a lonely cottage, a girl the villagers whisper about, and the creature who guards her door each night.
steam & soft hands | standalone [part of what wolves fear universe]
you indulge in a bath while Adam is out hunting. He thinks you're gone when he can't immediately find you, he just wants to worship you.
now, run | standalone
adam chases reader through the forest after she saves victor from the monster, until adam decides he's done playing with victor and wants to play with her, instead.
but i would kill for you | standalone
adam would kill for you. you beg him not to. he obeys and asks for one thing in return; you.
anatomy of mercy | series
sent north in search of knowledge, you instead find a man entombed in ice—one the world insists on calling a monster. As the Royal Society closes in and restraint becomes a choice rather than a chain, love grows in the narrow space between devotion and violence, where understanding is not safety, but defiance.
i can’t stop thinking about how könig most definitely has a size kink (how could he not when he towers over the entire population) and absolutely adores how little you are compared to all 6’10 of his beefy muscled self.
and he’s massive everywhere. so when he discovers that there’s a particular angle and position that makes your belly bulge — he nearly loses his mind. he cums instantly. filling you up the second after he sees that bulge in your stomach muttering “Scheiße, liebling. is that how full i make you? i fill your little belly?” while his cock is still leaking inside of you.
after that point, it’s all he can think about.
his favourite position is in front of the huge floor to ceiling windows, on the couch. you’re lying nearly upside down on the couch, with your ass and hips on the back rest and your legs are spread wide as he slowly slides inside of you gasping out a soft “fuck, schatz. you take all of me so well. i’m in your guts and you’re taking me so good.” while his eyes are glued to where you’re connected the entire time.
his fingers are gripping your hips so hard there’s permanent indents and soft bruises there from him but you wouldn’t change a single thing. because he’s whispering “that’s it, libeling. that’s my good little girl. swallowing my cock with that sweet cunt like you’re made for me.”
and the best part? when he’s finished with you. pumping you full of cum, he’s slowly slipping out and watching it leak out of you before dropping to his knees and cleaning up because “this is too good to go to waste, schatz. i have to clean you up.” and his thick cock twitches the entire time, begging for your sweet heat again by the time he’s done.
summary: after a break-in leaves your apartment unsafe, König insists you stay with him. what begins as one night under the same roof slowly becomes something neither of you can ignore.
pairing: könig x reader
word count: 5,017 words
themes: dark romance • gothic atmosphere • aftermath of violence • neighbour König • emotional slow burn • yearning threaded with dread • devotion mistaken for damnation • restraint and release • obsession softened by tenderness • sacred intimacy • body as sanctuary • grief for the life left behind • "I'll keep you safe" • religious imagery • healing through love • home as refuge • explicit intimacy • 18+ • slight mask kink
author's note: this is so blerg. but i can't get him out of my head. as always, listen to ethel cain while reading this <3 also can't get josh from lights out of my head so idk if thats where the mask thing came from k byeee
König woke to a scream.
Not slowly, not with the dull confusion of an ordinary man who was dragged unwillingly from sleep, but all at once, every nerve in his body snapping awake before his mind had decided where he was. For one suspended second there was only darkness, the faint silver of rain against the bedroom window and the low hiss of the radiator beneath it.
Then the sound came again—muffled this time, strangled somewhere behind a wall—and instinct finished what consciousness had begun.
He was already out of bed.
His hand reached automatically toward the bedside table, searching for a weapon that had not been there in years. His fingers found only the folded black balaclava, placed precisely where he always left it, and he dragged it over his head as he crossed the room. The fabric settled over his face with the familiarity of skin. There had been a time when he had worn it because anonymity was useful, because a man became something else when his features disappeared and all that remained were his eyes. Now he wore it because being seen without it felt more naked than undressing.
Another crash sounded from across the hall.
Wood splitting.
A man swearing.
Then your voice, sharp with panic. “Get away from me.”
Something inside König went silent.
Not calm, calm was human. This was the absolute stillness of an animal lowering itself into the grass before it struck.
“Liebling,” he breathed, though there was no possibility you could hear him through the wall.
He opened his apartment door.
