saltygutter

[saltygutter]

GOBLIN X READER

PT. 1

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This is my first time writing anything like this/ posting, don’t really know what I’m doing, I just really wanted more goblin content out there 😭

Tags: [mlw] [breaking and entering 💀?] [human reader] [maid reader] [monster romance] [strangers/enemies to lovers] [slow burn] [eventual smut] [multiple pov] [forbidden romance]

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The town of Margarde lay silent. It was a damp autumn night, and a fine mist of rain drifted in the air—not quite a drizzle, yet persistent enough to bead along a man’s coat sleeves and gather into tiny rivulets on the brim of a hat. Not that Tattergrin had a hat. Or great sleeves, for that matter. His shawl though, was a little heavy with damp, and tiny pinpricks of water glinted on the fuzz of the black wool like millions of little eyes. He adjusted his hood, and continued plodding down the street.

The narrow road, little more than packed mud and scattered cobblestones, was slick and uneven underfoot, glistening faintly in the dimness. Blackthorn hedges blazed his trail- burnt orange in the dark, decorated by tiny baubles of blue -black sloes.

Beyond them stretched pastures and ploughed fields, marked only by the spectral silhouettes of bare-branched oaks and elms and the occasional free roaming livestock—great hulking shapes, distant and quiet.

Through the shifting mist, here and there, the warm promise of lamplight spilled from the mullioned windows of thatched cottages. It was never bright enough to pierce the darkness fully, but instead painted small, golden pools that quivered in the fine rain. Seen from afar, each cottage seemed to hover in its own little world, haloed in vapour.

Tattergrin’s gait was low and purposeful, his head swivelling in quiet appraisal of each dwelling. He could smell the life within—roasting apples, bread still cooling on a table, damp wool steaming by the hearth—but he'd already swiped some bread and cheese from one place, and cider from another.. What he sought was comfort:preferably a dry nook in a warm roof-space, a quiet corner of a barn maybe, somewhere to curl up till dawn without the prickle of rain or the bite of wind. Humans dominated the idea of civilization, and monsters like him, proffered to stay out of their way- usually.

But tattergrin enjoyed understanding how those tall, not-green people liked to live. It had become a little bit of a hobby to wander around their houses or farms in the dark, maybe sleep in an attic before moving on.

Tattergrin paused at a home he’d not had the liberty of exploring yet.

The roof wasn’t thatch like the others he’d explored in Margarde, but it had a steep slate roof instead, and it shone with the richness of the rain-mist, broken only by the jut of gabled dormers and the squared mass of chimneys at each end, their pots breathing faint curls of woodsmoke into the cool air. Leaded casement windows, each set in deep mullioned frames, reflected the dim glow of interior candlelight, their drip moulds casting small, sharp shadows under the diffuse illumination. The whole thing was limestone, yellow, like a Mirabelle de Nancy. A low matching wall enclosed the front garden, its coping stones slick and glistening, and the wrought iron gate, wet to the touch, hung slightly ajar. The gravel path beyond was darkened by the rain, its pale stones dulled, leading straight to a recessed oak door, where water tracked down the chamfered jambs in narrow, shining threads.

Tattergrin smiles toothily, showcasing the crooked teeth he was named after. He’d take his chances.

——————

you grumbled and mumbled to yourself.

The kitchen was settling into its night-time quiet, as usual. The fire in the great hearth banked low so that its heat pulsed out in gentle waves, causing stray hairs to plaster to your temples with sweat. The air was heavy with the mingled scents of roasted partridge, buttered root vegetables, and the faint, metallic tang of the iron range cooling after hours of work. you were hired by the Mallon family to do the cooking and cleaning, every day. The pay was fine, but the hours were long, as they dined late.

The darker scent of scorched fat lingered near the oven door, cut through by the sharpness of drying thyme and bay leaves hanging in bunches from the beams overhead. The oak worktable bore the marks of your evening’s labour too—faint knife scores, a scattering of breadcrumb dust, and a sheen of grease. you wiped it all hastily with a rag, dreaming of your warm bed at home.

