The Creature calling itself Viktor and following Viktor around is so much more tragic when you know how babies develop and how newborns don't yet realise they and their mothers are two separate people. And one of the first things babies realise about themselves is that they're a whole separate person. And one of the first things they do when they start developing as a person is find out they have hands and play with them and with textures and start exploring. And when they want to start talking, they put their hands and fingers on their parents lips and throats to figure out how that sound is coming out of there and then they start imitating. Guillermo Del Toro nailed every single step of human development in such a beautiful celebration of life.
And Viktor abused the crap out of the poor creature for not being smart enough when it was only following natural developmental milestones. Because, like most men, like his own father, he wanted to create life but he wasn't interested in raising it beyond that and instead wanted it to be born a doctor ready to show the world how smart Viktor is for creating a carbon copy of his brain except in a stronger immortal body. Elizabeth gave him five minutes of love and let him explore how sounds come out of her mouth and he started talking.
Idk why some people are complaining about the movie being different from the book when the essence is literally the same, Viktor created life as if it were a godly feat and not something women have been doing since the dawn of humanity, and then he abandoned that life as deadbeat dads do. And that abandonment is what created a monster out of an innocent souls who could have become a beautiful being had it been nurtured. That's literally what Mary Shelley wrote. She would have been proud of this story. On top of being an incredibly gorgeous visual story, the narrative is very loyal to the point Shelley wanted to make.
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🌟 18+, intimate atmosphere, jealousy, babying & cooing, sci-fi element, lactation kink, handjob, male squirting, body fluids, fluff, unresolved childhood trauma, mommy (& daddy) issues, abandonments issues, fictional man being pathetic, Victorian neediness, not plot but also plot??, implied pre-established relationship
He had been hovering around you all evening, hands fidgeting in that restless way that meant he was hiding something.
Finally, with his ears flushed pink, Victor had produced a small jar of pale, pearlescent balm.
"I made this" he murmured, refusing to meet your eyes. "If you wanted—only if you wanted—your body could… respond. For me."
You had wanted alright.
His fingers had shaken as he dipped them into the balm and brought it to your breasts, rubbing it in with exaggerated gentleness that borderlined to worship.
The moment your nipples had tightened under his touch, he'd let out a shaky breath like he was witnessing a miracle.
"Beautiful… so beautiful" he whispered under his breath, voice gone small and awestruck. "I can't believe you'd let me have this…"
That was days ago.
Victor had made it for you in secret. An alchemical balm brewed over a couple of feverish nights, his hands trembling not from exhaustion, but from hope.
"A harmless endocrine stimulation, fooling your body, essentially" he murmured, cheeks bright as he handed you the small glass jar.
The formula was absurdly complex, full of botanicals and gentle compounds, designed with meticulous care so you'd lactate without pain, without pregnancy, and without any risk...
Just for him, because he wanted desperately to be able to nurse at your breasts.
That leads us to tonight.
Seventy two hours later.
Ten balm applications later –three times a day, plus his demonstration.
The lab is quiet, the lightnings outside casting long shadows across the cluttered room. The storm will soon fade into just a low growl in the back of your mind. You walk through the lab and into the bedroom.
Your gaze immediately lands on Victor.
The normally imposing man has curled himself under a tangle of blankets, like a child seeking sanctuary. From what?
Nightmares he never outgrew... About his mother's death? His father's teachings? Or perhaps it's the Archangel this time.
Either way, his shoulders are trembling and his breath is shallow. He's the image of bravado being peeled away like a banana in a monkey's ruthless hands.
His voice comes out cracked and raw. Pleading.
"Please… I don't want to be brilliant tonight. I don't want to be Leopold Frankenstein's firstborn. Not his son, not a Baron, not a doctor. I just... want to belong to you."
You slide beside him onto the four-poster bed, the warmth of your swollen chest brushing his face.
"Mhm… my sweet boy" you coo, fingers brushing down his taut arms. "That's correct. You don't have to be anything but mine tonight."
He exhales, nuzzling into your chest, erratic fingers moving to your nightgown's buttons.
Victor doesn't hesitate when you guide him downward, fingers sliding through his hair. His lips barely brush your nipple –reverent, terrified he might not be allowed.
"You don't have to be afraid. You've earned this. Taste me."
His eyes flutter and he groans.
Then, he closes his lips around your nipple.
The first suck is careful, tentative.
But when the balm's work meets his tongue and the warm bead of milk touches his mouth... He whimpers, the sound vibrated through you.
He suckles harder, instinct taking over. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer like he can merge into your skin. His cheeks hollowed, desperate, hungry, overwhelmed by the taste he's created and you've given so freely.
"Good boy" you praise, stroking his hair. "Drink."
He moans around you.
Each swallow makes him cling tighter, suckling with more urgency. Milk smears his lips when he pulls back for a gasp, and he dives in again with a breathless noise.
You carress his back as he drinks, comforting him through it, letting him nurse until he's flushed and milk-drunk and limp in your arms.
Only then, does your hand drift lower, skimming the tense line of his stomach until it reaches the heavy heat waiting beneath the blankets.
Victor's whole body jerks and then there's a whined moan.
You hum, collected. Pleased.
"C-can you…?" His voice breaks to something embarrassingly young.
"I can make you feel good" you whisper against the shell of his ear. A reassurance as much as it also is a cruel tease. "I can make you melt for me. I can make you want without thinking, Vicky."
His thighs lock. His lips part.
"Yes… please."
You wrap your hand around him. Slow at first, barely-there pressure.
