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@elizabeatles on twt adam frankenstein lover 18+

[elizabeatles]

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— about me:

nineteen yrs old & the creature / frankenstein blog

@elizabeatles on twt (moving my imagines & blurbs over here)

— byf: will mainly write the creature x reader content that will contain nsfw content at times !

asks and spam likes are okay! share any adam frankenstein thoughts!

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[bucksfucks]

"now, run."

summary: 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.

pairing: the creature x reader

word count: 5,913 words

themes: dubcon, light non-con, this is a dark fic, unprotected sex, oral, monster sex, talk of murder and death, violence, cat and mouse, alludes to reader being a virgin, victor being a bitch, fear, stalking, 18+ ONLY MDNI

author's note: this adam makes me fear for my life and i love it i wish this was me and my therapist will be hearing about this

You grew up on stories about the monsters in the woods.

Shadows that walked. Voices that mimicked. Eyes that gleamed between the trees, watching from the treeline whenever a light burned too late in a cottage window.

Parents told those stories to keep their children close.

The monster, they said, would take you if you wandered.

You believed them, of course, until you got older. Until you saw what real monsters looked like.

The monsters weren't ugly and uncivilized, the monsters were men. Men with polite smiles and cold hands. Men who drank too much and laughed when you said no. Men who looked at you like a prize instead of a person.

Compared to them, the thing in the forest felt almost… honest.

At least monsters didn’t pretend to be anything else.

You might have gone your whole life never knowing whether the tales were real, if not for the night Victor Frankenstein staggered through your front door drenched in rain and pure terror.

You found him on the road, mud splattered up his coat, eyes wide and bloodshot. You thought he was drunk at first, or maybe sick. Then, he clutched at your wrist when you reached for him.

“He’s coming,” Victor rasped. “Please. Please. I’ll pay anything. Just let me in. He’s coming.”

You should have turned him away, stranger ranting about some unseen threat—nothing good could follow. But the urgency and fear in his voice compelled you to open your door to him.

So you let him in anyway.

You always were too soft-hearted, as your father reminded. Too curious, too easily hooked by disaster or a firing gun.

He sat by the fire and shook like he was freezing from the inside out. As the hours passed and the wind howled outside, pieces of the story slipped out between trembling lips.

He was a doctor. No, more than that. A genius, he said. Brilliant. Visionary.

Arrogant. Pompous. Vain.

He spoke of graveyards and lightning and blasphemy dressed up as science. He told you he had built something, a man, almost, stitched from death and dragged screaming into life.

You would have laughed if he hadn’t looked so utterly, irrevocably haunted.

“He hates me,” Victor whispered, staring into the flames as if he saw something else there. “He should. I made him…and then I left him. I ran. I thought—I thought time would dull his rage.”

“How long has it been?” you asked.

He swallowed. “Years.”

“And now?”

Victor’s jaw clenched. “Now he’s found me again.”

There it was. The monster in flesh and blood, no longer a myth, but a man-made nightmare. You should have told Victor to leave, yet you didn’t.

You let him stay and sleep in your spare room. You tried to convince yourself the heaviness in the air was just a storm rolling in, not fate tightening its grip around your throat.

On the third night, the trees began to whisper.

You woke to a sound outside your window. Not an animal and certainly not the wind.

A footstep. Heavy. Measured. Terrifyingly calculated.

You crept to the glass as quietly as you could. The forest beyond your cottage was a dark mass of trunks and shadows, the moon a blurred coin behind clouds.

At first, you saw nothing.

Then the world shifted, and you realized the “tree” you’d been staring at…was breathing deeply and unevenly.

He stepped forward into the moonlight and every story you’d ever heard about monsters felt like a children’s rhyme compared to what stood before you.

Tall didn’t even begin to cover it. He towered. Massive shoulders, heavy arms, hands that could probably crush bone without effort. Scars crisscrossed his face and throat, some puckered, some clean like old surgical work. His hair was dark and tangled, dishevelled to match his ghastly appearance.

He was grotesque. He was beautiful. He was wrong.

His eyes found your window with unnatural precision and you froze. He just stared, standing motionless.

You didn’t know how long you stood there, locked in his gaze. Long enough for your breath to slow instead of quicken. Long enough to understand instinctively: he could see you. Really see you. Not just as another warm body in a lit room.

As you.

Then he turned his head slightly, like he heard something in the distance. You watched as his lips peeled back in a humourless hint of what you could only describe as a smile.

Without a word, he disappeared back into the trees. That night, you didn’t sleep.

Victor insisted in the morning you must have dreamt it. But you saw the way his hands shook when you mentioned a figure in the dark and you saw the sweat bead at his hairline.

“He won’t come near you,” Victor said too quickly. “He wants me. Only me.”

You weren’t sure if that was meant to comfort or reassure himself. It did neither.

The next day, the villagers spoke of deep footprints at the forest edge. Broken branches and trunks. A cow had gone missing from its pasture.

By sunset, the sky bruised purple and black, and you felt it—like something in the air shifted, the tension drawn tighter.

You knew he was close.

You just didn’t expect him to walk straight out of the trees before your eyes under the darkening sky.

It happened near the clearing beyond your garden after Victor insisted on “getting some fresh air.” He nearly jumped out of his skin when a crow flapped its wings too close to him.

“Maybe we should go back insi—” The words died in his throat.

Because something was stepping out of the tree line. Not hurried. Not stealthy. Certain.

You recognized him.

That impossible body, that scar-drawn face, those eyes that looked less like an animal’s and more like a god who’d been dragged face-first through hell.

Adam.

You didn’t know how you knew his name. No one had spoken it. Maybe it was the way he carried it in his bones.

Victor stumbled backward. “No—no, no, no—”

Adam’s gaze slid right over him and landed on you.

This time, there was no glass between you. No safety. No distance. Just cold air, damp earth, and the weight of a creature whose existence should have been impossible staring at you like you’d been placed here for him.

“Victor,” Adam said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in your ribs. “You ran.”

Victor’s breath hitched. “Please...don’t—”

“I gave you time,” Adam went on, ignoring his plea. “Years. I learned. I watched. I waited. I asked myself if I could forgive you.” His eyes didn’t leave your face. “The answer was no.”

Victor shook his head, stepping between the two of you. “She has nothing to do with this.”

Adam tilted his head slightly, eyes glittering. “Is that so?”

He took one step closer.

You should have moved back, but you couldn't find the will to do so. Your body felt carved from stone and adrenaline, sown to the ground you were standing on.

Adam’s attention dropped, just for a heartbeat, to Victor’s hand where it hovered near you.

You saw how his jaw ticked and worked.

“Funny,” he said coldly. “He said the same thing about me once. ‘Nothing to do with this.’ A side effect. A mistake.”

He took another step.

Victor’s voice rose in pitch. “Please...if you must kill someone, kill me—”

Adam still didn’t look at him. “What’s your name?” he asked you, calm and low.

You swallowed, your mouth dry. You told him. He repeated it, like he was testing how it tasted in his mouth. You felt that more than you should have.

“Pretty,” he murmured. “Does he own you, too?”

“No,” you snapped before you could think. “No one owns me.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. “Good,” he said softly.

Victor grabbed your wrist. “Get inside. Now.”

Adam’s gaze dropped to where Victor touched you and the air changed immediately.

Slow and deliberate, he stepped around Victor like he was a piece of furniture and not a man. Victor tried to block him again, but Adam merely placed one large hand on his shoulder and pushed.

Victor flew.

He hit the ground hard, the air knocked out of him. Adam didn’t spare him even a flicker of a glance.

He stopped in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look up at him. Close enough that you could see the stitches at the edge of his jaw, the small irregularity in his left pupil, the faint scent of rain and forest and something metallic clinging to him.

Up close, the “monster” was less a horror and more…a collision of contradictions. Rage and restraint. Power and precision. Violence and, somehow, a thread of aching loneliness wound tightly beneath it all.

You realized, in that moment, that Victor hadn’t just created a monster. He’d created a man and then abandoned him.

Adam looked down at you like you were an equation he was solving.

“You let him stay in your home,” he said quietly. “You fixed his wounds. Fed him. Kept him warm.”

Your lips parted. How did he know?

“You watched me from your window,” he added calmly. “You didn’t scream.” His eyes searched yours. “You should have.”

“I wasn’t afraid,” you lied, watching as his mouth twitched.

“You were,” he said. “Just not the way you think.”

Your heart stuttered as Victor coughed behind you. “Please...leave her out—”

Adam’s expression didn’t change, but his voice dropped, dangerous and soft.

“Get up again,” he said without looking at Victor, “and I will break something in your precious body.”

Victor stayed on the ground while Adam’s attention shifted entirely to you.

“I’ve been watching him for a long time,” he murmured. “Running. Hiding. Lying.” His gaze dragged slowly down your body, then back up, not lecherous, not polite, just…assessing. Claiming. “And then I saw you.”

You swallowed. “So what, I’m a witness?”

His pupils thinned. “No,” he said. “You’re a variable.”

You didn’t know whether to shiver or scoff. “What do you want?”

A slow, dark smile ghosted across his lips. “I want to see something.”

You don’t know why that scared you more than any threat could have.

He took a step back from you, just enough that you could move if you wanted to. The forest loomed at his back, every tree suddenly feeling like part of him.

His eyes gleamed.

“Run,” he said.

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

He nodded toward the trees. “Run.”

Victor wheezed, “Don’t you touch her—”

Adam’s hand twitched once, annoyance flickering across his features. “This isn’t about you anymore,” he said flatly, still looking at you. “It’s about her.”

Your voice came out quiet. “Why?”

“Because I want to know,” he murmured, “what you do when you’re afraid.”

His tone was almost gentle and that made it worse, but still, you didn’t move.

You stood there, heart hammering, while every instinct screamed at you to obey and bolt—but there was something else, too. Something traitorous. A spark of heat in your chest that had nothing to do with fear.

He watched you, patient.

“Run,” he said again, this time softer, more dangerous. “Before I change my mind and skip straight to the part where I catch you.”

That got you moving.

You turned and sprinted toward the tree line, lungs seizing with cold air, skirts tangling around your legs. The forest swallowed you fast that the cottage vanished from sight, the world shrinking down to your beating heart, cracking twigs, and the rush of your own breath.

For a few fierce seconds, you could almost pretend this was just another late-night dash through the woods like you’d done as a child. You knew these trees, you knew these paths and if you could reach the creek, the old oak, the slope.

A low laugh rolled through the darkness behind you. You risked a glance over your shoulder. He was there. Of course he was there.

Not right behind you—no. That would have been mercy. He walked.

Effortless. Unhurried. His long strides ate up the ground with terrifying ease, but he didn’t run. He was holding back.

He was letting you widen the gap. Letting you think you were doing something. You simply pushed harder.

Branches whipped your face, roots lurked like traps beneath the leaves. The cold cut your lungs raw, causing a deep ache. Still, you ran. Because if you stopped, if you let yourself feel the way his gaze burned between your shoulder blades, you didn’t know what would happen.

“You’re fast,” his voice drifted through the trees. “For someone who’s never been hunted before.”

You nearly tripped at the sound. It was closer than it had any right to be.

“How—” you gasped, putting all your weight into climbing a small hill, “—are you...still talking?”

He chuckled and the sound was dark and almost joyful.

“You’re the one running,” he said. “I’m just enjoying my view.”

Heat flared in your chest. Anger. Embarrassment. A reluctant, unwanted thrill you didn’t have time to unpack. “You’re insane!” you shouted.

“Probably,” he called back. “Keep going. I want to see how far you think you can get.”

Your legs burned.

You veered left, deeper into the forest where the undergrowth grew thicker. You could hear water nearby, it was the stream. If you crossed it, maybe you could mask your scent, hide under the overhang near the rocks like you did as a child. You half-slid, half-stumbled down the incline toward the rushing sound.

The stream appeared in front of you, black and fast. You didn’t hesitate.

You splashed through, cold water biting into your boots, soaking your skirts. You reached the other side and scrambled up the muddy bank, fingers digging into damp earth. Your lungs screamed and your heart battered at your ribs.

You tucked yourself into the hollow under a large, tangled root system, the earth cool against your back. You stifled your breathing as best you could, pressing a hand over your mouth to muffle the gasps.

Silence.

Then, a footstep.

On the other side of the water.

Your entire body went still.

You couldn’t see him from where you hid, you could only hear him. The deliberate slosh of boots through water, the slow crunch of leaves on your side of the stream.

He knew. You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that would help. His voice came from far too close.

“Clever.”

You flinched.

“Most people run in a straight line,” he mused aloud, as if chatting with himself. “They don’t bother with cover. They think speed is enough.” A pause. “You broke my sightline. You crossed the water. You hid.”

Dry leaves shifted just beyond your hiding place.

“Very clever,” he repeated softly. “But you’re shaking the ground with your heartbeat, do you know that?”

You clamped your teeth down on your hand, hard enough to sting. He stopped right in front of your hiding spot. You didn’t breathe, couldn't breathe.

Time stretched. Hung. Trembled. Stopped altogether.

Then, with infuriating casualness, he crouched down and flipped the dangling roots aside like a curtain.

"Found you." He sang.

You stared up at him, chest heaving. He filled the entry, blocking the faint moonlight behind him. For a moment, neither of you dared to move.

His eyes roamed over you, taking in your damp clothes, mud-streaked knees, trembling fingers digging into the earth.

You expected mockery. Instead, he looked…pleased.

“You made it farther than he would have,” Adam said quietly. You didn’t have to ask who he meant, Victor probably already halfway to the next town over.

Coward.

“Let me go,” you managed, your voice hoarse. “You’ve proven your point.”

His head tilted. “Have I?”

“My heart is pounding, I’m filthy, I’m terrified. Congratulations.”

“Are you?” he asked. You frowned. “Am I what?”

“Terrified.”

Your throat tightened. “Yes.”

He reached in. You tried to kick, lash out, claw at him. It didn’t matter because his hand closed around your ankle with an unyielding grip, warm and solid.

He only had to tug once.

You slid straight out of your hiding place like prey dragged from a den.

You hit the ground on your back, air punching out from your lungs. Before you could scramble away, a shadow moved over you, and then he was there. One hand braced beside your head, the other still wrapped around your ankle, pinning you down with a fraction of his strength.

You could feel how careful that fraction was.

He leaned over you, his body heat seeping through your soaked clothes, the scent of damp earth and something electric clinging to his skin.

“Look at you,” he murmured.