The corridor beyond was narrow and dim, lit only by the jaundiced bulb near the stairs. Your door stood partly open, though not because you had invited anyone inside. The frame had given way around the lock, splintered wood hanging from the wall in pale strips. A crowbar lay near the threshold and one of your shoes had been knocked into the hallway.
The man inside your apartment had his back to König.
He was average in every way that mattered—average height, average build, the kind of man who had probably spent his whole life mistaking women’s fear for proof of his own power. He had one hand twisted into the sleeve of your shirt and the other raised in warning while you fought to pull away from him.
“Stop moving,” he snapped. “I said stop.”
You struck at him with your free hand.
It was a poor blow, clumsy with terror, but it caught the edge of his cheek. His expression changed instantly and whatever he had come there to steal became secondary to the humiliation of being resisted.
“You little—”
The floor creaked behind him.
The man turned.
At first he looked irritated, then his gaze travelled upward.
And upward.
The corridor seemed to contract around König’s body. He stood barefoot in black sweatpants and a dark shirt, shoulders so broad they nearly filled the doorway behind him. At over two metres tall, he had grown accustomed to making rooms feel inadequate, but in that cramped hallway his size became something obscene. The ceiling seemed to lower over his head and the walls appeared to close behind him, sealing the only way out.
The balaclava erased his face completely.
There was no mouth to reason with and no expression from which to measure mercy. Only two pale eyes remained, fixed without blinking on the hand gripping you.
He looked less like a neighbour awakened by noise and more like the thing the noise had summoned.
The intruder released your sleeve.
“What the fuck?”
König said nothing.
He stepped inside.
One step. Slow and measured.
The man stumbled backward.
There was something deeply wrong about the quietness of him. A man of König’s size should have moved heavily. He should have announced himself in groaning floorboards and laboured breath. Instead, he crossed the apartment with the silence of something that had spent years approaching sleeping men without waking them.
“Stay back,” the intruder warned.
König’s gaze moved briefly to you.
You stood beside the kitchen counter in a thin sleep shirt and bare feet, one hand pressed against your throat. There was a red mark around your wrist where the man had held you, and a thin line of blood at your temple.
You were alive.
But you had been touched.
The distinction mattered terribly.
“I’m here, Schatz,” König said, and the tenderness of the words was made monstrous by the way he continued staring at the intruder. “Look at me. Not him.”
Your eyes found his.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Keep looking at me, mein Herz.”
The intruder reached down for the crowbar.
König crossed the room before the man’s fingers touched it.
The years of violence had taught him that speed was not frantic. Real speed was economical, that there was no wasted movement, no flourish, and no warning. One moment the man was bending toward the floor and the next König’s hand had closed around the back of his jacket, gathering fabric and flesh together in a grip so complete the man’s breath left him before his feet did.
König lifted him.
A grown man came off the ground as effortlessly as if gravity had chosen not to apply in König’s presence.
“What—wait—”
König drove him into the wall easily.
The plaster cracked outward behind the man’s shoulders and a framed print fell and shattered. Somewhere in the apartment your cat hissed, but König barely registered the sound.
The intruder clawed at his wrist.
König’s arm did not tremble.
It was not simply that he was stronger, strength implied a contest, but that this was something else entirely. The difference between them was so complete that the man’s resistance became embarrassing, the frantic kicking of an insect caught beneath a glass.
“You broke into her home,” König said.
His voice was quiet beneath the balaclava, almost gentle.
That was what finally broke the man’s nerve.
“I didn’t—”
“You put your hands on her.”
“Listen, man—”
König slammed him into the wall a second time.
“I am listening.”
The bulb above them flickered and for half a second König disappeared into darkness, and when the light returned he seemed to have moved closer without crossing the space between them.
The man began to choke.
He was beginning to realize that whatever rules governed ordinary violence did not apply here. There would be no shouting match, no exchange of threats, no opportunity to run while anger made the larger man careless. König was not angry in any recognizable way. He was attentive, deliberate and horribly present.
“Please,” the man whispered.
König tilted his head.
“You did not stop when she said that.”
Then, he threw him.
___
Later, when König caught you before your knees struck the floor, the violence vanished from him so suddenly it might never have existed.
One moment he had been kneeling over a ruined man with blood soaked into the fabric of his shirt and pants; the next his arm was around your waist, holding you with such restraint that even his fingertips seemed afraid of leaving another mark on you.
