Lucinda214



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    Slowly, your fingers trace the grooves of his face; scars, veins, and blemishes alike. "And what do they call you, sir?" You ask into the darkness.

    The man tenses under your touch, and enormous palms rise to grasp your hands, rough fingers grazing over your knuckles. "I do not have a name," he rasps, and by then, you must notice how otherworldly he sounds. "I do not need a name."

    Your brows furrow as your thumbs continue to follow along the deep lines on his cheeks, down his chin. "And what, pray tell, would you have me call you? Everyone needs a name."

    Perhaps, he thinks, I'd like for you to call me yours.

    Or, The Creature secludes himself in an abandoned manor many years after his father's death. He expects what his elongated life has already provided him—loneliness, disappointment, longing. He does not, however, expect you.

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    11 Nov 2025