You glared up at him. “Get off—”

“You’re shaking,” he cut in. “Breathing like you’ve swallowed the storm. Skin flushed. Eyes blown wide.” His gaze darkened. “You call it fear.”

Your chest rose and fell too fast and too uneven. “What else would you call it?”

His hand slid from your ankle to your calf, then to your knee, his touch slow, deliberate, never fully gentle. You felt every inch of contact like a spark.

“I’ve seen fear,” he said. “Real fear. The kind that stinks of sweat and piss and desperation.” His eyes burned into yours. “This isn’t that.”

You fought the urge to squirm. “Stop pretending I want this,” you snapped. “I didn’t ask—”

A harsh, humorless sound escaped him. “You didn’t say no either.”

Your breath stalled. “You told me to run.”

“Yes,” he said simply. “And you did. But not the way they do.” His eyes flicked down to your parted lips, then back up. “You looked back three times. Do you know that?”

You said nothing.

“You wanted to see me,” he murmured. “You wanted to know how close I was.”

“Because you’re hunting me,” you spat.

His mouth curved in a sinister way.

“Yes,” he admitted. “But tell me the truth.” His face lowered, his nose brushing the side of yours, his voice dropping to a rasp. “Did you really want me far away?”

Your heart slammed so hard it hurt.

You hated that he could read you. Hated that you couldn’t lie convincingly right now. Hated that somewhere beneath the panic and adrenaline there was a twisted, burning thrill at being seen like this by something so utterly, terrifyingly focused on you.

“Even if I did,” you whispered, “what difference does it make?”

Everything in his expression shifted.

He loosened his grip on your leg, only to slide his hand to your hip, fingers spreading as if measuring how much of you he could hold in his palm.

“It makes,” he said softly, “all the difference in the world.”

He lowered his head to your throat and you froze.

His nose brushed your skin, his breath warm against the rapid pulse hammering under the surface. He inhaled slowly, deeply, like he was committing your scent to memory.

A shiver tore through you. You couldn’t help it. He felt it too.

A low, pleased sound rumbled in his chest. “There,” he murmured. “That’s the truth.”

Your voice trembled. “You said you wanted Victor. Not me.”

“I wanted revenge,” he corrected, his lips ghosting over the hollow at the base of your throat without ever really touching you. “That’s different.” His grip on your hip tightened. “You, I want for something else.”

“Like what?” you asked, though part of you already knew.

His head lifted, his eyes locking onto yours.

“You really don’t know?” he asked, almost amused.

“I want to hear you say it,” you shot back, surprising even yourself with the challenge in your tone.

For a heartbeat, he just stared at you. Then the corner of his mouth lifted, not kindly. Dark. Wicked. Dangerous.

“Dangerous,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’re dangerous.”

He shifted, his body settling more fully over yours, bracing his weight on his arms so he didn’t crush you but kept you pinned between him and the unyielding forest floor.

You were trapped.

“I’ve spent years alone,” he said, his voice growing rougher with every word. “Hiding in shadows. Watching life happen to everyone but me. Listening to their laughter, their pleasure, their cries.” His eyes flared. “Wanting. Always wanting. Never allowed to have.”

His hand slid up your side, fingers splaying against your ribs, the heat of his touch burning away some of the chill from the stream.

“And now…” He swallowed once, thickly. “Now you stand in front of me and tell me I should pretend I don’t want you?”

Your breath hitched.

“I didn’t—”

“But you didn’t tell me to stop,” he said. “You didn’t tell me to let you go. Even now,” he added softly, “you’re not telling me to get off you. You’re asking me questions.”

He leaned down until his lips hovered a breath away from yours.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, “and I will.”

The forest held its breath with you.

You stared up at him, every nerve lit, every rational thought drowned under the weight of his body, his voice, his attention. The world had shrunk to the space between his mouth and yours.

You could say it.

You could end this.

You could turn away from the cliff edge.

You parted your lips.

“…Don’t...don't stop,” you whispered.

His eyes flashed and for a moment, he looked almost startled. Then, slowly, something unmistakably feral slid into place behind his gaze.

“You are going to ruin me,” he said hoarsely.

His hand at your hip flexed, pulling you against him. His other braced by your head, fingers biting into the earth.

“Or I’m going to ruin you,” he added. “Maybe both.”

His forehead dropped to yours, the contact almost jarringly intimate.

“Say it again,” he murmured. “Tell me not to stop.”

You swallowed. “Don’t stop.” His jaw clenched.

“Once I start,” he said, voice shaking with a cocktail of hunger and warning, “I won’t want to stop. I won’t want to be gentle. I’ve never been given anything gently. Everything I’ve ever had, I’ve had to take.”

You held his gaze. “Then take me.”

Silence. Absolute, shattering silence. Then, something in him broke, quietly and completely.

“Gods,” he breathed. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

His mouth brushed your jaw, the corner of your lips, the edge of your throat. Each almost-touch made your body arch toward him of its own accord, seeking more.

His lips finally pressed firmly against your throat, not biting, but not soft either. His hand traveling your body drew your attention away from the cold, from the mud, from everything except the paths he traced.

The monster in the woods was worshiping you like a man starved.

The moment Adam caught the edge of your skirts, it was with a desperation that felt older than the grave. Fabric whispered and tore as he dragged it upward, his touch neither gentle nor hesitant, like a creature who had only just learned what wanting was.

Cold night air lashed your skin, raising gooseflesh that made you shiver. He noticed. Of course he noticed. There was nothing human left in his gaze now, only hunger, devotion, and something far more dangerous.

Moonlight broke through the clouds just long enough to illuminate the ruins of your clothes, scattered and ruined as he held you pinned between his body and the damp, trembling earth.

“This,” he growled, voice cracking like thunder, “was carved into my fate. I have earned it.”

He lowered his head, breathing in your arousal in like a man starved of warmth, starved of life itself. The air between you thickened, your own traitorous longing betraying every rational thought you’d ever clung to.

When your eyes met his, a crooked, sinful smile tugged at the edges of his mouth—too wicked for any mortal man.

“Scream,” he murmured. “No soul dares to wander far enough to save you from me.”

Then he claimed you, not with gentleness, but with the reverence of a worshipper kneeling before a forbidden altar. His touch was fevered, greedy, tasting, learning. His arm held you steady when your body tried to escape the intensity of him, though you no longer knew whether you wanted freedom or surrender.

Your breath hitched. Your voice broke. The world spun.

And yet it was not fear that hollowed you—it was something far sweeter, far more damning.

“I’ve decided,” he whispered against the tender skin of your thigh, breath uneven, “that I could spend eternity discovering you.”

He returned to your centre with slow, deliberate devotion, savouring every trembling moment. Your hands, dirt-streaked and shaking, flew to his hair, unsure if you meant to pull him closer or push him away.

Even you didn’t know.

“Harder,” he groaned, voice fraying at the edges. “If you wish to hurt me… then hurt me. I am yours to ruin.”

Stars burst behind your eyes like dying worlds, a pleasure you had never known until tonight. Adam rose in the moonlight, looking wild and starved and achingly alive. Hunger darkened his gaze as he captured your mouth with his, stealing whatever breath you had left.

This was wrong. This was sacrilege. You were betraying every law written for mortal souls.

“My creator,” Adam murmured against your throat, words sending a tremor through you, “must have shown me mercy.”

His weight shifted, his heat pressed to your hip, and your head tipped back with a gasp.

“I should have thanked him,” he said, lips curling into a wicked smile. “Because even after death, he left me the parts that make me a man.”

He didn’t let you answer, instead claiming you fully, and your body arched beneath him as the forest seemed to hold its breath. You clutched at his stitched, unholy skin, marking him with crescents of dirt and desperation, your claim etched into him like scripture.

The ground trembled. Birds erupted from their nests in panicked flight as Adam roared into the night, your bodies moving as though summoned by some ancient, terrible rhythm.

He pressed shuddering kisses along your neck, between gasped-out half-words, his voice a rough, reverent rasp in your ear.

“Mine.”

“Look at me.”

“Don’t hide from me.”

“Say my name.”

You didn’t know when you started saying it, but once you did, it didn’t stop.

“Adam.”

His body flinched the first time you whispered it.

No one had said it like that before. His breath hitched and his rhythm broke, but you didn’t care, you only clung to the dark, rising heat curling tight inside you, desperate now to chase it to its end.

You said his name again, and his control frayed further, his movements growing more desperate, more claiming. His hand tightened at your hip, his mouth hovering, then pressing, then dragging along your pulse.

You were both hanging off the edge by fingertips.

“You’re are mine,” he growled. “And I am yours.”

His hand closed around your throat with the helpless instinct of something made for ruin rather than tenderness. Through the blur of your tears, you managed only his name.

"Adam."

Then the two of you collided like storm-torn constellations, souls striking sparks in the dark as the sky twisted above you. His uneven breath tangled with yours, and an impossible, shattering pleasure unfurled between you as though the night itself had split open.

You didn’t know how long you stayed there, tangled in breath and heat and half touches under the watchful shadows of the trees. Time had no meaning in that hollow. There was only the rise and fall of his chest and the frantic rhythm of your heart.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t because he wanted to.

It was because he had to.

He stayed close, kneeling beside you in the leaves, one hand still on your waist as if to reassure himself you were real.

Your clothes were damp, your hair was a mess, your throat felt raw.

You couldn't have cared less in this moment. Adam watched you like he was memorizing the sight.

“What now?” you asked quietly.

He looked toward the direction of the village, where faint distant lantern lights flickered between trees.

“Now,” he said, “I finish what I came here for.”

Cold crept back into your chest. “Victor,” you whispered.

Adam’s jaw hardened. “I could break his neck with two fingers.”

“Will you?” You asked. He was quiet for a moment.

“I wanted to,” he said. “For years. I thought about it every night. About how his skull would feel in my hands. How easy it would be.”

He closed his eyes, jaw tense. When he opened them again, the anger was still there, but something else had joined it.

“You changed that,” he admitted.

You blinked, thrown. “Me?”

“You’re the first person who didn’t scream when they saw me,” he said. “The first who didn’t pretend I was invisible. The first who didn’t try to use me or run from me without looking back over their shoulder like they wanted me to follow.”

His gaze softened in a way that felt dangerous. Manipulative.

“You gave me something more interesting than revenge,” he said. “That’s… inconvenient.”

You almost laughed. “Sorry?”

“Don’t be,” he said. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be on my way back there right now to paint the trees with his blood.”

You shivered. Not entirely from fear. “What will you do instead?” you asked.

His fingers flexed on your waist. “I’ll let him live,” he said slowly. “For now.”

Relief and dread twisted together in your gut. “So you’ll leave?”

His hand tightened. “No.” The word dropped like a stone.

You stared. “Then what—” He leaned in again, his mouth hovering by your ear, his voice quiet and cruelly tender.

“I’m not leaving without you.” Your breath caught. “What?”

“You heard me.” You shook your head, trying to sit up fully. He let you, but stayed close, his presence a wall at your side.

“I can’t just disappear,” you said. “I have a life here. A home. People will—”

“Forget,” he said with a shrug. “They always do. Or they’ll tell stories about you the way they told stories about me. The woman the forest took.” His lips curled. “You’ll be a warning for children who think they can stray too far.”

“That’s not funny,” you snapped.

“I’m not joking.”

He cupped your face again, calloused thumb brushing the edge of your lip.

“I’ve spent years wandering alone,” he said. “I’m done.” His eyes burned. “You ran from me, and then you told me not to stop. You said my name like it meant something.”

“It does,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His breath hitched. "Then you understand,” he said. “I’m not leaving you here.”

“And if I say no?” you asked quietly.

He considered that, really considered it. You saw the war flicker across his expression.

“I don’t want to force you,” he said at last, voice raw. “I’ve had enough of being forced my entire existence.”

“But?” you pressed. He swallowed, his nostrils flaring.

“But if you stay,” he said, “they’ll hurt you. Not the villagers, the world. Men like him. Men worse than him.” He nodded vaguely toward where Victor might still lay. “They’ll see you, and they’ll want you, and they’ll try to take from you what you offered me freely.”

His eyes went black.

“I’ll feel it,” he whispered. “Even from miles away, I’ll feel it. And I’ll come back here and tear this place apart. I’ll kill them all.” His fingers dug into your jaw. “And it will be your fault.”

Your blood ran cold. “That’s not fair,” you said.

“I know,” he replied. “I never said I was fair.”

Silence hung between you, heavy and terrible.

“You’re asking me to choose,” you said. “Between my home and… you.”

“I’m not asking,” he said. “I’m telling you what happens either way.” Your chest hurt. “And if I go with you?”

His grip gentled and he stroked your cheek once, almost reverent.

“Then I’ll burn for you instead of the world,” he said simply. “I’ll be your monster. Your shield. Your ruin. I’ll give you every violent, ugly, precious part of me that no one else wanted.” His mouth hovered above yours again, close enough to feel the warmth. “And I won’t let anything touch you unless you ask for it.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, bruising. “I don’t even know what that life looks like,” you whispered.

His smile was sharp and soft at once. “Neither do I,” he said. “We’ll find out.”

He straightened then, towering over you once more. He held out a hand as the forest watched.

The cottage stood somewhere behind you, full of fear and lies and the same grey days you’d always known.

In front of you, a monster who wanted you with unapologetic, terrifying clarity. A man stitched from rage and loneliness who’d decided you were the one thing he wouldn’t let the world keep from him.

He wouldn’t beg.

He wouldn’t promise you safety.

He wouldn’t promise you sanity.

What he offered instead was devotion sharpened into a weapon, and a life lived at the edge of the firelight.

You took a breath and you put your hand in his.

His fingers closed around yours, firm and absolute. Something like relief flickered across his face before he smothered it.

“Good,” he said, voice low. “Very good.”

He pulled you to your feet and didn’t let go.

You walked back through the trees together, his grip steady, his frame a shadow at your side. The cottage came into view, lantern light flickering weakly against the dark.

Victor still sat there, hunched and small on the ground near the clearing like a discarded marionette.

He looked up as you emerged. His eyes widened, darting from Adam’s hand around yours to your face.

“You can’t...” he croaked. “You can’t go with him. He’s a monster. He’ll...he’ll destroy you.”

You glanced at Adam as he watched Victor with the same sort of detached irritation one might reserve for a buzzing fly.

“You had your chance to care about what happened to me,” Adam said mildly. “You chose yourself.”

His gaze slid back to you.

“You’re sure?” he asked quietly enough that Victor couldn’t hear. “You can still say no.”

“And you’ll leave me alone?” you asked.

His jaw flexed once.