“I’ve got you, Liebling.”
“I can stand.”
“No.”
“König—”
“No, mein Herz.” His voice dropped until it was meant only for you. “You have been brave enough. Let me carry you now.”
He slipped one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back. Your body left the floor without effort. There was no grunt of exertion, no need for him to adjust his grip. He simply rose, unfolding to his full, impossible height with you held securely against his chest.
Your cat brushed against König's boot, purring quietly before following a step behind him.
König glanced down briefly. "Persistent."
"So is he."
His eyes lifted to yours.
"Let's go."
____
When the officer told him to put you down, König’s arms tightened almost imperceptibly around you.
“Sir,” the officer repeated, his hand hovering near his holster, “put the woman down.”
König looked at him.
The officer was not a small man, but beneath König’s gaze he seemed to become aware of every vulnerable part of his own body. His throat, his wrists, the unprotected space beneath his ribs.
“She cannot stand,” König said.
“We have paramedics coming.”
“Then they can examine her inside.”
“You don’t give the orders here.”
König took one slow step forward and the officer’s hand closed around the grip of his weapon.
You felt the change move through König’s body. Not tension, but readiness. Beneath your cheek, his heartbeat remained unnervingly slow.
“König,” you whispered.
His eyes lowered to yours at once.
“Please.”
That single word did what the officer’s weapon could not and König stepped back.
“Of course, Liebling.”
The officer stared at you, then at the giant masked man who had obeyed you without hesitation and something like unease crossed his face.
Not because König was out of control.
Because he clearly was not, but because everyone in the corridor had just learned who controlled him.
____
The couch was comfortable.
More comfortable than you had expected, actually. König had argued against it the moment you insisted, standing in the middle of the living room like a dark, immovable monument while you pointed out the obvious.
You fit on the couch.
He did not.
Even sitting, his knees nearly reached the low table in front of it, and the thought of all six-foot-ten of him folded awkwardly beneath a blanket had been enough to make the decision for both of you. He had protested anyway, of course, his voice low and stubborn behind the balaclava, but you had refused to let the man who had already thrown himself through your front door and nearly beaten someone to death for you spend the rest of the night twisted painfully across a sofa half his size.
Eventually, he had given in.
Reluctantly.
Now, lying beneath one of his blankets with your cat curled against the bend of your knees, you almost regretted winning.
The fabric smelled like him.
Clean soap, something earthy, and the faint trace of gunpowder that seemed to cling to him no matter how many times he showered. It should have been comforting. Instead, it made you painfully aware that he was only down the hall, behind a half-closed door, separated from you by a few metres and every feeling neither of you had dared to name.
You stared at the ceiling until your eyes began to burn and the ache between your legs only spread hotter.
It was no use.
You shouldn't have been thinking about him like this, not after everything that had happened. But every time you closed your eyes, you saw him standing between you and the man who had broken into your home. You remembered how effortlessly he'd lifted you into his arms, how easily he'd carried you to safety, and the memory sent a slow wave of heat through your body that you couldn't bring yourself to fight.
Carefully, you eased your legs out from beneath the cat and stood. He lifted his head, blinked at you once, then tucked his nose beneath his paw and went back to sleep.
The hallway was dark, lit only by the weak silver of rain slipping through the windows. You moved quietly, though you knew it was pointless. König seemed to hear everything. A shift in breathing, the smallest catch of fabric, the soft press of bare feet against hardwood.
His bedroom door was open.
You paused outside it.
He was awake.
Of course he was.
König sat against the headboard with one knee drawn beneath the blanket, a book open in one hand and the lamp beside him casting a low, amber glow across the room. He had changed into a black T-shirt and loose sweatpants, but the balaclava remained in place like it always did.
The moment your shadow crossed the doorway, his head lifted and the book closed immediately.
“What’s wrong?”
There was no sleep in his voice. Only a quiet, instant concern that settled over you more completely than any blanket could have.
You curled your fingers against the doorframe. “Nothing.”
His eyes narrowed slightly at your unconvincing answer, and both of you knew it.
“I can’t sleep,” you admitted.
Something in his shoulders loosened, though not entirely. “Come here.”
