You're mind was in an aching haze in Byron's mansion in Geneva...He was a friend of you and a handful of other poets to join him for the summer in his fancy home in hopes of having some fun and maybe between all of your poetic minds...Make a masterpiece.

But the wet stormy weather kept any of you from going outside and writing about pretty glades in the forest or sunsets or do anything productive. No love poems or flowery prose were coming out of any of you...

It was Lord Byron or LB/ Albe as you'd started to call him who had the grand idea one night. A horror story for the horrible weather. A ghost story competetion. Surely one of you could make something of substance...

And in a few weeks you'd vastly one...Your novel about galvanism, mad science, the creation of man, the relationship between creator and creation...was brilliant...It wasn't just a good story...It was a different entirely new genre. Beautiful, powerful work.

When you gave it to Byron he read it several times in a day. And now he's pulled you into his big arm chair grinning, pointing out questions and comments he has flipping through the pages, his arms around your waist his sore leg resting on your lap. He leans his head on your shoulder playful and flirty as ever.

"I do have one more question..." He purrs in your ear, toying with a curl of your hair. "Your main character...Your intelligent, brooding, handsome little scientist seems familiar." He grins and chuckles. "That's a new trope you know...People really are basing their gothic heros off of me." He says preening.