“No,” he said honestly. “I’ll just leave you. The rest of this place?” His eyes flicked to Victor. “I make no promises.”

You believed him as the weight of your choice settled in your bones like cold iron.

You squeezed his hand tighter. “I’m sure,” you said.

He nodded once. No smile. No grand display of joy. Just a small, precise shift in his posture, like something inside him finally unclenched.

He turned to Victor.

“You get to live,” Adam said. “You’ll tell them whatever story you like about what happened here. You always were good at lying.” He tilted his head. “But if I hear you’ve tried to chase us, to take her back, to drag her name through the dirt,”

He stepped forward, and Victor shrank back. “I won’t be nearly as merciful next time.”

Victor opened and closed his mouth, but no sound came out, but Adam didn’t wait for one, instead he tugged your hand.

“Come,” he said. “Before I change my mind and kill him anyway.”

You went and you didn’t look back.

[edelelordi]

˙ . ꒷ 🍪 . 𖦹˙—　sunday morning

ミ☆ㅤ pairing: felix catton x f!reader

ミ☆ㅤ wc: 1.2k

ミ☆ㅤ tags: established relationship, canon divergent, fluff, smut, no use of y/n, cuddling, making out, felix is a sweetie, no beta we die like...well yk

ミ☆ㅤ cw: plot what plot/porn without plot, p in v, praise kink, vaginal fingering, felix pulls out, sleepy sex, a little bit of aftercare, there's probably more tags but ao3 is down so this is all i got rn

The first thing you notice upon waking is the sunlight filtering through Felix's bedroom window. It heats your face rather nicely, considering you were battling the freezing temperature of the estate. In fleeting moments of half-consciousness, you entertain the possibility you turned into a lizard overnight, resting on the cold rock that is your boyfriend's old mattress, and basking in the pane's alloted warmth. 

When you finally attempt to move, you are prevented from doing so. Opening your eyes, you discover your partner has trapped you under the weight of his forearm. You grumble something that was supposed to sound like, "Move." 

Felix doesn't respond verbally. Instead, he pulls you closer, burying his face in your neck. You nearly think he is still asleep until the boy began pawing at your breast. The movement, of course, is unsurprising. In fact, it'd be more surprising if he didn't grope you. 

"Good morning," You scoff groggily.

You can feel his smile before you see it, as he finally sits up enough to gaze upon you. His aura is brighter than a dying star, noticeable even as your hangover threatens to turn your better brain matter into mush. Still wearing last night's misfortunes, he remains undoubtedly perfect. Felix is easy to envy in this way.

He tucks a hair behind your ear, biting his lip as if holding in a joke you aren't in on, "G'd morning, lovely."

A few minutes pass in which you two simply stare at one another. You are certain you could do this for hours; Felix has a face worth admiring and a body to match. At school, when you both suffered through a required humanities course, you'd joke he was blessed by the Gods. Elspeth said something similar, singing his praises upon your arrival.

The statement proves truer each passing day. 

After finding something within you that satisfies a desire of his you aren't exactly privy to, he leans down to kiss your lips. It is a soft, familiar gesture, and more importantly, it is lazy. Felix presses his mouth to yours with a sloppiness nearing a hound's. You could taste yesterday's leftover spit and spirits, not minding even the slightest. He makes it easy to envy the most avant concepts.

The kiss devolves just at you do. With an open mouth, you greet his tongue kindly, bringing your hands up to cup his face. He laughs into the space when you gasp, the hand he left upon your breast giving the flesh beneath it a tentative squeeze. With your approval, such motions continue, until your nipples grow hard and your back arches off the bed. 

"So pretty," He murmurs during a short intermission, "My girl is so pretty."

He pauses to rest his head against your own, watching your cheeks heat from his touch. His grin only widens when his hand moves further down your body. Ultimately, he discoveres the hemline of your panties. Everything became silent then, including your own breaths, as you pause and brace for breach. Luckily, your boyfriend makes you leak like a faucet. His entering your cunt is quick and painless, just as it had been in the times prior.

Felix is patient, a fact that can be a blessing or curse, depending on his mood. He lets your body accomidate the intrusion with playful boredom. The dark brown pools of his irises flick across your face. Every micro-expression and reaction is carefully observed, as though he's watching a play unfold within the vastness of you. You're certain he'd enjoy watching you squirm on his hand for hours, as he did a few nights ago. Eventually, he moves.

"Oh." 

The sound spills from you before you can stop it. Your eyes, once preoccupied with visions of him, roll around your head. One of your hands find comfort in his duvet, whilst the other meets your mouth in an attempt to prevent being too loud. 

Felix, utterly enraptured by you, slowly began to pump his finger in and out of your sex. A sforzando sound leaves you, regrettably, and you bite your own digit to prevent from making any more. When your body remembers the movement, you relax again. Your partner, however, cannot stand the silence, and gently moves your limb from your face.

He leans down once more to press soft kisses upon your collarbone, "Don't be so quiet. The walls in this place are so bloody thick, nobody but me will hear you, I promise."

Then, he adds a second finger; sometimes, you convince yourself he times these things in hopes you don't notice them. You don't doubt that the slowness at which he introduces this new variable is an attempted kindness, but unfortunately, all it does is emphasize the notion of your own elasticity. Your breath catches, and stutters, before your chest falls, leaving you once again level. Miserably, or rather marvelously, this repeats until you're certain you see constellations on your eyelids.

"Felix," Your voice comes breathless, "I want to feel you."

Again, he does not exchange words with you, but the haste in which he fumbles to align his cock with your entrance is enough to communicate his understanding. Your panties are gone before you notice he's pulled them off you. With lackadaisical prowess, he lifts one of your legs, moving in the now open space at a forty-five degree angle. The boy finds his target immediately. Inside, he groans, gripping the meat of your thighs to keep in touch with reality.

"You don't know what you do to me."

The pair of you spend a few moments in the intimacy of a waiting room before your tender lover believes it safe to move. It is your turn to fumble, as your unbusy hands place themselves upon his shoulders, grabbing enough meat to plant yourself there. Feeling it, he pauses, only to continue when you spur him onward. His thrusts, as everything else had been to this point, drag slowly. You do not mind. It makes it all the more satisfying when the head of his dick catches on your walls. 

His breathing is more labored now, you notice, as he puts genuine effort into this encounter. Felix is always kind to you—he's kind to everyone—but his depth of care does not go unappreciated. You let him know it is reciprocated by grinding down onto his phallus. Dipping his head into your shoulder a final time, his ear is left near your lips.

You take the opportunity to speak, " Y're always so good to me."

Movements that were steady become erratic. This is not uncommon; Felix falls apart when complimented. Your punched out breaths are replaced by syncopated moans. His hips roll against your pelvis until your eyes roll with them. The hand not holding your leg finds your clit, thumbing the bean until you're left writhing beneath him. Soon enough, he is spent, pulling out with a swiftness to cum across your stomach.

Quickly, as to prevent himself from collapsing, he falls next to you, his back to the bed and head to the ceiling. Both of you bask in comfortable silence until his lungs calm down. Somehow finding the energy, he retrieves a towel from the connecting bathroom. Felix wipes you clean before promptly nodding back off to enjoy a few more hours of your company. 

happy (belated) birthday bambi !! here's hoping i didn't mischaracterize him ssjfbjg

ty for reading <3

　—˙𖦹 . 🍪 ꒷ . ˙

[edelelordi]

˙ . ꒷ 🌿 . 𖦹˙—　if at first you don't succeed

ミ☆ㅤ pairing: adam frankenstein x f!reader

ミ☆ㅤ wc: 1.9k

ミ☆ㅤ tags: established relationship, post-canon, plot what plot/porn without plot, explicit consent, first time, no beta we die like heinrich harlander

ミ☆ㅤ cw: blow jobs, cunnilingus, decriptive accounts of both male and female anatomy, vaginal fingering, cum as lube, awkward sex, premature ejaculation, everyone cums

Adam didn't think himself deserving of intimacy. To be fair, he hadn't his entire life; not that said life has been a very long one. He'd long since grown accustomed to being known as a thing to be discarded of when his existence became burdensome. 

You changed that.

It took some time, but you had. He did and would do most anything you asked, taking pleasure in doing so. When your relationship evolved beyond a transactional one, his stoicism softened. The great marble pillar you originally met had fallen away, leaving behind a wet mush of unworked clay. 

"Are you sure?" He cut through the intimacy of the moment to beg for your reassurance. Adam panicked at the thought of your touch; what if he was to do something wrong? "I have yet to hold another person in the way you ask me to."

You laughed, but not unkindly, "It's not brain surgery. If you'd like to, I'd be more than willing to help you learn."

"Only if it does not trouble you," He nodded.

You kissed him, then. It was not the first time you had done so, but that did not mean he knew what he was doing. The idea itself, of pressing one's lips to another's in show of affection, was silly to him. However, when yours met, and warmth spread from his lips to his throat and down towards his very soul, he understood. Adam was thankful, too, that his novels gave him the elusive idea of how this was supposed to go. 

Whilst your tongue licked lightly on his teeth until they parted for further exploration, he busied himself with the back laces of your corset. He tried to remember the steps outlined in his head, but thoughts of anything other than you proved difficult. Pulling at one of the strings along your mid back, he heard you gasp. Immediately, the Creature let go of you and stepped backwards.

"Have I hurt you?" Adam's eyes found the floor, afraid of meeting yours.

You shook your head, smiling, "Not at all. I was just surprised."

He nodded, but remained still, unsure of how to continue.

"Would you like me to lead?" You offered.

The Creature looked up, familiarity in his eyes, "Like when we danced?"

"Exactly so."

Again, he nodded, stiffening when you approached. It wasn't like he didn't want your touch—he wanted it terribly—but he feared nothing more than bringing you discomfort. You were a good soldier, though, in the sense that you pressed onward without complaint. He felt your lips upon his neck and nearly melted into you, craning his head to one side to allow you more accessibility. His confusion roused as your lips moved downward, but Adam remained unopposing. Finding his sternum, you helped pull the loose linen undershirt over his head, before continuing towards his stomach. 

By now, you were kneeling. He loooked down, noticing the light the trail of saliva left across his pieced together flesh. There was tepid curiosity in his eyes, as though he toed the waters of a vast lake. He realized shamefully late that the next steps involved his genitals. He feared your reaction to the sight of them, but that fear was quickly replaced by the feeling of your mouth.

The warmth alone threatened to overheat him, his body now overworking itself in a crude attempt to produce sweat. Adam tried to keep his loudest sounds within his chest as half-grumbled whines reverberated against his ribcage. The very moment your tongue met the head of his now erect phallus, all was abandoned. Moaning unabashed, his legs wobbled underneath him as if useless. Your face moved further down his shaft and the Creature clenched his fists around nothing, doing his best to stave off whatever now pooled in his gut. With an inhale, you sucked with enough force to make his core contract. Adam reeled back, repeating his previous motin. 

It was your turn to look confused. Wiping your mouth, you spoke first, "Are you alright?"

"I—" He paused long enough to gather his thoughts, "I felt strange."

"How so?"

Holding his bottom between his teeth, Adam closed his eyes. He breathed shakily, "As though I were soon to expel something from my body."

"Oh!" You perked up. His admission gave you just cause to no longer worry. You couldn't help but smile, "That's what is supposed to happen."

Adam's pants changed to soft sighs, his brows furrowing, "I thought men were to finish inside their partner?"

"If that is what you'd like," You hummed agreeably.

"How do I stop from releasing before?"

This was a question you did not know how to answer. He hadn't asked to many of those yet, but he could tell by your pause the answer evaded you. "You could help me, if you'd like."

"I live for nothing else."

Finally, you two had moved over to the bed. This was the proper way, he recalled, and you deserved all the correct trimmings that were supposed to come with shared physical contact. Watching as you undressed, Adam's heart lept into his throat at the sight of your bare form. This was not new, as he had quite frequently watched you change, but the context brought about a new stirring inside him.

You sat on the mattress and beckoned him forward. He came to stand in front of you, his hips near your shoulder. Adam allowed you to pull him down to his knees. Looking up from the space between your thighs, he awaited instruction.

"Have you seen a woman's parts before?" The question came without judgement.

The Creature nodded, "Only in medical books."

"Alright," You spread your legs to further accommodate him, "I need you to forget whatever you have learned."

"What?"

Adam gazed on your sex with wonder. It didn't look too different from those he found within textbooks, other than the fact that it belonged to you. He did not yet touch, because you had not yet told him to. The longer he stared into the infinite array of fractal flesh, he noticed minor discrepancies.

You leaned back on your elbows, "The information within them is wrong."

"Human error?" He asked.

"Human ignorance," You scoffed. Reaching halphazardly, you pulled one of his hands to your aching core, leaving it to rest just outside the promised land. "You may touch me—gently—and I shall tell you what you are touching."

The instructions were simple enough. Regardless, he hesitated, allowing his thumbs to testingly press against the outer folds. You let out a noise similar to the ones he had and Adam did not move away. Gently, as you instructed, the pads of his thumbs followed the outline.

You relaxed, "That is the labia."

"Do my motions please you?"

Adam looked up around the same time you casted your eyes downward, and both of your irises met. He saw on your expression the gentleness of a proper mentor. The Creature could only hope he proved himself a worthwhile mentee.

"Sort of," You replied.

He continued prodding politely, listening as you told him what everything was. Quickly, he learned to avoid your urethra, not liking the hiss you made when he pressed near it. To an opposite effect, he became well acquainted with your clitorus, as the sight of your back arching gave him cause to hump the air. Having explored everywhere else, his digit curiously encircled your entrance, dipping inside experimentally. The Creature continually looked between you and your sex, cataloging precisely what motions gave way to which sounds. After only a few minutes ministrations, his thumb exited, and Adam examined the lubricant now staining it. 

He did not hesitate to taste the liquid. Adam had tasted your blood before—albeit unintentionally—and held no qualms regarding the flavor of your other bodily fluids. In fact, he thought it tasted rather good.

Something carnal and not entirely human wormed its way from his gut to his brain. His digit returned to collect more of your nectar, bringing it towards his face for yet another taste, until he forwent his manners completely to drink straight from the source. He remembered the wolves, and just how much their bites hurt, so the Creature was careful not to use his teeth. Instead, his tongue licked a large stripe along your entire sex. The appendage then dipped hungrily into your canal, eager for more of your ambrosia. When your moans grew quiet, his mouth found your clit, sucking with the same force you had once given him.