The words came so quickly that for a second you wondered whether he had been waiting for you.
You looked at the bed, then back at him. It was large, made larger still by how little space he seemed to occupy despite the impossible breadth of him. He had kept himself confined to one side, as though some part of him had already imagined making room.
“König—”
“Liebling.” His voice softened. “Come here.”
That was all it took.
You crossed the room and slid beneath the blanket, keeping a careful stretch of mattress between you. The bed dipped beneath your weight, barely noticeable compared to the deep pull of his body beside yours.
König watched you settle.
Then he looked at the space between you.
“You can come closer.”
Heat climbed into your face despite the coolness of the room. “I’m fine here.”
“You came into my room because you couldn’t sleep.”
“That doesn’t mean I need to be on top of you.”
A pause.
“No,” he said, quieter now. “I suppose it doesn’t.”
Something in the way he said it made your stomach twist. You turned onto your side, facing him. “Were you reading?”
“Trying to.”
“You were waiting.”
His eyes shifted back to yours, but he did not bother denying it.
The silence that followed was different from the ones before. It was no longer empty. It felt full to the point of breaking, crowded with the weight of everything that had happened and everything that had nearly happened with it.
König set the book on the nightstand.
“I heard you moving around out there,” he said.
“You could have told me to come in.”
“I wanted you to choose it.” The words settled somewhere deep in your chest.
Outside, rain dragged slowly down the glass. Inside, the room felt too warm.
You moved closer before you could think better of it, not enough to touch him, but enough that the distance between you no longer felt deliberate.
König went still.
His breathing changed. Barely, but you noticed.
“You look at me like that,” he said after a moment, “and then you wonder why I cannot sleep.”
Your pulse fluttered. “Like what?”
“Like you do not know what it does to me.”
His voice was rougher now, stripped of the careful steadiness he usually held onto so tightly.
You swallowed. “What does it do to you?”
For a long moment, he only stared.
The mask hid almost everything, but his eyes had never learned how to lie to you. Not when he was angry, not when he was frightened and certainly not now, when they dragged over your face with a hunger so controlled it became more intense for all the restraint wrapped around it.
“It makes me want things I have spent a very long time trying not to want.”
Your breath caught.
“König…”
“I have been careful with you.” His hand shifted against the blanket, fingers curling into the fabric. “More careful than you know.”
You looked down at the movement, at the tension running through his knuckles.
“Why?”
A humourless breath left him. “Because once I start touching you, I do not think I will want to stop.”
The room seemed to narrow around you.
He turned his head away, as though the confession had cost him something.
“I have imagined it too many times,” he continued, each word quieter than the last. “What you would feel like beneath my hands. What sounds you would make if I touched you properly. How long I could keep you there before you forgot everything except me.”
Your whole body went warm.
He looked back at you then, eyes sharpening as if searching for any sign that he had gone too far.
“I should not be telling you this.”
“Why not?”
“Because tonight frightened you.”
“You didn’t.”
His gaze dropped.
“You saw what I did.”
“I saw what he did first.”
“That does not make me gentle.”
“No,” you whispered. “But you are with me.”
Something in him broke at that.
Not loudly, not completely, but just enough. His hand lifted, hovering near your face without touching. Even now, even after everything he had said, he waited.
You leaned into his palm.
The contact was immediate and careful. His hand cupped your cheek, warm and impossibly large, thumb resting just beneath your eye. The tenderness of it stood in brutal contrast to the memory of those same hands bloodied in your kitchen.
König’s breath left him slowly. “You should not make this so easy for me.”
“I’m not.”
“No?”
You shook your head against his palm, pressing a kiss to the calloused and rough skin. “You’ve been making it hard for both of us.”
For the first time that night, something almost like a smile softened his eyes before it disappeared again, swallowed by the weight of everything that had happened.
His thumb brushed lightly across your cheek, careful enough that you almost wondered if you'd imagined it.
"I've been trying very hard not to cross this line," he said quietly.
You searched his face, finding only your own reflection in his eyes.
"What line?"
"You."
The word barely rose above a whisper.
"You've been my neighbour for months." He let out a slow breath. "Every morning I'd hear your door before mine. Every evening I'd wonder if you'd made it home safely. I told myself it was nothing."