Victor lets out a strangled whine that dies against your collarbone. He is already rigid, already leaking for you.
Pathetic and perfect.
"That's it. My sweet little genius. Let me take care of you... Hm, my baby boy?"
You stroke him with a lazy, deliberate rhythm, your thumb circling the sensitive head.
Victor gasps, his hips already twitching, wanting to thrust into your fist, but tonight, too shy to dare. His fingers clutch the blanket like it's the only thing keeping him tethered to the physical world.
"You don't have to hold yourself together" you tease softly. "Not with me, because I know you're just a desirous, pathetic wretch."
His breath hitches.
"I'm— I'm already—"
"I know" you coo. "Let go for me, baby."
You tighten your grip just enough, twisting your wrist the slightest bit, and Victor comes.
Sudden.
His hips lurch, his breath shatters, the first release spilling messily over your fingers. His face buries into your chest as a soft, humiliated moan tears out of him.
"Mmh… God… I—"
His body is shivering violently, but your hand doesn't leave his still swollen member. You only slow down. Enough to make it twitch and him groan.
Then begins the stroking again. Softer this round, coaxing, milking him through the overstimulation.
Victor whimpers.
"I—I can't… it's too—"
"No" you cut him off sweetly, kissing his temple, "you can give me more."
He's trembling head to toe.
His cock throbs helplessly in your hand, slick from his previous release, and so sensitive, every stroke pushing him into that fragile state between pleasure and unraveling.
Your thumb brushes his tip again.
Victor's entire body seizes.
A broken cry escapes him as he jerks forward more violently than before.
This release is different.
Too wet.
Hot fluid spurts against your wrist, too strong to be just sperm, and he lets out a wounded, frustrated cry as he drenches your hand.
He tries to squirm away, overwhelmed and embarrassed, feeling unmanned, but you softly push him back fown, stroking him through the last spurts and the bigger aftershocks.
Then he freezes.
And then he cries.
Not pretty tears.
What you witness are real, ugly, raw sobs that claw their way out of him.
His breath stutters as the last spurt pulses against your palm, his body limp and novelly overstimulated. Utterly undone.
He collapses into you, face pressed –planted, really– between your breasts, tears soaking your skin.
"I—I don't— ...why—" he chokes out between sobs. "It was so—I couldn't— it was too much—"
You pull him into your lap, wrapping one the blankets around the both of you.
"Shh... You did so good for me. My perfect boy. My sweetest little one…"
This only makes him cry harder.
Years of lonely brilliance and pressure spill out with the same helpless force as his pleasure had.
Your hand threads through his damp curls, gently cradling him to your aching breast. His wet, quivering lips brush your skin instinctively, seeking warmth and comfort, seeking something that once was torn away from him. Unjustly so.
Maybe, in this moment, he's even seeking something he never had.
"I love you" he whispers against your chest, ruined. "I'm yours. I'm—I'm all yours…"
You try to sooth him, rocking him gently. "All mine? My baby, Victor? That is correct. You're mine."
He melts, still trembling, sticky, and exhausted, clinging to you helplessly.
The constant uproar inside him eases only because you are holding him through this aftermath. Your brilliant, broken boy, small and precious in your arms.
At some point, you slip out of bed, meaning to grab a glass of water.
There's a soft drizzle now, and the cold tiles make you hiss as you pad toward the lab sink.
Behind you, the blankets rustle violently.
"...where are you going?" Victor's agitated voice cracks like he's just woken from another nightmare.
He sits half-upright in the tangled sheets, hair impossibly wild, lashes wet, looking heartbreakingly betrayed.
And petulant.
"Getting water" you answer gently. "I'll be right back."
He swallows so hard it's visible in his throat.
His abandoned puppy look sharpens into something darker.
"You weren't leaving? I… I can't—Please don't leave me."
You cross the room back to him. Before you can touch him, he grabs your hand with both of his sweaty ones, clutching it like you're the only solid object in a collapsing world.
"I hate it" he says, eyes squeezing shut. "When you go further than an arm's length. I feel… hollow."
Then, lower, ashamed but honest...
"I even get jealous of the strays you feed in the mornings. And that blasted paperboy who smiles at you. I know it's childish—"
"It's alright."
"It's not" he insists, voice barely holding on. "But you must understand that I can't help it. I've never had anything warm that stayed."
His breathing hitches again. Letting go of your hand, he curls back under the blankets, fetal position, knees bent to his chest... Bringing his hand to his lips and suckling his thumb. He's grounding himself, trusting you enough to do so in front of you.
"Please hold me now. I mean... right now?"
You roll your eyes in mock exasperation, sitting beside him, combing your fingers through his hair as he nurses on his thumb, like a half-feral, over-wired creature.
His body relaxes gradually.
"I'm not going anywhere" you clarify.
He shifts closer at that, thumb still in his mouth, his free arm wrapping around your waist with desperate tenderness.
"You promise?" he mumbles around his finger.
"Yes, my love."
Victor lets out a tiny breath, then nuzzles deeper into your stomach, blankets pulled tight around you both like a little nest he refuses to let you leave again.
Funniest scene in the whole movie is the monster asking for a companion. Like just a companion because immortality is a thing of perpetual loneliness. And Viktors immediate reaction being like . oh? You want to fuck? Fuck nasty?? You want to have sex and make babies? You dumb little ugly idiot? You want to make more dumb idiot ugly losers? Kill urself.
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watched guillermo del toro's frankenstein last night and all the synapses in my brain started firing so hard that i experienced the entire gamut of human emotion