Adam became too engrossed in his actions to realize your orgasm approached. The only indicator that managed to catch his attention were your hands finding his head, and therefore the strands of hair on top of it. He nearly stopped when you pulled at them, if not for the way you pushed his face further into your cunt. Your actions excited him. He groaned into your flesh when you finished across his features, and he relished how you kept him there until completely satisfied. Part of him thought he could spend a lifetime eating from your palatable cunt.

Catching his breath, he pulled back, "That was most enjoyable."

"I am glad you think so," You let out an airy laugh, "Would you like to continue?"

He nodded, moving to join you on the bed. The Creature briefly observed your strive to kick yourself up the bed, ulimately grabbing your sides and hoisting you up himself. Your legs parted and Adam situated himself between them once more. This was the most difficult part, as you could not really explain the next steps. His freed phallus remained erect; if anything, it had gotten harder since its last use, and although the skin around bordered a pale blue, the head that poked out was a bruising purple. His tip leaked with need, a pearlascent substance accruing at the top. Pausing to inspect it, he tried to line up his shaft with your canal. 

The first push was slow, too slow, and he missed his mark entirely. The next attempt was rushed; due to his impatience, he missed again, his tip gracing your inner thigh. The look of concentration on his face combined with his syncopated grunts told of his frustation. Adam paused when your fingers caught his wrist.

"Patience," You reminded him softly, "Take your time."

With your guiding hand, he realigned himself. Pushing, his cockhead finally caught on your hole. His eyelids screwed shut and his hips stuttered. Although the reason eluded him, he had missed again, accidentally slamming himself against your bundle of nerves. His brow furrowed when your back arched, but he nonetheless continued his attempts, only to meet the same results. Your noises grew louder, and with a particularly strong push, he finished.

"I'm sorry."

It was the first time, in that which you've known him, he had ever stuttered. 

Adam felt his whole body lock up and for a microinstant he feared he would stay that way. Then, his climax lulled over. All the energy he had left spurted from himself in opaque ropes, until finally he collapsed on top of you.

Adam groaned defeatedly, "I did not do it right."

"No one way is right," Your arms met at his back, "We reached our ends, which is a success in my book."

He exhaled in relief, knowing you were satisfied.

"May we try again later?"

tysm for reading !!

for tara <33

　—˙𖦹 . 🌿 ꒷ . ˙

[edelelordi]

˙ . ꒷ 🪼 . 𖦹˙—　codependent

ミ☆ pairing: nate jacobs x gn!reader

ミ☆ wc: 1.2k

ミ☆ tags: established relationship, kissing, implied smut, not fluff but not angst either idk

ミ☆ cw: manipulation, gaslighting, lovebombing, narcissism, emotional abuse, nate highkey has bpd, stalking if you squint, toxic and unhealthy relationship, nate jacobs is not a good person

nate liked you codependent.

when he learned you didn't have your license, he got excited. it was easier to keep tabs on you knowing you needed his permission to go anywhere. he wouldn't say no, of course. at least not outright.

"can you drop me off at ethan's?"

the name was unfamiliar, but the jealousy churning in his gut wasn't. like always, he feigned nonchalance. "ethan?"

"yeah, from drama class," your explanation didn't help your case, "we're gonna go skating."

"at the rink?" he scoffed, laughing at the idea. you danced like a newborn deer; nate couldn't imagine how ridiculous you'd look trying to disco down.

you bristled at his tone, which pissed him off. nate thought the language of bodies was the easiest to understand; yours spoke up even when you didn't. he could practically see the muscles contracting underneath your skin. you didn't too much care for his game of twenty questions.

"nah, just the skate park," your eyes failed to meet his.

this wasn't the first time you spoke of it, nor the first time you went, but nate hated the skatepark all the same. he imagined some half rotting urban structure, since taken over by the parasites you hang around, stinking of weed and other men. what if you fell onto a heroin needle or something? he already convinced himself that you didn't need to go.

the boy slotted in behind you while you turned to grab your things. wrapping his arms around your waist, he pulled you closer. nate ducked his head down to place a delicate kiss along your neck.

"i wish i knew you had plans," he murmured against your skin, "thought we could do something together tonight."

"oh, i'm sorry."

that was another thing he liked about you, how you were always so quick to apologize, and how you'd do so without any real reason. less than two months since you got together and he already had you trained. finding his reflection in the mirror propped up near your bed, he took a moment to appreciate himself, lips moving downward.

the boy bit into your shoulder, "c'mon babe, ditch your friends just this once for me? i'll make it worth your while."

"okay."

nate also liked that you didn't have a job. your availability to him was probably the most important aspect of your relationship. he needed to be able to call you at five o’clock to scream in your face, then reappear by your window at two in the morning with a halfhearted apology, looking for a quick fuck. that's what you're there for, afterall. worst case scenario, you say no and he hits up an ex.

nate: sry abt earlier.

nate: yk how jealous i get

nate: can i come over?

read at 2:29 a.m.

nate: don’t be a bitch

nate: omw.

he was already sitting outside your house when he sent the last message, but the boy waited an extra five minutes to give you peace of mind. nate tried to imagine what you were doing all that time. were you putting clothes on? taking clothes off? a part of him hoped you at least cared enough to put on that orange chapstick he liked; it made you taste so good.

entering your house anytime after dark was a stealth mission pulled straight from a spy movie. your dad had alarms on both the front and back doors in addition to those on the ground windows; those routes were out of the question. he tried the doggy door once and only once. god, his ribs hurt from the memory alone.

it soon became ritual for him to approach your fenced in backyard where the privacy wall met the house’s gutter. he’d climbed the precariously stacked junk you had left there just for him until he was eye level with your window. he’d tap once, twice, thrice. if you were in a particularly prudish mood, he would give up and just start banging on the pane until you answered.

when the curtain pulled back and was replaced by the sweet image of your face, a smile graced his lips. he won. to clarify, he always did, but the feeling swelled in his chest with equal fervor. the sound of your window sliding up was all the welcome he needed. nate loved your attention, positive or negative. in fact, he preferred pissing you off. he liked the way your nose scrunched up in anger.

you snapped at him groggily, “what are you doing here?”

“i told you,” he reminded, “to apologize.”

eventually, you helped him inside. your room was small, though maybe it was just that he was big. he pretended to grow accustomed to a space he remembered quite vividly, watching as you kept your distance with crossed arms. there was a twelve step process to making you feel better but he couldn't get past step one.

“well?” you glared expectantly.

nate took three lazy, sauntering steps in your direction, pausing to stand in front of you. he looked down at your form with faux sincerity, grabbing your shoulders as if the gesture somehow made him seem more genuine.

he threaded a hand through your hair, “you know i didn't mean it, baby.”

you pulled back just barely, not committing to a full rejection. the hand at his side clenched and unclenched. nate had to resist the urge to slam your head into the wall. since when was he this fucked up?

“i can be so mean,” at least that part was true, “you know i’m just looking out for you. i don't want anything bad to happen to you.”

okay, maybe he was a little paranoid, but he had good reason to be. if anyone else thought about you the same way he did—carnally, unapologetically, angrily—nate had all the reasons in the world to be worried.

you wouldn't look at him, but the gesture was unlike the acquiescent avoidance he’d grown accustomed to. it was defiant, actually, how you'd focus on anything but him. the very short amount of patience he came here with was dwindling faster by the second. nate analyzed a week’s worth of interactions with you in one micro instant, trying to discern what he could say to fix this.

rephrase: what he could say to get in your pants.

in a very rare show of submission—not that he'd submit to anyone, again, he just wanted your body—nate slowly knelt on the ground before you. he would not beg, he would never beg, but why would he when his big brown eyes did all the begging for him?

“i’m sorry,” he finally forced out.

your attention was captured exactly as he hoped it would be. nate was nothing without his audience. you looked down at him, now. your presence wasn't domineering, nor was it empathetic. the soft twisting of your features made it seem like you pitied him for the effort he put into getting his dick wet.

you sighed, “you're forgiven, for now.”

that caveat followed every time you accepted one of his miserable apologies, he noticed. maybe you wanted to leave room to take it back later. that made sense, considering you always brought up old shit during arguments. maybe you were promising to live in the present. nate didn't know or care, not when you had finally pulled your top off.

as he explored the soft expanse of your skin, nate came to the conclusion he liked you codependent. it made you needy and whiney and so hot his dick hurt. he also realized it was getting increasingly difficult to get an erection without looking at you, but that was a problem better solved when he's watching porn at home. none of that mattered now, because sinking into the white hot heat of your insides made him forget damn near everything, including himself.

honestly, now that he's thinking about it, he loved being codependent with you.

tysm for reading

　—˙𖦹 . 🪼 ꒷ . ˙

[edelelordi]

christmas fic up on ao3 !!

id post it on here but tumblr wont let me TvT merry christmas my loves

fic inside

[bucksfucks]

but i would kill for you

summary: adam would kill for you. you beg him not to. he obeys and asks for one thing in return; you.

pairing: the creature (adam frankenstein) x reader

word count: 8,783 words

themes: dub-con, non-con (if you squint), this is a dark!adam fic, gore, violence, near-murder, manipulation, coercion, MDNI (18+ ONLY, morally grey reader and adam, both are a little delusional, overall it’s kinda like the blind leading the blind

author’s note: this gave me the tingles

The forest started singing before the trouble came.

Not with birds or crickets or anything living, but with wood.

The trees creaked against one another in the wind like old bones shifting in a shallow grave, and every now and then something further in would crack. Distant and sharp, cutting through the night in a way that made you pause in your small, warm cottage. 

You stood at your worktable, herbs spread out before you in neat, brittle little piles. The cottage smelled of thyme and smoke and a hint of something metallic that hadn’t quite left yet, no matter how long you kept the windows cracked.

You told yourself that smell was your imagination.

You’d lit a lamp and set it by the door, the way you always did when you were alone at the edge of the woods. It cast a small, warm pool over the threshold, reaching a little way onto the packed earth outside and then stopping, defeated, at the teeth of the dark.

Sometimes he stood just past that line.

You’d see the glint of an eye, reflective in the half–light like a cat’s, catching the lamplight and throwing it back at you. The first time, you’d yelped and dropped the basket of drying lavender in your hands, causing the stalks to go everywhere as your heart hammered.

He had vanished between one blink and the next.

After that, you started leaving things.

A crust of bread on the stump. A scrap of wool you’d knitted into a clumsy square. A small cloth pouch of dried yarrow wrapped with twine. Each time, the gifts disappeared by morning, but you always found something in return near the edge of the trees.

A feather, oil–slick black with a strange blue sheen. A stone worn almost perfectly smooth but for a single vein of gleaming white running through it. Once, a wooden figure roughly carved into the shape of a woman with a bundle in her arms the resembled your lavender.

You didn’t see him take anything, but you knew it was him who always did.

The third time you saw him, his one eye shining from the shadows, you’d been gathering fallen kindling.

“You can come closer,” you’d said, pulse beating fast in your throat. “If you want.”

The trees had held their breath and the wind stilled.

He’d stepped half out of the dark then, like it hurt, like the light was a knife. You’d seen the outline of him: much too tall, shoulders too broad, proportions all wrong and yet…not. Not entirely.

Stitched.

That was the word that came to mind. As if someone had sewn a person together from parts that weren’t meant to belong to the same body and then left the seams showing.

“Do you have a name?” you’d asked, because it felt cruel not to.

He’d stared at you, at your mouth, then your eyes. His chest had risen and fallen too fast and too uneven. Then one huge hand had lifted, slow and hesitant, fingertips tapping his own sternum twice.

“Adam,” he’d said. The word came out wrong, thick, like his tongue didn’t quite know where it was meant to go. 

Your heart had stuttered. “Adam,” you’d repeated.

His eye, the one caught in the light, had flared. Then he’d stepped back into the dark and vanished.

That was all. No more words.

Just gifts and glances and the feeling of being watched without malice.

Until that afternoon.

The man from the village had arrived just as the sky was turning the colour of old bruises. He’d knocked too hard and smiled too wide before asking after herbs for sleep, for aches, and for “lonely nights, you know how it is.”

You’d seen him before and you didn’t like him.

You gave him what you could spare, careful, polite. He didn’t offer coin. When you asked for it, he laughed and reached past you to take a little more from the shelf.

You didn’t see his hand until it was closing around your wrist.

“Pretty little lonely thing,” he’d murmured, fingers digging in just enough to hurt. “Out here all by yourself with all these… potions. Seems unwise.”

You’d yanked your arm back, eyes stinging. “Let go.”

He’d squeezed harder.

“Make me.”

Someone had moved at the treeline then. You’d seen the flash of that reflective eye in the dark and had never been so relieved in your life.

The man hadn’t seen it, he’d been too busy dragging you closer, leaning in, breath sour on your cheek.

“If you screamed,” he’d said, “no one would hear.” Before grinning sickly sweet that made your stomach churn. 

Later, you’d sit by the cold hearth and remember the way the shadows had shifted outside. The way the air had changed and how you’d felt suddenly less alone and more in danger all at once.

You had wriggled free finally, shoving him back, telling him to get out, that he wasn’t welcome back here. He’d gone, muttering and eyes mean.

He’d stolen three bundles of dried herbs on his way.

You had seen Adam move then, far back between the trees. He’d taken a step forward, shoulders coiling tight, hands flexing like he was barely holding himself in place.

You’d shaken your head at him, just once.

“Don’t,” you’d mouthed.

His jaw had clenched so hard you’d heard it from the doorway, a crack like a bone breaking. 

He’d turned and followed the man instead of coming to you.

You should have known that wouldn’t be the end of it.

Now the scream had torn through the woods, wrong and twisting and filled with a fear that made your blood run cold. You dropped the your knitting and grabbed your lantern.

The path to the clearing felt longer than it ever had. Every step was heavier, every breath sharper. The sound of someone begging bled through the trees in fragments — words mangled by panic.

“Please—please, I didn’t—I swear, I didn’t mean—”

Another voice cut across it. Low and ragged and barely human. 

“You hurt her.”

Your heart lurched.

You nearly dropped the lantern, knuckles going white around the handle as you stumbled the last few paces and shoved through the undergrowth.

You saw the blood first.

It was everywhere. Splashed up the trunks of trees, spattered over ferns, soaking dark into the leaf–litter. It was fresh and bright and thick and terrifying. It glistened wetly in the lamplight, sticky, and too real.

The man lay on his back in the centre of it, mouth bleeding, teeth pink with it. His nose was broken, mashed off to one side in a way that made your stomach lurch. One eye was already swelling closed while his one arm was bent wrong between wrist and elbow.

Adam had one massive hand around his throat.