Once that was done, you yawned, latched the pantry door, straightened a line of pewter plates on the dresser, and worked the pump over the stone sink until the last bucket was full for morning. The single candle on the dresser sent its light into the corners, touching the low ceiling beams and catching the gleam of copper pans on their hooks, while the rain tapped steadily at the window. Sometimes, you liked to imagine that the view from the garden was yours.

SLAM. THUD.

“Aurghh! Fhhuckkk!”

A voice suddenly pierced the darkness and made you choke in shock. A man’s voice, throaty and rasping, like a vagrant's . It was not the voice of Mr Mallon.

your hands instinctively fumbled. When caught in desperate situations, you’d always had the misfortune of your throat closing up, and so you couldn’t scream to alert anyone. So instead, you grabbed the closest thing to you- a rolling pin. The candle flame nearby wavered with the stirring of wind- there was a stable door that led outside. Someone had come in.

you turned and tried to square yourself. The top half of the door was swinging wildly, thudding gently against the wall. Something had tripped over the bottom half.

you looked down.

someone shorter than you was clutching their forehead, trying to right themselves on the floor, having landed on their back after smacking his face against the oak wood of the door.

Instantly, you acted. The Mallons had twin girls upstairs, only three years old. you’d be damned to let some stumpy looking burglar just barge in here.

your cotton skirts whipped around your ankles, and your boot connects with a rather angular nose. The person lets out a hoot, scrambling backwards, managing to duck away from the swinging roller pin, barely dodging the blow as you send it whizzing past his head. His shawls black hood slips off, but it’s a little too dark to see anything. The chase loops round the kitchen, till he slumps in defeat against the counter-now near the candlelight.

“I yield” he rasps, wheezing softly, blinking through the half-light of the candle and the thin mist of rain blowing through the stable door.

your heart thumped in indignation and terror, hands still gripping the rolling pin as if it were a sword. “Out! you need—what.. in heaven’s name..?” you gasped, fingers loosening around the makeshift weapon, finally catching sight of the intruder's face.

The hobgoblin—because that’s what he truly was—looked up at you with a mix of impish curiosity and mortified apology. His skin was as green as oak leaves. His face was angular, rakish, and oddly finely boned for someone that clearly had lived rough in the woods: high cheekbones, slightly pointed chin, and eyes like bright, muddy amber, glowing faintly in the candlelight. His beaked nose, now smarting from the boot, twitched like a rabbit’s, and his grin was quick, mischievous, and abashed. And his ears were half the size of his face!

Some sort of fascination prickled under your adrenaline and indignation, but you quickly shoved it down. “Who are you? What do you want? Speak before I—” you jabbed the rolling pin toward him again, though it was trembling now.

The hobgoblin scrabbled to his feet, arms raised in a comically exaggerated shrug, wobbling on the wet stone.

“Okay! Okay, wildcat. Give me a chance—” He rubbed his tender nose with the heel of his palm. “Right. So, my name’s Tattergrin, and funny thing… hobs don’t really have houses. I was cold, wanted a place to rest—just for the night! No harm meant.”

He glanced up at your figure, golden eyes twinkling like charms, and you swallowed despite yourself. “I’m sure your husband won’t even know I’m here. No need to call for him or nothing.”

The words tumbled out in bursts, punctuated by little impish huffs of laughter, as though he knew he should be terrified but couldn’t quite resist the ridiculousness of the scene. His gaze locked on yours—wide, intelligent, and shimmering with mirth almost as much as with unease.

you tightened the grip on the rolling pin. “W-Well I’m not the owner of this house. I’m the maid. So it isn’t up to me to let you stay. Not that I would anyway.”

