next step is for him to mouth words, often without really using his voice, just trying to wrap his lips and mind around the syllables. You earn a smile when you encourage him, and he slowly builds up enough confidence that he starts to actually sound out new words instead of just mouthing them.
You're wiping down the dinner table, tidying up after just having finished eating, when it happens.
He shyly approaches you, slow steps, slightly unstable body as he hesitates. He looks down to something in his hands, and when he has finally gathered enough courage he hands it to you, "read book… for me?"
With having to tidy up all forgotten about, you give a nod, a smile pulling at your lips as you take the offered book. "Of course," you lead him to the small couch by the fireplace. You settle on the slightly beaten-down cushions and, before you have time to make space for him, he settles down on the floor, beside your legs, lightly leaning his weight against you.
He gives a shake of his head when you offer space beside you, a hand reaching over to open the book you're still holding. "I see words better here." So you just adjust a little closer, feeling the warmth of his body press into your side, and start to read the book, pausing whenever necessary so he can discover new sounds and rules of the language.
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simon ghost riley is the void, the inky blackness that haunts the darkened corners of your bedroom at nights, faint rustles of someone's feet shuffling on the parquet floor, your cotton sheets gripped by someone's arm, tugged, pulled off your body that lays vulnerable wholly under perilous black eyes, watching you, the goosebumps that run along your flesh.
something incomprehensible, a creature, lurking in your apartment, coming at deep nights needy, greedy for the warmth of human's warmth, or yours, but it's barely matters when there's a ghostly, cooling touch that sweeps along your body, everywhere, along your naked legs and to the suppleness of your thighs, the slope of your waist, and deeper, beneath the clothes.
on your naked skin, so warm, so delicate, untouched by this tar that drips down his arms like an wax, coating your skin where his touch dips beneath your sleeping shirt, long fingers splaying across the seam of your belly, inching up and pushing your clothes, away from your body, unraveling you like something he has a permission to have, something he waited for so long.
maybe anyone could have been in your place, but it's your plump breasts are squeezed in his rough palms, fat spilling from between his fingers, nipples pebbled and hardening under the cool touch of his calloused skin, feeling so natural, so right, in the way he caresses every sensitive spot on your body, a ghost of a breath on the curve of your neck, firm palm cupped at your clothed pussy, burrowed under your sleeping shorts.
it's only constant touching, long, thick fingers teasing against your neglected folds that hide beneath the cotton of your panties, calloused fingertips circling along your nipples, feeling the way your pussy flutters beneath his touch, seeping warm slick that simon get's addicted to, and each time he comes back, there's more groping, as it's gets beyond his fingers.
Okay, hello, don't be mad at me but this is not the halloween post (i'm still working on it trust) but it's a Frankenstein au thanks to Guillermo del Toro so i hope it makes up for the delay.
It's about 1.45k words of Frankenstein Creature's Ghost and it's something i have many ideas for, so there'll probably be more soon. This is sort of the introduction on what i want it to be like. I'll probably mix longer pieces with blurbs with small headcanons... so yeah, enjoy!
Edit: Now with a masterlist!
He wasn't too sure how he had found the small shed, having been wandering the woods in a half-conscious way, bleeding and feeling so much cold that his skin ached. He hadn't tried to follow a path or a direction, and probably he couldn't have done it even if he had meant to. All that had been in his mind was running away from those soldiers and their barking dogs, from the cruelty that seemed to find him no matter where he went.
When the sky closed off, losing the barely-there guidance the full moon had provided, the thunder crackling loudly over him and the flashes of the lighting enough to momentarily blind him with every strike, he had known that he needed to find some sort of cover.
So he had followed them, the small creatures. The mice that had squeaked and run as fast as their little legs let them, that seemed as frightened by the rumbling sky as he felt. Even if he stumbled against trees and tripped on slippery mud, clumsy due to the numbness on his body the freezing temperatures had caused and the inexperience of moving freely, he had gone along the path they had marked; trusted them to not lead him stray. And when they had all lined up, organised themselves so they could all sneak in the small space under the big wooden doors, he had known it was his only opportunity.
He had looked around first, tried to be gentle or find a simple way to open the doors. But they had had no give to them, and when a specially mean thunder had made the ground his bare feet were on tremble, he had done the only thing he knew would get him inside. With a few steps back he had gained inertia and, leading with his shoulder, he had busted right in.
It was like the group of mice had been waiting for him, squeaking when he had joined them, patiently waiting as he looked around the room to find something heavy enough to hold the now-loose doors closed at least for the rest of the storm. When the heavy rain and ice cold wind had finally been blocked off, he turned back to the little helpers, following after them once more when they walked between piles of hay and what he understood to be equipment of some sort. He had to bend down, crawl and adjust through tight spaces until he had managed to reach smaller, closed off area.