He could have snapped it like a twig.

He might have already been in the process of doing it.

The man kicked weakly, heels scraping burrows in the mud. His fingers clawed at Adam’s wrist, nails tearing at skin that didn’t break the way human skin would.

“Please,” he gasped, voice a wet rattle. “Please…I’ll go, I’ll leave her alone, I’ll—”

Adam was breathing hard. Harder than you’d ever seen. Each inhale sounded like it took effort, huge chest rising and falling, shoulders bunched up around his ears like he was holding back some tidal wave inside himself.

You’d never seen his face like this. His features were always a bit wrong, the lines not quite where you expected them to be, scars pulling in directions that looked painful. But now his expression twisted them into something else entirely.

Something terrifying.

His lips peeled back too far, more snarl than anything. His eyes were wide, the whites stark in the darkness, but the pupils blown huge, devouring the light. Every muscle in his forearms stood out starkly against the light of your lantern.

He lifted the man a few inches off the ground by his throat alone.

You heard cartilage pop.

“Adam,” you said.

It came out too quiet.

Your lungs forgot how to work for a second. The lantern wobbled in your hand, sending wild shadows over the three of you.

Blood had sprayed over Adam’s chest and arms. It soaked into his shirt, trickled down the seams of his stitched skin in small rivers. There were flecks of it on his jaw, on his neck, in his hair.

Your insides knotted.

“Adam,” you said again, louder this time, the word catching at the end. “Stop.”

His head whipped towards you.

One eye caught the lamplight full on and flashed, animal–bright. For a heartbeat, he looked like something out of a story used to frighten children into staying in bed at night.

He saw you.

Everything in his face changed.

The snarl faltered and instead, confusion flickered, then dread, then something like shame. His grip on the man’s throat loosened just enough for the man to suck in a rough, rasping breath that sounded like tearing cloth.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Adam said. The words came rough and slow, like they had to fight to get out. “You shouldn’t…see this.”

Your hand tightened on the lantern. Your other hand hung uselessly at your side, fingers shaking.

“You followed him,” you said. “From my cottage.”

Adam’s gaze darted briefly toward your wrist—to the darkening bruise blooming where the man had grabbed you earlier. Something ugly flared in his eyes.

“He hurt you,” he said. Each word was a stone dropped from a great height. “He took from you. He touched you. He laughed.”

He turned back to the man.

“You don’t get to do that.”

He lifted him higher, fingers tightening again.

The man’s legs kicked and a strangled sound forced its way out of his crushed throat.

“Adam, no.”

The word tore itself from your chest before you could think.

You stepped forward, shoes squelching in blood–wet mud. The smell of iron hit you hard, filling your nose, thick at the back of your throat. You wanted to gag.

“Let go of him. Please.”

Adam’s breathing sped up again. His eyes flicked between you and the man, wild.

“I told him not to come,” he said, voice breaking. “I told him I would be here. Watching. I told him not to touch you. He didn’t listen.”

His fingers flexed and the man made a choking, gurgling sound that made bile rise in your throat.

“You can’t kill him,” you said.

He stared at you like you’d spoken in a language he’d never heard before.

“He deserves it.”

“Maybe,” you said, voice shaking, “but if you do this…If you kill him…They will all say they were right about you. That you’re a monster. That you belong in the dark.”

The hand not gripping the man curled into a fist by Adam’s side.

“This is how I protect you,” he said. “This is how I make sure no one hurts you again.”

“Yes, but not like this,” you said. Your heart was pounding so hard you felt it everywhere. “Not for me. Not if it means losing what you are trying to be. I don’t want you to kill for me.”

He flinched like you’d struck him.

The man wheezed, eyes rolling, half–conscious.

“Adam…please.” You swallowed. “I want you to protect me. I do. But not like this. Not…by becoming the thing they all think you are.”

He stared at you.

You could see it—the war. Rage shuddered through him, something old and hot and feral. But layered over it, wrapped around it, was something softer and far more dangerous.

Devotion.

His jaw clenched.

Slowly, grudgingly, he let the man drop.

The man collapsed to the ground in a wet heap, gasping and coughing, clutching at his throat. His broken arm hung crooked by his side.

Adam wasn’t finished.

He grabbed him again, this time by the front of his coat, dragging him up until they were nearly nose to nose.

“You breathe because she asked,” he said, voice low and shaking. “Not because you deserve it.”

The man whimpered.

Adam shook him once, hard, fingers knotting in the fabric.

“You will go back to the village,” he said. “You will say you fell. You will say you were clumsy. You will not say her name.”

The man nodded frantically, or tried to, his head flopping more than anything.

Adam hauled him a little higher.

“And before you go,” he added, voice dropping further, “you will thank her for your life.”

He turned the man’s head roughly toward you.

The man’s eyes were bloodshot, one nearly swollen shut, his mouth red and wet. He swallowed painfully.

“Th…thank you,” he rasped. “For…for my life.”

You didn’t answer.

Adam stared at you while you stared at the man. Something unreadable flickered behind his gaze.

“Run,” Adam told him again.

He let go.

The man fell to the ground with a grunt, scrabbled for his life, then lurched to his feet and stumbled into the trees, half–falling, half–running. His footsteps crashed through the undergrowth until they faded.

The clearing fell very, very quiet.

The lantern flame jittered.

Adam stayed where he was for a moment, shoulders rising and falling like each breath hurt. Blood was drying tacky on his skin now, darkening where it soaked into the fabric of his clothes. 

His hands still shook.

Then, slowly, he turned to you.

The expression on his face undid you.

Raw. Frightened. Hopeful. Terrifying.

“I didn’t kill him,” he said, like a child reciting something he wanted to be proud of. “You asked, and I…I stopped.”

The trembling in your hands spread to the rest of you. Your knees threatened to give.

You looked at him—at his hands, at his arms, at the smear of someone else’s life across his chest—and your entire body flooded with one cold, hard fact.

He could have killed him easily.

He could kill anyone who tried to hurt you. Anyone at all. You, even. He could end them, break them, tear them apart. And now he’d proven he would.

If not for your voice, your request, your thin thread of control, he would have done it.

He had chosen you over his rage.

That was almost scarier than the blood.

You swayed.

Adam moved so fast you barely saw it. One second he was across the clearing and the next, his hands were on your arms, keeping you upright.

“Careful,” he said. “You are shaking.”

His grip was strong, too strong. Even holding back, you felt the promise of force there. He could crush bone without thinking.

You forced your eyes to stay on his face. “You’re covered in blood.”

He glanced down, as if noticing for the first time.

“Oh.”

He sounded genuinely…puzzled. Almost embarrassed.

“It is not yours,” he said, quickly. “I didn’t let him touch me. He doesn’t get that. He doesn’t—”

He cut himself off, jaw tightening.

You pulled in a shaky breath. “We can’t leave it. If anyone sees you like this…”

You didn’t finish.

He understood.

You bent, grabbed a handful of dirt, and reached for his forearm.

He flinched when your fingers touched him, more in surprise than discomfort.

“Hold still,” you said, voice quieter.

You rubbed the damp earth into the splatters of drying blood, working it into the grooves of his skin, over the raised edges of seams and scars. The grit caught on the dried patches and began to lift them, the redness dulling as mud and blood mixed.

It was messy, slow work. Each sweep of your hand revealed more of him beneath—more of the strange, stitched–together skin, pale in places, darker in others. You kept your breathing steady, but your heart wouldn’t slow.

He watched you the entire time.

When you risked a glance up, his eye caught the lamplight again, reflective and bright. It made him look almost unreal, like some night creature you’d summoned instead of someone standing right in front of you.

“You should not touch me when I am like this,” he said, rough. “You might…change your mind.”

“About what?” you asked, even though you weren’t sure you wanted to hear the answer.

He was quiet for a beat.

“About whether I deserve to be near you,” he said finally.

Your throat tightened.

You moved to his other arm. More dirt. More careful, circling pressure. It felt wrong to be this gentle with someone who had just bent bone like it was kindling. It felt inevitable at the same time. You didn’t know what that said about you.

“How did you know?” you asked quietly. “Back at the cottage. When he took the herbs. When he grabbed me.”

Adam’s jaw flexed.

“I watch,” he said simply.

You swallowed. “Always?”

His gaze flicked to your face, searching. “Yes. Always.”

The thought made your skin prickle. You weren’t sure if it was comfort or violation. Maybe both.

You worked the dirt higher, over his shoulder, where a long smear of blood had dried.

Your knuckles brushed his throat as you reached.

He inhaled sharply.

You froze, fingers half–curled.

His voice came out thick. “If you are done, we should go. Before someone comes.”

You lowered your hand.

“Come home,” you said, because it felt strange to call it anything else when he’d been circling its edges for so long.

You turned. His footsteps followed.

He didn’t walk behind you like a protector. He walked very close, beside you, matching your pace easily, his hand hovering near the small of your back as if he wanted to touch but didn’t trust himself to do it gently twice in one night.

By the time the cottage came into view, your muscles ached from tension. The lamp by the door still burned, attracting a halo of moths.

Inside, everything looked too normal.

The overturned chair you hadn’t had time to pick up earlier. The herbs scattered where the man had rummaged. A dent in the table where his fist had landed when you’d told him to leave.

You lit another lamp, brighter, and set it on the table. The cottage filled with a warm glow that felt at odds with the night you’d just lived.

Adam ducked under the doorframe and stood there, enormous and entirely out of place in such a small room.

He looked around like he was half–afraid everything would disappear if he moved.

“You can sit,” you said.

He did so awkwardly, the chair creaking under his weight. You grabbed a bowl, filled it with water from the bucket, and found a clean cloth.

“Give me your hands,” you said.

He offered them without hesitation.

In the better light, you saw there were flecks of bone mixed with the blood under his nails. Your stomach rolled, but you pressed the cloth to his skin anyway, wiping slow, steady circles, rinsing frequently when the water turned pink.

He watched your face, not his hands.

“You asked me not to be a monster,” he said suddenly. “So I tried.”

You swallowed. “You were still…frightening.”

“I am always frightening,” he said. “That does not change. But I did not kill him.”

The words hung between you like something he was begging you to acknowledge.

“You didn’t,” you said quietly. “Because I asked you not to.”

His breath hitched.

“You asked,” he repeated, like the word itself was a marvel. “You ask, and I…stop. Even when everything in me wants…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

You didn’t ask what he wanted. You weren’t sure you wanted it put into words.

You moved from his hands to his forearms, washing away the remaining streaks of red. The skin there felt strange under the cloth—not quite right, thicker in some places, almost waxen in others. Patchwork.

He flinched once when your thumb accidentally pressed harder over a seam, not in pain, but like the idea of you feeling it bothered him.

“You do not have to do this,” he said. “You could tell me to wash in the river.”

“I don’t want them seeing the water stained,” you said. “Home is safer.”

“You do not want them to know what I did,” he murmured.

“I don’t want them coming here,” you said. “For you or for me.”

His eyes brightened at the second part. “You are…protecting me.”

You almost laughed and it came out strangled.

“I’m trying to keep us both from being dragged into the square and burned,” you said. “Take it how you like.”

His gaze flicked to your face, lingering.

“I like that you said us,” he said.

You cleared your throat and stepped back. “Take your shirt off. There’s still blood on your chest.”

He hesitated only a second before obeying, fingers fumbling a little at the torn fabric.

You’d seen his shape in glimpses before, but never fully. Now, as the shirt came away, you saw how many pieces he was made of. How many different colours of skin patched together. How many scars crisscrossed and overlapped.

And under all of it, the sheer, impossible strength of him.

Your mouth went dry.

You focused on the task.

The cloth moved over his chest in careful strokes. There was a dark smear over his heart that took longer to erase. You had to lean closer, bracing your free hand lightly against his shoulder for balance.

His breath stuttered.

“Does it hurt?” you asked, without looking at his face.

“Yes,” he said.

You frowned, glancing up.

His eyes were on you, not the cloth. Dark, wide, pupils swallowing nearly everything.

“Where?” you asked, genuinely confused for a second.

He lifted a hand and tapped two fingers against his chest, just below where your cloth worked.

“Here.”

You swallowed.

Your fingers tightened around the fabric. You kept wiping, though your hand had started to shake again.

His skin was colder than yours, but not dead. There was a heat under it now, like banked coals. Like something waking up.

“I let him live,” he said. “Because you asked. Because you do not want me to prove them right. About what I am.”

“I know,” you said softly.

“You saved him,” Adam went on. “You saved him from me. And you saved me from myself.”

The words landed somewhere deep and dangerous.

Your hand stilled.

“In return,” he said, voice dropping, “I want something.”

Your heart lurched and you lifted your head.

He was closer than you’d realized. You hadn’t seen him move, but suddenly you were standing between his knees, his height bringing you nearly level as he sat. The room felt smaller, the walls closer.

“What?” you asked, though part of you already knew.

His hand lifted, slow, shaking, and touched your wrist again—the bruised one. His fingers circled it gently, thumb brushing the tender skin.

“I want you,” he said.

The words were simple. Raw. Stripped of any pretty attempt at disguise.

Your stomach knotted.

“Adam,” you said carefully, “you’re upset. Tonight was—”

“I was upset before,” he said. “When I watched him take from you. When I saw you flinch. When I saw him put his hands where they did not belong.” His fingers tightened faintly around your wrist. “I did nothing then. I watched. I thought it was not my place.”

His gaze slid up your arm, to your shoulder, to your throat.

“I will not do nothing again,” he said. “Not when it comes to you.”

A tremor ran through you that had nothing to do with the cold.

“I don’t know if I want that,” you said, honestly.

His eyes flicked back to your face.

“But you do not say no,” he whispered.

He wasn’t wrong.

The fear was thick, yes. But under it, tangled hopelessly with it, was something else. The memory of his eye shining in the dark. The gifts on the stump. The way he’d knelt in blood and still looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

You didn’t say no.

His fingers slid from your wrist up to your elbow, then higher, tracing the line of your arm as if he were learning it by touch alone. When he reached your shoulder, he hesitated.

“Tell me to stop,” he said. “Say it. If you say it, I will.”

You opened your mouth.

Nothing sensible came out.

Your silence was an answer.

He heard it.

Something in his face crumpled and then reformed even harder. The gentleness stayed, but it sharpened. Devotion twisted into something possessive.

His other hand came up to cradle the side of your neck. His palm nearly covered it entirely, thumb pressing lightly just below your jaw. Your pulse fluttered against his skin.

“You are shaking,” he murmured. “With fear. With…something else.”