His gaze drifted away for a moment.
"It stopped being nothing a long time ago."
Your heart stumbled. "And tonight..." His jaw tightened beneath the balaclava. "When I heard you scream..."
He didn't finish the sentence, not that he had to.
"I thought I was too late."
The confession settled heavily between you. Before you could stop yourself, you closed the distance without thinking, your hand finding his where it rested on the blanket.
His fingers twitched beneath yours but didn't move.
"You weren't," you whispered.
"No."
"You found me."
His eyes closed briefly, as though hearing those words eased something that had been holding him together by sheer force of will. When he looked at you again, the guardedness he'd worn since carrying you out of your apartment had finally begun to crack.
"I don't want anything from you tonight," he said. "Not an answer. Not an explanation."
His thumb turned beneath your hand, carefully lacing your fingers together.
"I just needed to know you were alive."
Emotion tightened your throat.
"I am."
"I know."
His voice was impossibly gentle. "I've been repeating that to myself for the last two hours."
Silence settled between you again, softer this time and you shifted a little closer, until your shoulder rested against his arm. He looked down at the point where you touched, then back at you.
"Is this alright?" he asked.
You nodded. "It's more than alright."
Only then did he lift his hand to your face again, resting it lightly against your cheek as though he was still afraid you might disappear before moving down to cup your jaw.
You moved closer again, until your knee brushed his beneath the blanket and König’s fingers tightened lightly at your jaw.
“Liebling.” The warning in his voice was thin.
His eyes searched yours before the words that broke his composure tumbled from your mouth.
“Touch me.”
The air shifted and for one suspended second, neither of you moved.
Then König’s hand slid from your jaw to the side of your neck, his palm covering nearly all of it. His thumb rested beneath your jaw, feeling the frantic beat of your pulse. He drew you closer slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away.
You did not.
His forehead pressed against yours, the fabric of the balaclava rough against your skin.
“Tell me if I frighten you.”
“You don’t.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“You don’t frighten me.”
His eyes closed.
It was the closest thing to relief you had ever seen from him.
His other hand found your waist beneath the blanket, settling there with such restraint that it almost hurt. He held you as though he had imagined this exact moment so many times that reality had become something sacred, something too fragile to rush.
“I want to touch every part of you,” he murmured. “I want to learn what you like. I want to know what you sound like when you cum.”
Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt.
“König…”
Your fingers caught the front of his shirt, tugging him toward you as you swung one leg over his lap. König's hands found your hips almost instantly, steady and impossibly warm as he guided you the rest of the way until you were settled against him. From where he sat, he had to tilt his head back to meet your eyes, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands as he kept you securely in his lap.
"This is better than I have ever imagined." He whispered.
Your hand slid from his shoulder to the edge of his balaclava, your fingers catching the worn fabric between your thumb and forefinger. You held his gaze the entire time, giving him every opportunity to stop you.
He didn't.
Slowly, you folded the fabric just high enough to uncover his mouth.
His lips parted on a quiet breath, but there was no hesitation in his eyes. If anything, they darkened.
"So," he murmured, his voice lower than before, "this is what you've been thinking about."
Heat rushed to your face.
"I..."
A corner of his mouth lifted into the faintest hint of a smile.
"I was wondering how long it would take."
Your fingers were still resting against the fabric when his hand closed gently around your wrist. Not to stop you, just to keep it there.
"You should know something before you keep looking at me like that, Liebling."
Your pulse hammered beneath his fingertips.
"If you kiss me..."
He leaned in until only a breath separated the two of you.
"...I'm not going to pretend it doesn't mean anything."
You searched his eyes for even the smallest hint of doubt, but you found none.
"Kiss me," you whispered.
"I was planning to."
The words had barely left his mouth before he closed the distance.
His lips found yours with quiet certainty—unhurried, deliberate, as though he'd imagined this moment enough times to know exactly how he wanted it to happen. One hand settled firmly at your waist while the other remained around your wrist, his thumb brushing absently over your pulse as he held you there for a heartbeat longer before finally pulling back.
When he opened his eyes again, they hadn't left yours once.
"...There," he said, his voice rough with satisfaction. "I've wanted to do that for a very long time."