Tattergrin rocked back on his heels, eyeing the kitchen with mock solemnity. “Well,” he said, imperiously, “if they’ve got you working this late, love, I’d say you don’t owe them more than cooking and scrubbing. Guard duty? That’s above the job description.”

you blinked. “You—”

“Besides,” he added, with a toothy grin, “between us, you don’t look like the protector type.”

Your jaw dropped, indignation finally catching up to adrenaline. “Excuse me?”

“I mean no offence,” Tattergrin backpedaled, lifting his hands. “Brave as a bear, clearly. Just… not the sort that’s built to throw people out on their—”

“Out,” you snapped.

“Come on. Just a corner. I’ll curl up neat as a mouse, you won’t even—”

“Out.”

He puffed out his cheeks in frustration, which made him look absurdly like a mossball. Then he shuffled sideways, toward the door that opened into the rest of the house.

The sight jolted you into motion. “Don’t you dare!”

Tattergrin paused, lips twitching into a sly, crooked smile. “Ah, come on. You put up a good fight, okay?”.

That was the last straw. With a burst of speed, you lunged. The hobgoblin let out a startled squawk as your arms locked around his waist, smushing your figures together, and the two of you wrestled clumsily across the kitchen—his damp boots slipping on stone, your skirts tangling at your knees, the rolling pin clattering to the floor.

“Unhand me, banshee!” he yelped, thrashing, but you only tightened her grip.

You slammed into the half-open stable door. With one final heave, you sent him stumbling backward, out into the misting rain. He skidded across the mud, shawl flying, landing flat on his rump.

“Wench!” Tattergrin cried, pointing an indignant, clawed finger at her. “I’ll have you know that was brutish!”

The door thudded shut in his face.

—————————

You’re not sure how long you stand there, but it can’t be long before the clatter of footsteps jolts you. Someone is rushing down the stairs. You startle again as another figure bursts into the kitchen.

“What happened? What’s all this —what’s all this bother about? Did someone break in?” The voice is thin and willowy, uncertain in its authority.

Turning, you see Mr. Mallon. He was a tall, slim man, like a willow branch, with the bookish stoop of one accustomed to desks and papers rather than true confrontation. He’d certainly heard the door slam, only coming to investigate once you’d solved the issue.

His spectacles sat crooked on his nose, his hazel eyes blinking owlishly in the lacklustre light. Tawny hair, once neatly combed, now stood up in uneven tufts, sleep and fatherhood twisting his tresses into something mad. His nightshirt and cap were of good quality, but his drawers flapped rather comically around his calves. In his long-fingered hands he clutched a shotgun, though it trembled slightly, as if the weapon itself unnerved him.

It would have been foolish to tell him the truth—that a monster had invaded his home. He was the mayor of Margarde. He’d never believe it… So you lied.

“A badger,” you said, hastily. “It was a badger. I had to beat it away, but it frightened me terribly. I’m sorry for the disturbance…”

Mr. Mallon blinked, his mouth opening just slightly. “A badger?”

“…Yes. A badger. It looked rabid.”

He lowers his gun, looking around, as if expecting to find some ruffian hiding in the cupboards. His face is unconvinced, but the thought of anyone daring to enter his property seemed simply inconceivable to him.

“Did you get bitten?”

“No”

The man sighs. “Alright. That’s..alright. Thank you for dealing with the issue.”

There’s a stretched pause, and the mayor blinks, as if suddenly becoming aware of his state of undress, and tries to grasp back onto his dignity.

“My wife would like a selection of bacon, eggs, haddock, and bread tomorrow. Also, throw out the marmalade. Dowsabelle has turned off the stuff”.

You nod, and he nods, before Mr Mallon turns on his heels, and scampers away. Finally, finally, you’re alone, and sink to the ground in bewilderment. A goblin. You’d seen and touched and spoken to a goblin. You’d seen the mayor in his underwear. The thought of walking home, alone, after everything, was daunting. But you rubbed your palms against your tired eyes, and took a deep breath.

You’d simply have to speed walk.