He leaned in, slowly, breath brushing your lips. You could have stepped back. You didn’t. Your feet might as well have been rooted to the floor.

“I will not be gentle if I think you are lying to me,” he said softly. “If you say you do not want this and I still feel you reaching.”

“I’m not reaching,” you whispered, even as your fingers curled into the fabric of the washcloth that was at his shoulders.

He gave you a look that said he didn’t believe you.

He closed the last inch.

His mouth met yours.

It wasn’t soft, not really. It started soft, the way he always tried to be with anything that mattered to you, but there was too much behind it. Too much fear, too much relief, too much wanting. His lips were cool and clumsy and shaking, pressing against yours like he was terrified you’d vanish if he didn’t hold you there.

You made a sound in your throat that you didn’t recognize.

His grip on your neck tightened just enough to keep you from pulling away too quickly, but not enough to hurt. His other hand slid around your waist, fingers splaying against your back, pulling you closer so there was no space left at all.

Your mind shouted that this was wrong, that you shouldn’t be here, that you’d just watched him almost kill a man. Your body overruled it with the simple, undeniable fact that you’d been lonely for a very long time and here was something huge and terrible and utterly devoted pressing against you like you were the centre of its universe.

He deepened the kiss. Not with any skill, but with sheer force of feeling, tilting his head, breathing against your mouth with small, broken sounds that sounded suspiciously like relief.

When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath harsh and uneven.

“I should not,” he said, voice hoarse. “I know I should not. But when you touched me in the clearing, when you cleaned me, when you stood in my way and told me what to be…”

His hand shifted on your back, sliding up, spanning your ribs.

“I felt like I belonged to you,” he said. “And I wanted you to belong to me.”

He didn’t give you time to answer.

He surged up, rising from the chair in one smooth, towering motion, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. Your feet left the ground with a startled gasp. Your hands flew to his shoulders, clinging without meaning to as the rag dropped to the floor where it lay, covered in another man’s blood. 

He turned and pressed you back against the wall beside the bed. The wood was cold against your spine and Adam was cold against your front.

He pinned you there with his body, not crushing, but inescapable. One hand braced beside your head. The other dragged down your side, fingers curling at your hip, holding you in place.

His mouth found your throat this time.

It wasn’t a bite, not quite. His lips pressed to the skin below your jaw, then lower, then lower still, leaving a trail of chilled heat in their wake. He breathed you in like it was the first clean air he’d ever taken.

You turned your head to the side without thinking, giving him more space.

He made a sound at that. A low, rough noise that vibrated against your neck. You felt his hand tighten at your hip, fingers digging in just enough to remind you what he could do if he stopped holding back.

“You smell like fear,” he said against your skin. “And like wanting. Like herbs and smoke and something that is just you.”

His nose brushed up along your throat, to the underside of your chin.

“You do not push me away,” he said. “Even though you could try.”

Your fingers flexed in his hair, caught there. You weren’t sure when they’d moved.

“I don’t know what I want,” you said, barely audible.

“I do,” he said. “I have had nothing but time to know.”

His hand left the wall and came back to your face, thumb stroking your lower lip, smearing a little of the dampness there.

“I want to take,” he said. “What no one else gets to have. What he tried to take and failed. I want to erase him. I want you to only think of me when you think of hands on you. Of mouths. Of teeth.”

A shiver ran through you so hard he felt it, causing his eyes to darken further.

“You are scared,” he said. “Good. You should be. I do not know how to do this softly for long.”

He kissed you again.

If the first kiss had been a question, this was an answer.

He pressed you more firmly into the wall, bodies flush, one leg nudging between yours without subtlety. His hand cupped the back of your head so you couldn’t hit it against the wood, thumb stroking your hairline in a small, almost absent comfort that made the contrast worse.

You didn’t say yes, but didn’t say no.

You let him.

That was all the permission he seemed to need.

He took what he wanted in the only way he knew how—with overwhelming presence, with all–consuming focus, with the kind of intent that stripped you bare without ever undressing you. His mouth moved from your lips to your jaw to that spot below your ear that made your knees go weak. His hand at your hip dragged you closer against him, aligning you with a slow, unthinking possessiveness that left no doubt he was feeling every inch of you.

When your breath caught, his did too.

“Mine,” he whispered against your skin. The word shivered through you. “You asked me not to kill. You asked me not to be the monster. I listened. Now I am asking you for this, and you are not saying no.”

It sounded like logic to him. To you, it sounded like a trap.

He eased you sideways then, away from the wall, lifting you effortlessly and setting you on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight as he followed, one knee sinking into it, caging you there with his arms braced to either side of your body.

He hovered above you for a moment, looking down, his expression a mess of awe and terror and hunger.

“You are shaking,” he said again.

“So are you,” you managed.

He let out a short, breathless sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so close to a sob.

“I do not know how to want less,” he admitted. “I only know all or nothing. When you leave gifts, I think about them until the next one comes. When you look at me, I remember the exact way your eyes were for days. When you say my name…”

He swallowed hard.

“Say it,” he said. “Please.”

“Adam,” you whispered.

His eyes closed like it hurt and healed him at the same time.

When they opened again, something had fallen away. The last thin layer of restraint, maybe. The thing that had kept him lingering at the edges of the woods instead of crossing your threshold months ago.

He lowered himself until his weight settled, careful but undeniable, around you. His head dipped. His mouth found yours again, more demanding, more sure.

You felt very small and very seen and very trapped.

You didn’t pull away.

His hand slid along your side, up your ribs, fingers splaying against your back to anchor you as he kissed you like he was starving and you were the only thing that had ever filled him.

When he finally broke the kiss, he stayed close, breathing hard, eyes flicking over your face like he was trying to memorize it.

“I let him live,” he said, voice rough and low. “I did what you asked. I will not always. But this—”

He brushed his thumb over your lower lip once more, swollen and sensitive from his mouth.

“This I will not give back,” he whispered. “Not to him. Not to anyone. Not even to you, if you wake tomorrow and decide you were afraid of the wrong thing.”

The room felt too small for the size of what he was promising.

You lay there beneath him, heart pounding, caught between the urge to shove him away and the urge to drag him closer and knowing that either way, something in you had already been claimed.

He lowered himself until his weight settled around you—careful, but not careful enough to hide how badly he wanted to stop holding back. His breath trembled against your cheek as he hovered there, waiting for something you weren’t sure you could give but couldn’t quite take back either.

“Say something,” he murmured, voice low and frayed. “Anything. Just do not turn away.”

You didn’t turn away.

That was all he needed.

Adam leaned in slowly, like a storm lowering itself, tension in every line of his body. His lips brushed yours once—light enough to be mistaken for hesitation.

It wasn’t hesitation.

It was restraint snapping thread by thread.

The second kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t asking. It wasn’t even searching. It was Adam taking a mouth he’d been imagining longer than you realized, a kiss that wasn’t smooth or practiced but overwhelming in its sincerity, its hunger, its confusion about where to put all the wanting without breaking something.

His hand slid up your side, fingers splayed wide as if mapping the shape of you. He paused halfway, breath hitching when your ribcage expanded under his palm with a trembling inhale.

Then he moved again—slow, claiming, tracing the line of your waist like he was memorizing the difference between touching and devouring.

You gasped softly.

His head snapped up at the sound, eyes wild, confused, hopeful all at once.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked.

“No,” you breathed.

The smallest exhale of relief left him, and he went still for a moment—like he needed to anchor himself in that word.

Then something inside him buckled.

His hand tightened gently at your waist before sliding around, pulling your hips closer into the cradle of his body. You could feel the tension in him—raw, unfamiliar, and pressed hard and heavy against your hip—like he didn’t know what to do with it except press closer, closer, closer.

Your hands—traitorous, shaking—lifted toward his shoulders. You didn’t mean to touch him. You weren’t even sure you wanted to. But fear and longing scrambled inside you until your fingers curled in the rough seam where one piece of him had been stitched to another.

He made a sound.

Not quite a growl, not quite a groan—just a deep, guttural noise that vibrated through him and into you.

He lowered his forehead to your collarbone, breath dragging ragged through his chest. His hips worked against yours and your traitorous body responded. His mouth brushed your skin lightly, testing, tasting the heat of you. You felt the faintest scrape of his teeth—not biting, but there.

Your pulse hammered wildly under his lips.

He followed it.

His mouth moved along the path of your heartbeat, up your neck, slow and trembling, until his nose brushed the underside of your jaw. He inhaled sharply there, like scent alone was enough to unravel whatever fragile restraint he had left.

“You smell like you want something,” he murmured, voice breaking against your throat. 

His hand slid to your thigh, squeezing firm enough that the breath caught in your chest. He squeezed again, a quiet, desperate question.

You didn’t answer with words.

Your body tightened under his touch and your breath stuttered.

He felt everything.

His lips parted at your ear, breath hot and uneven. “If you wanted me gone, you would push me. You would run. You would scream. You do not.”

You shook your head.

“That is not no,” he whispered.

His mouth traced a slow line down your neck—not lingering long enough to mark, but deep enough to make your fingers tighten around his shoulders involuntarily.

He shuddered.

“Oh gods,” he breathed, pulling back just enough to look at you, pupils swallowing nearly the entire iris. “Do that again.”

You hadn’t meant to do anything.

But he took the shiver of your touch, the hitch in your breath, the widening of your eyes—he took every small involuntary reaction as proof, as permission, as something to claim.

He took the scent of your slick arousal as permission. 

His hand slid beneath you, curling at the small of your back, pulling you up into him with a strength that made you gasp—made him gasp back, like the sound alone was something he could drown in.

“Tell me you do not want this,” he said, voice shaking, raw, almost angry with need. “Tell me now, and I’ll stop.”

He looked at you like stopping would kill him. You felt the truth of it.

You parted your lips.

But nothing came out.

His eyes darkened, throat bobbing with a harsh swallow.

“That is enough,” he whispered.

His hand slid from your back to your hip, fingers pressing, guiding, pulling you into the shape of him like he finally let himself move the way he’d wanted to in the clearing.

You made a sound into his mouth, something helpless and confused and wanting, and Adam’s entire body reacted like he’d been struck—your spine arching, breath breaking, his hand gripping your waist with a low, unsteady moan that slipped out before he could stop it.

He dropped his forehead to yours, shaking.

“If you knew what that did to me…” he whispered, voice shaking violently, “…you would run.”

His thumb brushed your lower lip, trembling.

Then he pressed you gently down against the bed.

Not forcing, not holding you down.

But settling over you like gravity itself—inevitable, vast, unyielding—eyes searching your face for something he couldn’t name, couldn’t ask for, couldn’t stop wanting.

“Please,” he breathed, the word almost a sob. “Please do not take this away from me.”

You couldn’t answer.

He didn’t wait.

He took your silence the way he’d taken everything else tonight—full, total, desperate—and leaned in until the world narrowed to nothing but his mouth, his hands, his breath, the weight of him above you as he kissed you like he had every intention of learning you inch by inch, breath by breath, until nothing else existed.

His thumb brushed your lower lip again, slower this time, like he was trying to memorize the feel of it. His other hand slipped from your hip to the side of your waist, fingers curling in your shirt, bunching the fabric in his fist.

“You are going to change your mind about me,” he murmured, “when you realize how much I want.”

He pulled you closer, and the fabric of your clothing strained. You heard a faint, protesting sound of thread being tested past its limit.

You barely had time to register it before he kissed you again.

This one broke something.

He didn’t ease into it. He fit his mouth to yours with all the pent–up desperation of months of watching you from the trees, months of gifts left on stumps and nights spent just outside your door listening to you breathe.

His hand fisted tighter in your clothes.

You felt the tug first—then the rip.

The seam at your side gave out with a soft, awful sound. The shirt didn’t fall away, but the fabric tore open just enough for cool air to lick at a strip of newly exposed skin.

Adam froze mid–kiss.

His eyes flew open, widening as he felt the tear under his fingers. He pulled back just far enough to look, chest heaving, hand still gripping the ruined cloth.

“I…” His voice cracked. “I did not mean to break it.”

You should have shoved him away. There was a warning in your chest, clear and bright and urgent: he doesn’t know his own strength, and he has stopped trying to pretend he isn’t dangerous.

But you didn’t move.

His gaze bled from the torn fabric up to your face. Whatever apology had been forming died on his tongue when he saw you hadn’t bolted, hadn’t screamed, hadn’t slapped his hand away.

The look that replaced it was worse than any snarl.

Want. Pure, undiluted, absolutely fixated.

His fingers loosened, but only so he could flatten his hand over the rip he’d made, palm cold against your newly bared skin through the torn edge of fabric. His breath hitched as he felt you shiver beneath his touch.

“That is what I am afraid of,” he whispered, thumb brushing the edge of the tear, so close to your skin it burned. “That if I stop pretending to be careful, I will ruin everything you give me.”

His hand slid up, still over the fabric, smoothing it like he could undo the damage—and in the same motion, pushing the cloth aside just enough to feel the heat of you more directly.

Then, he pushed the fabric. Exposing your skin to his as he watched the goosebumps form. You were bare and exposed and you didn’t hate it. 

Your breath stuttered.

He felt it.

His fingers tightened again, possessive, almost shaking.

“I should not tear what belongs to you,” he murmured, voice rough in your ear, “but I cannot stand that he put his hands on you and I did not. That he tried to take and I stood in the trees and watched.”

His forehead pressed to yours, your noses barely brushing, his hand still splayed firm over the rip he’d made.

“Let me have this,” he said, almost hoarse. “I let him live because you asked. Let me have this because you do not say no.”

The world settles slowly.

He kisses you again—your jaw, then your cheekbone, then just beneath your eye. His lips are cool, trembling. It feels wrong that something so monstrous can kiss with such aching tenderness.

You barely have time to register what he’s doing. How your body reacts to his fingers against the most intimate parts of you. To the way you tip your head back and moan when he takes what he’s been wanting for far too long. 

“It will never be like this with them,” he says softly. “Any of them. Any mortal man.”

Your breath catches as he stills inside of you. Deep and full and shaking. 

“They do not hear you the way I do,” he continues, voice lowering, warming, weaving itself into you like a spell. “They do not watch over you at night. They do not stand between you and whatever would hurt you. They do not fight for you. They do not bleed for you.”

He lifts his head enough to look down at you. His eyes shine in the low lamplight—reflective, uncanny, holy in the wrong way.

“But I do,” he whispers.

You don’t argue, you can’t, not when his hips move against yours. The friction of it causing your fingers to tighten their grip on his hair and shoulders and anywhere else you can reach. 