Spotting a thick enough pile of hay, he had let himself rest there. Curling onto himself and hoping that the rough burlap of the few empty feed bags he had found would be close enough to the feeling of a blanket over him. He had let the mice rest with him, hoping to return the same kindness they had shown him when guiding him to a guarded place. And with the hope of finding more kindness once the storm had passed, he had closed his eyes, letting himself drift off into a dreamless sleep.
He hadn't known what time it was when he finally woke up, but given the light that filtered though the cracks on the wooden walls, the sounds of the animals outside, it had to be late enough in the morning. With a light grunt he had gotten up, stretching long limbs with stiff muscles, begrudgingly letting the light warmth the burlap had managed to hold go of his skin as he tentatively moved around the space.
That's when he had heard it, when his whole body had gone stiff as he turned his head towards the sound. The voice.
He had been careful then, taking slow steps, as quiet as a big figure like his could manage as he leaned himself against the wall, trying to catch a glimpse through the cracks between the wooden panels.
He had seen you then, walking across the room with an apron around your waist, a bowl of something you had been stirring in your hands while you talked with someone. A male, he had come to realise a moment later, when the man had walked into the small space he managed to look into from his peephole.
"I assure you, brother," you said as you moved back to the table, setting down the bowl in your hands to add what seemed to be blue mushy fruits into the bowl before stirring again. "I do not require of any assistance, be it economic or for marital purposes. I'm doing good for myself where i am, and as much as i appreciate the brotherly concern, it is not needed."
He hadn't known why, maybe because it had been too similar to the disdain life had seemed to have for his whole existence until then, but when your brother had just let out a judgmental huff at your reply it had made his back straighten up and his brows lightly pinch together.
"And for how much longer do you believe so to be the case?" The man —or well, your brother as you had referred to him as— had asked with a tone that showed he didn't mind your answer. "You'll find need of a spouse, sooner or later. It is not something that requires a myriad of feelings, if that's what you refuse, just the knowledge that to hold a place in society one can't do it alone. And time comes and goes, it doesn't forgive those that ignore the clock, something you'll notice when it's too be late wed."
You had seemed unfazed to the accusations that had been pointed at you, instead focused on your bowl, on pouring it's gooey contents in a different container before locking them behind a small door. Only once you had done so, had you turned back to your brother. "It is not due to avoidance of feelings that i refuse marriage. I don't mind about how i might be seen in town, i feel myself lucky enough to have found my place here, and that doesn't require of a spouse. There's bigger worries in my mind than those of matrimony."
And there it was again, the dismissive response, this time in a form of a dry laugh. The tension that formed on his muscles, the thread that seemed to pull his shoulders up and closer to his ears. He didn't know what it brought up memories of, but the way your words seemed to be shrugged off and almost ridiculed just by that sound was enough to make a tightness form on his chest.
"Fortunate of you, I do care of the perception in town. I wasn't left as head of the house for your whims to tarnish the family name. You are to be wed like all youngsters your age do, you are to step into society and finally stop with the puerile dreams to accept your responsibilities." He hadn't liked that either, the harshness in your brother's words, the rise of his voice. It had made him step back, coward for a moment, but something had made him push forward again, almost craving to see your reaction.
But you once again had shown no care, turning your back to your brother as you tidied a shelve at the back of the room, dusting the few books sitting on it. It had seemed the last thing needed to frustrate your brother enough for him to walk out of the room with forceful steps, letting the door harshly slam behind himself.
He had recoiled then, covered his ears and tried to curl into himself then, because not only had there been the hard smack of wood against wood, but it had caused barking. He had looked around for a moment, worried that those creatures and the humans attached to them had found him.
Instead he saw you through the crack, calling one of them over with a sweet tone that wrapped around the name "Honey". And it looked nothing like the ones that had run after him just mere hours ago, no pointy teeth bared, no growling or sharp ears pointed back. Instead it's for paws tippy-tapped on the floor as it came to you. It's tail was just a blur of movement, happy to get attention when you crouched down and murmured reassurances, gently patting it's head.
And even if he had known it would probably best to leave, to keep walking through the forests until he found a proper space for himself, he found himself reaching a hand up and patting his own head to imitate the affection you had shown the dog.
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Curiosity
New words
Storms
An accident
Finding purpose
Learning affection
Forehead kisses
Chosen
Haircut
Melody
The first laugh
Confident when you are
More than forehead kisses
Wait, he can do it too?
It all falls into place
Bad nights in loving arms
Sleep is for the weak
Icycle
Art and doodles:
Smooching
The stories don't follow any specific order unless specified in the post. Non-cataloged posts can easily be found under the creature!ghost tag. List last revised: 07/05/26. Thanks for reading!