You moaned softly when he rolled his hips up against yours. Shit, you thought, there was no way. He felt impossibly big under you, but the thought of being spread open like that, cunt stretching around him, only made your panties even slicker.
There was no turning back now. The look in König's eyes made that abundantly clear.
With effortless strength, he shifted your weight beneath him until your back met the mattress. This close, there was no mistaking the heat of his cock pressed against your core. He didn't say a word—he didn't have to. His mouth found the curve of your neck as one hand settled against your hip.
"Are you going to let me take care of you now, Schatz?" he murmured against your skin.
"Yes," you breathed, the word barely more than a whisper.
He barely looked human like this.
His eyes were dark with restrained desire, the balaclava still concealing most of his face, leaving only his mouth exposed. His jaw was tense, one sharp canine catching his bottom lip as though he was holding himself back by sheer force of will.
The thin fabric of your sleep shirt disappeared in one swift motion, leaving your skin exposed to the cool night air. A shiver ran through you as his hand settled at your waist, his fingers catching the waistband of your underwear while his gaze roamed over you with quiet, unmistakable hunger.
"I need to see you, Liebling," he murmured, his voice rough. "I need to taste you."
A low, restrained sound rumbled in his chest before he settled between your parted legs, staring at your begging cunt with nothing but greed in his gaze.
"Scheiße."
Then his mouth found you with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. He lingered there, relentless and unhurried all at once, as though he couldn't get enough of you, as though every second only left him wanting more. Your body trembled beneath him, your fingers twisting the sheets while he held you there with unwavering focus, utterly consumed by you.
"You are," he licked a stripe up your pussy, "trembling" He sucked on your clit, popping it from his mouth only to look up and witness just how fast you were falling apart.
The laugh that left your lips was humourless. I'm going to die, you thought, when he slid two fingers into you and began pumping them in and out while hooking them deep inside of you.
You barely had time to recognize you were going to come, your walls clenching around him, legs shaking on his shoulders.
"That's it," Oh God, he was going to talk you through it.
Tears welled in your eyes, almost burning as hot as the knot in your core was.
"Stay with me." He said against your spasaming pussy. "I've got you, Liebling. I'll catch you."
You came apart beneath him, a broken sob catching in your throat as you bit down hard enough on your lip to taste blood. The intensity left your head spinning, every coherent thought slipping away while he kept you firmly beneath him, completely at his mercy.
"You have no idea what you've unleashed," König growled.
In one swift motion, he pulled his shirt over his head before discarding the rest of his clothes without ever taking his eyes off you. The balaclava remained firmly in place, concealing everything but his mouth as pale moonlight carved sharp lines across his broad shoulders and powerful frame.
"Fuck," you gaped at him.
His cock stood tall, proud at the way it twitched when his eyes focused on your dripping cunt. Big was an understatement, he was massive.
When he settled over you, his forearms braced on either side of your head, holding you effortlessly beneath him, you realized there was nowhere else you'd rather be.
"Will it..." you stumbled awkwardly, "fit?"
A faint smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth, followed by a low, amused chuckle.
"I will make sure it fits, Liebling."
With one hand at the base of his cock, he pushed the head through your folds, collecting the remnants of your orgasm and slick before you felt him prodding at your entrance.
"Breathe," was all he said before he inched in.
You forgot how. Every muscle in your body locked tight as tension swept through you. A low groan escaped him, and he let his forehead fall against your shoulder, lingering there for a moment as he fought to steady his breathing.
"Schatz," he nearly begged. "I won't ask twice. Breathe."
You exhaled the breath you were holding, willing yourself to relax and he pushed further and deeper in. The stretch burned, but the fullness was otherworldly.
When he bottomed out, his eyes met yours again.
"I knew I'd fit here." His voice wrecked as he applied the slightest of pressure on your lower belly.
Then, his hips snapped against yours. A brutal pace that cause his headboard to knock against the wall with such force you thought you'd end up in the apartment next door.
But you couldn't bring yourself to care—not when König looked as though he was hanging on by the thinnest thread of self-control. A mix of English and German falling from his lips while his eyes were locked on where he disappeared inside of you.