You can still feel the echo of every moment just minutes ago, your pulse still skittering wildly beneath your skin.

His thumb brushes your cheek.

“You feel safe under me,” he says quietly. “Do you not?”

You hesitate.

Your hesitation is its own confession.

Adam shudders.

His lips ghost over your temple, then lower to your cheek in slow, reverent kisses, each one a vow. He doesn’t stop his movements, edging you closer to your own peak. 

“I can protect you better than any man you have ever known,” he murmurs. “I can learn what you need. I can become whatever keeps you safe.”

You exhale shakily, teeth biting into your lips. He kisses the edge of your jaw.

“I will do anything,” he whispers. “Anything you ask. Anything you do not ask. For you.”

You close your eyes as a warmth—unnatural, forbidden, terrifying—unfurls in your chest down to the deepest parts of your abdomen as you become undone. It shouldn’t feel good. Nothing about this night should feel good.

But it does. And you scream into his shoulder as he holds you. Your name falling from his lips like it’s his the only word he’s ever meant to say. He falls with you. 

And when he feels your breath soften, he pulls you closer—one arm sliding under your back, the other cupping the back of your head with impossible tenderness. He lifts you into him, holding you tightly to his chest.

Only then do the first tears gather in your eyes.

He feels your breath hitch and his grip tightens protectively.

“Do not cry,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek as the first tear escapes. “Do not cry. You are safe with me. You are safe.”

His mouth touches each falling tear, slow and desperate, like he can kiss them away before they can mean anything.

“I am the only one who can keep you safe,” he says, voice trembling. “No one else. No one else will love you the way I will. No one else can.”

Your tears spill faster—some from fear, some from something far more dangerous.

He presses another kiss beneath your eye, then another to your temple, then trails his lips along your cheek until you gasp.

“You do not hate this,” he whispers, voice breaking. “You do not hate me.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt.

You don’t know when you started clinging to him.

But you are.

His breath trembles against your mouth as he leans in, forehead touching yours, noses brushing.

“You want someone to protect you,” he says softly. “You always have. And I can. I will. I already did.”

You swallow hard.

“This isn’t right,” you whisper.

His lips graze yours without kissing.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But you still held me.”

Your breath shudders out.

He kisses the corner of your mouth again—gentler this time, almost pleading.

“You are mine to protect,” he whispers. “Let me do it. Let me keep you. Let me love you in the only way I know how.”

A sob slips free.

It doesn’t sound like fear.

He gathers you even closer, burying his face in your throat, kissing your skin in slow, shaking presses—each one a prayer, a promise, a possession he doesn’t fully understand but clings to with everything he is.

“I will not lose you,” he whispers between kisses. “Say you will stay.”

You don’t say it.

But you don’t pull away.

And that—God help you both—is enough for him.

He holds you as you cry, kissing your tears, kissing your cheeks, kissing the hollow beneath your throat, whispering promise after promise until you’re clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you upright.

Because some dark, truthful part of you knows:

You don’t hate how he made you feel.

You don’t hate the thought of belonging to something that would tear the world apart to protect you.

You don’t hate the idea of being his.

Even though it’s an act against God, against reason, against everything you were taught to fear.

You cling to him anyway.

And Adam—trembling, breathless, worshipful—clings back.

His lips have just brushed your cheek again, a trembling kiss meant to soothe the shaking he caused, when your hand lifts slowly, shakily, to his jaw.

He stills.

Completely.

Like your touch is the only force in existence that can halt him mid-breath.

“Adam…” you whisper.

His eyes snap open instantly, pupils huge, breath caught. “Yes. Anything. Say it.”

You swallow, the words scraping up your throat like they’re made of shards.

“You can’t kill anyone,” you whisper.

His whole body goes rigid.

You feel the shift—a ripple through every tense muscle pressed against you—like the idea alone hurts him. His hands tighten around your waist before he forces himself to loosen them, remembering how easily he could bruise you.

His voice cracks.

“You want me weak,” he says quietly.

“No,” you breathe, shaking your head, gripping his jaw tighter so he has to look at you. “I want you here. With me. Not hunted. Not feared. Not dragged through the village on a rope because you lost control.”

His chest rises sharply. His brows pull together in confusion, hurt, devotion, need.

“You think I care what they do to me?” he whispers.

“I care,” you say, and the moment the words leave you, something inside him breaks open.

He presses his forehead against yours, breath trembling.

“Say it again.”

“I care,” you repeat softly.

A wounded, worshipful sound leaves him.

His arms wind around you tighter, one cradling your back, the other sliding into your hair as if he can pull your voice into his bones.

You inhale shakily.

“But you have to promise me,” you whisper against his cheek, “you won’t kill anyone.”

He sucks in a sharp breath like the air is suddenly too cold.

You feel him nearly flinch.

“Promise me, Adam.”

His lips part, and he struggles, truly struggles, with the weight of the words you’re asking for. You can see him battle himself in real time: instinct, rage, devotion, fear of losing you.

Finally, his voice emerges—quiet, low, trembling.

“I will not kill…” he whispers, teeth clenched, “if you tell me not to.”

It’s not enough.

Your fingers curl into his hair, tugging just enough to force his eyes to you.

“No, Adam. Say it right.”

His breath stutters. He looks almost sick, as if the promise itself will destroy him, as if the world he built around protecting you is cracking under your demand.

“As much as you let me,” he says instead.

“Promise,” you whisper.

He bows his head into your neck, kisses your skin once—not gentle, not harsh, just claiming—then forces the words out like dragging confession through bone.

“I promise I will only hurt them as much as you allow.”

A shiver ripples through you.

It’s not holy.

It’s not safe.

It’s not sane.

It’s devotion sharpened into something feral.

His breath skates over your throat.

“If you tell me to break an arm, I will break it.” A kiss to your jaw.

“If you tell me to stop, I will stop.” His hand cups your cheek.

“If you tell me they walk away breathing…” He swallows “They will.”

Your tears return—not from fear, not entirely.

Some part of you, the part you’ve been ignoring, the part that warmed when his hands first closed around your waist, the part that leaned into his kisses—recognizes this for what it is.

Power. Over him. Over something that should terrify you.

His thumb wipes the tear away instantly, desperate, frantic, like he caused it and must remove the evidence.

“Do not cry,” he whispers. “Please. I gave you what you asked. I will give you anything.”

You exhale shakily, fingers curling tighter into his shirt.

“But you have to keep your promise,” you whisper, voice barely holding together.

He nods against your skin.

“You said you wanted me to learn,” he murmurs. “Then teach me. Teach me how much pain others deserve for touching what is mine.”

You gasp softly.

His arms tighten.

“And I will do exactly that. No more. No less.”

Your heartbeat stutters.

He hears it and kisses you again—soft, reverent, shaking.

“I protect you,” he whispers. “I obey you.” His forehead presses to yours. “I will not kill unless you say the word.”

A pause.

“And I know you never will.”

Your breath trembles, and you rest your head against his chest—not because you choose to, not entirely, but because some strange gravity is pulling you into him.

He cradles you like you’re breakable.

And in a soft, devastating murmur that makes your spine go cold and warm all at once, he whispers:

“You are mine to save. And I am yours to command.”

[heazueken]

Wave-Swept Gold

ೃ༄ summary: Adam finds your collection of erotic books.

warning(s): MDNI, smut, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal fingering, afab reader, no use of y/n

pairing(s): adam frankenstein/you

wc; 7.1K

a/n: hiii frankenstein fandommm here’s my first fic of him :3c had a traumatic experience recently and had some time to throw something together very quickly hope yall enjoy

Adam was never very good when it came to privacy. It wasn’t too much of a big deal— he was desensitized to your naked body and so were you with his. You had many intimate encounters together, laying beside one another naked, taking baths, dressing each other, hell, you even caught him once watching you strip into your see through night garments. It was normal despite the fact you two never even named the relationship you had with one another. Were you lovers? Was he just using you? Simply not the latter, he wouldn’t do such a thing.

You always wondered what you even were to him— you knew of his background after emotional conversations late at night beside a candle flame. You knew of the origin of his scars and super human strength abilities he possessed and the strange regenerative component of his very being. But you hadn’t exactly ____talked about why you would touch each other late into the night or how he would slide his enlarged and hard manhood between your thighs, feeling the slick that laid bare against him. You never spoke of the way he softly groaned your name into your hair, or the way you’d reply with his name, never say a word about when he would spill his passion across your skin. The morning after, he’d act like it was all a dream, like it never happened.

You didn’t know how much longer you could keep up with that.

It wasn’t until you had come home from tending to the sheep outside that you found Adam seated in front of the fireplace, loose brown shirt buttoned halfway up his chest, his chestnut hair falling across his face. You see him with a leather bound book in his lap.

“Found an interesting book?” He took to your bookshelf like a moth to a flame the moment you had invited him into your cabin years ago. You encouraged his passion and made sure to try to get at least two books every trip to the village market. He hummed in response.

He looks up at you, his cheeks tinged a darker hue. His lashes bat slowly as he contorts a sentence together. “Very interesting,” He says softly, turning his gaze back down at the pages. His fingertips follow the line of text. ____“‘Her silky dress slipped off the moment the ribbons came undone. Letting it pool around her feet, she steps out of her clothing and cups her soft hands over her breasts. Her nipples harden beneath—“

You snatch the book out of his grasp, leaving his hands only holding air, he purses his lips gently when he hears you slam the book closed. He turns to you.

“You oppose the book? Then why have it?”

You looked down at him with tinged cheeks, eyes glancing back at the erotica in your hand. “I— I don’t ____oppose the book—“

“I can tell,” He says, sitting criss crossed on the wooden floorboards, there’s a smug look on his face and he points his chin at the wooden box he took out from underneath your bed. “You’ve got a whole collection you were hiding from me.”

You stumble over your words, blushing profusely and curling your hands into fists. “Th—that’s simply not— That preposterous— it’s ridiculous— I don’t— I—“ You look to Adam who stares at you with a knowing gaze, his pupils blown out till they look like two black marbles. His lips part, hand reach out as he lets out a plea.

“May I continue reading? I promise to not read out loud.”

You look at each other for a moment, the internal fight within you a raging fire as two halves fight over if you should give it back or not.

____He already knows half of these things by now, he might as well keep reading. Who knows? Maybe he could learn a thing or two from them.

Your outstretched arm gives Adam the book back who snatches it from your hand much like how you did earlier. His nose is deep into the pages, eyes tracing over the sinful words taking space on the pages. He’s enjoying these much more than you ever thought he could. You huff, grabbing the shears as you head out the front door again. “Adam,” He finishes the sentence he was reading before looking back to you, his eyes glazed over with only a look you could describe as sultry. “Next time ask if you find a ____hidden away box of things.” You shudder at the thought of him finding your journals and exposing himself to the deep desires you’ve written about him. Adam stares back at you with a pout.

“It wasn’t my intention to upset you. I am sorry,” he bows his head a little, tilting his head back to the book, closing the conversation.

“You’re forgiven. I’m not ____that upset. I’m more embarrassed than anything,” You admit. He acknowledged you with a grumble and you let yourself get back to tending the sheep.

That night, after having made dinner and serving a piping hot bowl to Adam and yourself, he has a book open beside his meal. One hand holds his spoon and the other bends the spine of his book back, eyes never leaving the pages. He blindly leads the spoon to his mouth and you watch the grace he has even in these candid moments. He tucks his hair behind his ear when he lowers his head and mouths the words on the page. You can barely make out the words he whispers.

___“His mouth…mound…tongue slides across…fingers dip…” ____

You clear your throat and it seems to break him out of his stupor. “Enjoying the book?” Adam nods, his finger keeping its place where he stopped. He takes another big bite of stew.

“I’m on the third one,” he wipes his mouth with his thumb and toys with his spoon. “This type of writing is…fascinating.”

“Erotic writing?” You lean your elbow on the table— intrigued. “What’s fascinating about it?”

Adam looks up at you then from his bowl, he suddenly seems nervous, his throat bobs when he swallows hard and he rubs a middle finger over his temple as he comes up with his answer. “I suppose the language and choice of words…and the…actions of the characters.”

Taking a small bite, you mumble an understanding. “Mm, the sex acts?”

“Yes,” he says firmly, aware of the taboo implications of the topic. “The man…he…he does…certain acts on his partner. Ones we’ve done before.” It takes everything to keep your poker face in check. “He says things to her.”

“Like what?” Your cheeks redden, the room is beginning to get warm and your skin dampens under the heat. You’re sinful, asking him to read aloud the dirty talk in your erotic books. To hear Adam say the words you had imagined at every turn of the page, though, left you aching to watch it ooze from his mouth.

He finds a page, lips parting as his low voice fills your ears. ___“‘Pray tell, my love, how shall I have you? Shall I begin with my fingers or tongue? Work you open with one perhaps?’ His fingers find her, slipping one in with little effort. ‘I must beseech your indulgence and implore you to grant me this favor, please.’”___

His voice is like honey and better than you ever imagined. Your entire being shivers, eyes fluttering shut as the rest of the world dissipates around you as you listen to the hot promises that drip from Adam’s mouth.

___“‘Forgive my improper entreaty, love, but I must add another,’ Two slip inside and she cries out her lover's name. Glistening with her own seed, it oozes past his fingers and the gentleman lowers his head. His mouth places itself over her mound, tongue—“

You stand up, the wooden chair toppling over in the process and crashing with a bang. It echoes in the stunned silence and Adam shoots a worried look. He didn’t notice that you wolfed down the rest of the stew as he read, your cheeks stuffed with food. You say something around your food that he doesn’t understand.

“Sounds like a lovely book,” you spit out after swallowing barely chewed food. “I— I remember the first time I read that one! Couldn’t put it down, it was very intriguing—“ ____Why in the devil's name are you telling him that, you fool?!

Adam looks dumbly down at the book, switching back to the page he was on. “It’s good, I suppose.”

No other word was spoken after that, he kept to his book and you to your sewing. Both of you taking your spots in front of the fireplace after dinner. The candles flame lick lights across the room as the sun settles in the horizon. The room grows a golden hue, Adam’s eyes glance towards you when he finishes another chapter— his glowing eye settles across your face. It trails down your figure, watching the way your gentle hands work the needle and thread. Something bubbles deep in the bowels of his stomach, his fingers grip the book tightly as the last scene in the book settles into the very forefront of his mind.

The man, holding his partner down, tearing her dress off and ravaging her body until she’s begging for mercy. His tongue working between her legs to the point where she thrusts against his nose and he’s forced to press his tongue deep inside her. The idea of ____you and ____him doing that very same act. He doesn’t notice his purring until you lift your head to meet his intense gaze.