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Thinking about creature!ghost who not only sees you as a source of comfort, but also of knowledge, which translates into him asking you any and every question that crosses his mind.
"What is?" He murmurs, words still a little broken, still coming out as an effort. He moves his hand closer to you, splaying his fingers so you can see what's sitting on his palm.
A soft chuckle leaves you when you see what has piqued his interest, "that's a mushroom, and edible one. You're quite good at spotting small things in such a big place."
He gives a small smile at the praise, looking down at the mushroom, his other hand reaching up to run a finger over it before his brows furrow together, looking back up at you. "Ed-dib… edible…?"
"Right," you nod and tuck a bit of hair behind his ear, making sure it stays away from his face, that his big eyes can look into yours. "Means you can eat it, if we find some more we could make something new for dinner."
His free hand finds yours, holding it as carefully as he held the mushroom, nodding at your words. "Something new."
You smile at him, holding his hand in return, gently guiding him along as you head deeper into the forest, keeping an eye out for any other fungi to help satiate both his hunger for food and knowledge.
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Creature ghost is so cute he just wants to be good for you and get your affection
i'll never tire of saying, he's baby and only three apples tall. i want to wrap him in a blanket and read stories to him.
Creature!ghost hasn't known kindness, at least he doesn’t think he did before you. If he closes his eyes and focuses, really puts his mind to it, all he recalls before you it's nothing but cold, pain and fear.
It's not just how he had found himself lost in the forest, chased after and shot at. It's that even in his dreams, in blurry memories that he's not sure are real or just imagined, he only manages to identify loneliness and anxiety.
However, when he hears your soft voice as you narrate what you're doing to Honey —as if the dog's tailed flicked due to understanding rather than just happiness for having your attention—, or when he sees your smile, bright like the morning sun and the reason for the light crinkles on the corner of your eyes; he forgets all about it.
So it slowly but surely becomes his new purpose, the reason why he learns new things and looses his fear for them. Why he learns language, so your narrations can become conversations and hopefully bring you the same sense of peace with his words as yours do to him.
It's why he always makes sure there's enough kindle for the fire, that the chickens are safe in their coop every time the sun starts to set, that Honey is well fed and that the cottage is well maintained.
It's because the tender sheen on your eyes every time you thank him for his help, the warmth of your hands on his skin whenever you comfort him, brings him much more life than any regular sun could ever.
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Creature!ghost is afraid of thunder, it reminds him of being run off by the soldiers and their dogs. Of how the rumbling sounds would mix and hide the shots that would lodge bullets into his skin. Of the pain and fear he had felt as he run through the forest, lost and alone, until he found your shed.
Which means that now, in the middle of the night, —when the sky closes up and the only light is the flashes of lightning— he's curled up on the couch, tucking all of his body, usually larger than life, between his knees and under his arms. He makes himself as small as possible, pulling the blanket you had so kindly given him as tight around his body as it'll go as he gets into a fetal position.
You wake up to his pitiful noises, small whimpers and sniffles that somehow come out as both the most gruff yet more heartbreaking ones you had ever heard. As quiet as you can, you sit up and squint your eyes to see him despite the darkness filling the room, barely able to make up the desperate movement of his hand patting his own head in what you guess is an effort for comfort.
It's what makes you push the blankets off of you, careful to light a candle before you make your way to him, making sure to make your steps loud enough that you won't startle him.
"Hi sweet darling," it's a soft coo, barely louder than a whisper as you set the candle down on a nearby chair before crouching down in front of him. You feel your heart clench, maybe even break, when he looks up at you from his curled up position, tear tracks faintly glowing in the flickering light.
You're careful to reach a hand out, just as an offer, letting him be the one to take it. Your fingers lace with his when he cradles it close to himself. "It's frightening, too boisterous," he nods at your words, a mix of a grunt and a whimper leaving him when a new thunder cracks. You hold him a little tighter when he clenches his eyes and curls back onto himself.
"It's alright, you're safe here, thunder won't reach you inside," your free hand moves to bury in his hair, substituting his hopeless pats for a gentle scratch that has his shoulders finally dropping from his ears.
You give him a soft smile, taking a step back and giving his hand a light tug, a silent invitation for him to join you. He's hesitant for a moment, but when the sky rumbles again and the kindness in your eyes doesn’t flicker like the lightning does, he nods.
That's how you end up comfortably tucked in bed, his long limbs curled up around you as his head safely rests under your chin. With the steady beating of your heart, the tingles of your nails lightly scratching at his scalp, and the quiet thuds of Honey's tail against the foot of the bed, he quickly forgets about the storm.
He's not scared or alone in the storm, not since he found you.
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