"König," his name fell from your lips naturally and you noticed how his rhythm stuttered when you did.
He liked hearing his name.
So you spoke his name again.
And again.
Until it became less a name and more a prayer, whispered into the darkness like a hymn neither of you deserved to hear. Each repetition unraveled another thread of his restraint, until the man who had survived battlefields and bloodshed sounded as though he was pleading for a salvation only you could ever grant.
"I'm yours, tell me, Schtaz. Tell me I'm yours." He begged as his hips bore in and out of you at a bruising pace and fuck how could you deny him.
"I'm yours. All yours."
A raw, broken sound escaped him as the last of his composure gave way. He sank his teeth against the curve of your neck, holding you with a fierce, almost desperate tenderness, as though he feared that if he loosened his grip for even a moment, you might disappear.
His cum came leaking out of you almost immediately, coating your thighs and the sheets as he barely held himself up over you, breath fanning over your face.
He looked at you for a long time, saying nothing. Whatever storm had lived behind his eyes all night had finally settled into something far more dangerous—certainty. There was no hesitation left, no doubt, only the quiet acceptance of a man who had reached the end of one life and stepped willingly into another.
"Whatever I was before tonight died in your apartment," he said, his voice so soft it almost disappeared into the dark. "Everything that lives after this belongs to you."
the sluttiest thing a man can do is look at you with eyes like this pretending like he isn’t undressing you and imagining what you would look like taking his cock while he guides you through it whispering “take it all liebling, or you won’t get it again.”
adam frankenstein being so pathetically and utterly obsessed with you that he’ll do anything just to get a taste of you. he doesn’t know why he’s craving you, but the second your scent hit him, primal urges took over and all he knew is he needed to dull the ache between his thighs.
then. one day. he finally tasted you. devoured you right up.
it was messy and animalistic and unholy.
he meant to get you on the bed, but he couldn’t wait. instead, tripping over his own feet and floorboards before cushioning your fall and immediately clawing at your skirts. “i have spent,” hungry, wild eyes taking in your bare thighs. “an eternity searching for what will satiate the ache.”
his fingers are digging into your skin and even though you shouldn’t want this. you should be afraid and disgusted and horrified. instead, you’re grabbing for his hair, tugging him closer. “it is you and only you i need.”
then, he’s diving in. he doesn’t know what he’s doing, something sick and twisted taking over instead. his tongue is lapping at your folds, sucking and swallowing everything you’re giving him. he’s so desperate, pulling you impossibly close against his face that you think he’s stopped breathing altogether.
“this,” he pants. “this is my salvation.” his fingers enter you soon after, curl in and exploring your body until your moans fill the small cottage and you’re writhing underneath him. he sees this as an annoyance, huffing as he throws an arm around your abdomen “stay. still.”
and when you cum? all over his face? he’s licking it all up, chest heaving and eyes completely darkened with lust and possession. because once adam frankenstein has tasted you, another ache begins. the ache that can only be cured by being so deep inside of you that he forgets about everything that isn’t you.
"In a lot of Guillermo's films, and in great sort of monster films, there's an emphasis on the hands. So I think in terms of alluding to something, there's this shot in Cronos, I had that at the front of journal."
könig buried to the hilt inside of you, your legs bent and pressed to his chest. his body keeping you pinned against the mattress while he has a vibrator on the highest setting pressed against your clit as he whispers “one more, liebling, give me one more.”
before he’s coaxing and talking you through yet another orgasm that has you spinning and tears rimming your eyes. he’s made you cum 3 times without a single thrust , whispering “this is all about you, schatz. you feel this?” as he flexes his dick inside of you, making you whimper.
“this is all yours. remember that, maus. this is yours to use.” before he’s slowly rocking his hips against yours, bringing you to one more orgasm before his breathy moans fill the room and you’re spent—absolutely exhausted. “don’t worry, schatz. i’ll clean you up.”
before his head is in between your legs, lapping up both yours and his arousal and humming like the sick fuck he is because he just can’t get enough of you. all he wants is to be buried between your legs, watching as he’s the reason you’re seeing stars.
And then I learned it. The horror of the truth. I understood that I was nothing. A wretch. A blot. Not even of the same nature as man.
This hurt clung to my mind. It never let go.