“You feeling okay?” Immediately, you’re forgetting your work, setting it to the side to give him your full attention. The fluttering in your stomach hasn’t ceased since dinner, the sound of him turning the page a reminder of what exactly he was reading. Adam shakes his head, tearing his eyes away from you but the contents of the book in his lap didn’t help the blood rushing down his nether region.

He nods, “I am fine.” He’s usually not good at small talk— this you know but something was different tonight. Mayhaps you’re just reading too far into it or maybe he’s feeling the exact same way as you. You consider going back to your work before you hear the gentle bubbling of the boiling water in the fireplace. With a startling sound and throwing on your mitts, you’re up off the rocking chair and grabbing the pot of water. “Water is ready,” you mention over your shoulder. Adam towers behind you in tow, his anxious aura pulsating around you. He’s quiet, even his steps, despite how large he is, barely make a sound besides the one squeaky floor boarded steps across.

You pour the water into the small tub. Once a week you two share a bath, passing the sponge between you two and taking turns getting each other's back. You always let your thoughts wonder then, blushing deeply when he’d touch you or stare at you longer than necessary. He always looked at you like one admires the moon— eyes blown out in wonder and admiration.

You have your back to him as you submerge the sponge into the water, your clothing still damp with sweat and sticking to your skin from the egregious farm work. You sigh, standing to your full height and you can feel the warmth of Adam standing inches from you.

You feel his breath on your neck before you feel his fingers playing with the collar of your garment. A gasp escapes your mouth, louder than you expected and Adam pauses for a moment. After a few beats, he continues— his fingers glide over the winding ribbons that tighten your clothing. Hooking a finger into one, he pulls gently, it barely gives and you’re pulled further back. The back of your head gently presses to his chest, his chin drops to the top of your scalp. “Forgive me,” he mumbles into your hair. He tugs harder, your mouth falls open at the eroticism of it all and the ribbon comes undone.

His fingers feel cold against your hot skin. The threads fall over his hands, the cream color a strong contrast to his blue skin. His blackened fingertips dip past the open splice of fabric and he elegantly slides his digits across your back. It sends a trail of goosebumps across your skin, you breath through gritted teeth and shut your eyes. Everything is silent, only the sound of your heavy breathing and racing heart.

Like how he holds a book— his fingers drag across you, pushing the fabric like flipping a page. It was easy, natural, second nature to him and though his hands trembled with a new understanding of his feelings, he still holds the confidence to urge your clothes to fall into a circled heap at your feet.

You bite a breath, struggling to keep your hands at your sides when you feel his warm gaze on your skin, the heat already overwhelming. Adam lets out a breath and a rumble can be felt through your ribcage— he growls, turning into a purr and places a hand on your shoulder. He turns you around, you obey his touch, holding your stare down at the floor as his feet come into view.

The creature’s hand hesitates, hovering right over your breast. Your nipple pebbles hard under the cold air and your blood rushes to your ears like a storm. He tightens his hand into a fist and draws it back to himself. You look up then when he starts to work on the buttons of his shirt. His fingers— like they have a mind of their own— jolt and stretch out, making it more difficult for him to undo them. You understand now why he always took to the looser, simple shirts he chose out of your late fathers closet. With a small, understanding smile, your fingers guide his to undress himself.

There’s a comfortable but thick silence between you two in this moment. You, completely nude, Adam, stripping his shirt off with a shrug and then focusing on undoing his belt. You can’t help but notice the shape of him, that familiar girth pressing against the fabric. He catches your eye for a moment and as if in a trance, you stare back at him. He slowly blinks, an understanding written across his face. He’s very much aware of the tension between you two.

It’s impossible to not notice just how excited he is, clear as day even before he stripped his trousers off. Now it bobs with each step and you can see the relief flutter across his face when the cold air hits it. He draws his hair back with his large hands and you take the time to admire his scarred body. It takes every ounce of self control to not follow the thin scars that paint his beautiful skin. You couldn’t possibly believe how anyone could be afraid of this— his skin, like marble and soft as your pillows, practically glows under the candle light. Each strip of skin a different shade, different complexion but no less gorgeous.

“Do you want me to start first?” His question breaks you out of your trance and you notice your hand directly on his lower stomach. Index finger pressing to the scar that travels down his happy trail, you pull it back, feeling caught red handed. Lifting the sponge, you wet it with the warm water.

“Sorry, I— I wasn’t thinking…turn around please.” He does as he’s told. His shoulders seem tense, his entire being pulled taught like a rubber band ready to strike back at any moment. When the warm water slips down his naked back, he relaxes slightly, letting loose a drawn out purr you can feel when you brace your other hand on his waist. You wipe down his back, scrubbing the block of soap to agitate the suds and clean him proper. Adam grumbles like when you get the right scratch on a dog's ear, you can feel it reverberate throughout your body and it sends a shiver of need for him down to between your legs. Swallowing the thick lump in your throat, you rinse him off, tapping him with the sponge for him to take it. Adam turns around, ears tinged with a red-like hue, his lips grind across one another, jaw clenching. He can’t meet your eyes.

He asks in a small voice. “Would you…keep bathing me…please?” He rarely asks for anything— how can you deny him such an intimate act?

The sponge brushes across his chest, suds trailing across his moon kissed skin. The warmth of the water makes your heart race and you can feel his pattering against his chest when you touch a pec with your free hand. You clean his shoulders, arms, neck, his sternum and then travel down to his stomach. There you go lower and lower, your fingers curl and create crescent divots into his skin when you reach his navel. You both gasp, realizing just how close you are to where he’s the warmest and neediest. Adam can hear his incessant heart pumping blood throughout his body but he keeps his eyes fixated onto you, watching the way your cheeks burn bright, the edge of your ears becoming a similar color. He feels a sort of self-adulation knowing he was the one making you feel this way. It didn’t help with his sense of possessiveness over you he had grown to have.

You continue on, gathering your jumbling thoughts and avoiding the obvious hard-on of his. You barely feel when your wrist brushes across his tip as you scrub his inner thigh. Adam releases a hiss through his teeth, his throat purring at the tease. “I…I am sorry…I can’t…It refuses to calm…” He says so innocently. “I pray you’re not uncomfortable?” He’s looking for reassurance. You look up at him and smile.

“I’m fine, I think. It’s just…you know.” He seems sheepish now, drawing into himself and folding his arms across his chest like a woman hiding her naked bosom. It makes you laugh and you pry his arms away, fingers weaving. “We’ve done more than this, Adam.” His name on your tongue is like a hymn to him, you could say it over and over and he’d never grow tired of it. A name he chose for himself, something that belongs to him is said with such love and kindness— he has no clue what to do with himself. His eyes flutter shut, lips curling into a small smile.

“It is strange,” He begins, opening his arms to you and pulling the sponge from your hand. He wets it, squeezes it and bubbly water trickles over his wrist. “I’ve felt the most intimate parts of you with…my own,” he stumbles, he turns you around to scrub your back. The melodies of the creatures out in the night seem to drown out as Adam carefully washes you. “And yet this very act…the way I’m—“ His large hand presses into your lower back, indicating for you to turn back around. You do with bated breath, eyes screwed shut. You know your bright red considering Adam lets out a breathy chuckle. You can hear his purr as he pushes back the baby hairs on your hairline. “The way we are right now,” He scrubs at your breasts, under them and around your own navel. An electric current jolts from his body to yours. “It feels so much closer than ever before.”

Threatening to take a peek, you bravely crack open an eye to look up at him. His eyes radiate a certain marvel about them— like you hung the stars and moon into the sky. You feel more naked than before with his eyes caressing you in such a way that made it feel like your very chest opened up to reveal its inner workings. He can see your thumping heart, your rushing lungs, the beauty of a ribcage that holds it all together. The overwhelming warmth takes over and you step closer to him.

“I feel the same way.”

He seems to catch his breath in his throat, his hand faltering where a patch of hair sits between your legs. The sponge drops from his hand. His fingers just barely graze the small trail leading downward and you hold your breath. Lips parting, eyes frantically drinking up the beauty of your face with the candles flickering orange across it. He drinks up the scent of you, wanting so badly to draw you closer in and hold you, touch you, lay you down and—

“Can I ask you something?” He blurts, his voice sounding lighter and holding a level of anxiety. You only remembered him being this nervous the first time you two had met years ago. You nod, bringing a hand to his forearm to offer some comfort. His teeth tug on his inner cheek, eyelashes lowering before he finds the confidence to stare back at you once more. “Those books…I’ve been reading…I would like to experience one of the…scenes that was described to me…in which they copulated…”

Something washes over you, perhaps it’s the arousal ever growing inside you, or the nerves of the idea that he wants you. He asks so freely of it, aware of the uninhibited request that falls off his tongue and yet asking it with such reverence and innocence that it makes your chest fill with such an overwhelming feeling. You cup his cheek, letting out a laugh through your nose. “How shall you have me?” You play into a sultry tone, stepping close until your naked, wet bodies are pressed together. His desire for you pokes at your stomach at his full height and the girth and size of it does not get lost on you. You've felt it between your thighs before. You’ve stayed up late into the night with the company of only your hand to simulate what you wanted— needed from him. Your fingers could never be enough.

His hands now hover over your body, stopping where he begins to feel the heat radiating off of you as if you’ll burn him like the very fire lit across the room. Adam’s mouth quivers as he tries to come up with what to say— so many thoughts racing through his pieced together head that he looks to short circuit. Of course he thought of things he wanted to do to you, but having to choose one for the time being? How could he—

Then he remembered what he had read tonight; his fingertips guiding over the words that described an act of sex he had never even considered. Just the thought made saliva collect in his mouth, almost spilling over the edge of his lip. He sucks it back up before finally laying his hands on you and hugging you close so you were practically nose-to-nose. “Let me take you to bed…and I can show you?” So polite, so reverent, still asking for sanction. How can you say no?

He picks you up with minimal effort, his supernatural strength just another thing you adore about him, the very act of it making you giggle nervously. Adam smiles, his teeth barely showing past his blue lips. “Enchanting,” he purrs. Your breath is stolen from your lungs at the pure affection from him, you blush and let your arms wrap around his neck. You toy with his beautiful brown locks between your fingers, weaving them with your skin in hopes you can somehow become a part of him.

Adam knows the route to your room, you share the bed at this point. He lays you down, the room shrouded in black all except for the dripping moonlight creating a contrast over your bed. The light streaks across you like a lighthouse pointing towards salvation. You, the island and Adam, the boat caught in a storm. He crawls towards you— hair hanging past his shoulders and swaying with each move as he grows closer to you. His one eye glows when the light hits it just right and you can see the hunger licking like flames into his dark irises.

There’s an animalistic sound that comes from the deepest chamber of his chest, it’s low and rattles the cage that makes up your ribs. Your heart hammers, leaning on your elbows to challenge him. He looks more monster than man like this— on all fours, bare and hairy, a hot and heavy hunger that lingers in his stare. His growl rumbles, parting his lips to increase its volume as if to intimidate you. You spread your legs to give his large frame room. He settles between them, stitched arms bracing you down on the quilted bed and he leans in close. His nose brushes against yours then, nostrils flaring when he breathes in deep.

“I can…sense it…” He says, breath fanning your face. Swallowing around nothing, you dare to ask. “Sense what?”

“Your pruriency,” His nose slides against the side of yours. He’s never been this close and your chest heaves with each heavy breath. It grows warm between you, his pale, broken, cracked skin losing any of its icy coolness against your ever growing warmth. Adam’s lips hover of yours, threatening a promising kiss to yours but never makes the connection. Instead, he curiously looks up at you through his lashes as he lets his discolored lips trail down your cheek. Feeling your blood rushing through your red veins, he feels his way down your neck, pausing where your pulse thrushes blood at the base of your neck. He presses his lips there experimentally, smiling when he can feel the air get caught in your lungs. There’s that incessant purr that flows from his chest and he continues his exploration across the curve of your clavicle.

Something feels strange within you. A sort of twisting desire that digs its roots deep into your nervous system and holds you down with its incredible strength, paralyzing you as Adam slowly makes his way down.

He’s a tease— he knows he is because he has knowledge on your desires. He decides now is the perfect time to reveal his covert knowledge on your midnight endeavors.

“I have heard you. Were you ever aware of me?” His mouth breathes fire on your breasts, lips drawing across your nipple. Unaware of what he means, you lay your head down against the pillows.

“Wha—what ever do you mean, Adam?” You cry when his teeth brush against the hard peak. Those roots still buried deep inside you only increase the debilitation— refusing to let you move.

“Late into the night—“ His mouth travels down the hills of ribs, to your navel where your stomach rises and falls with every gasping breath. Adam says against your silky skin, “I hear you…calling for me.”

You still, your lips drawing together into a straight line as the shame of your actions are realized to you.

“I’ve seen it…your shirt unbuttoned…clothing bunched at your ankles.” He makes his way across your bellybutton to where coarse hair bellows freely, his chin finds the comfort and heat of it first, letting his mouth open wide and breathe in your desire. “Your hand…right here,” He presses his mouth to your pubic bone. “Traveling lower…and lower,” His back bends, puzzle pieces of skin that stretch along the muscle contort as he eases himself lower over the bed. He’s all limbs, long and nimble that he now kneels down at the foot of the bed. The floorboard digs into his knees but any discomfort is lost to him when he looks up to see the way your chest rises, the way your hands grip the sheets. Your knees draw close together, encasing his head between them. Adam tilts his chin lower.

“I am so curious to find what made you mewl the way you did.” One hand slides across your inner thigh, pushing it down to the quilt below.

You’re spread for him, open and glistening under the harsh cut of light trickling across your skin. Light reflects off of you and Adam feels his confidence waning slightly. This is unfamiliar territory— sure, he’s read about it, pictured it, watched you touch yourself and say his name with anguished, unfulfilled desire. He’s had you laying against him with his cock buried into the heat of your thighs but having it right here in front of him was a whole beast of its own.

He’s stuck, fingers digging into the soft fat of your thigh, his yellow nails creating marks into the pillow of skin. Your hand finds its way to his wrist, soft fingerpads slide across the scars on his skin and feels the dip of where incisions had been made during his creation. Your partner looks up to you at that moment, his expression softening when he witnesses the flushness of your cheeks.

You sigh, “Make me mewl.” Plain and simple. Adam feels his confidence grow, blood pumping through his body and his raging manhood presses into the mattress. The softness of the blankets feels cool against his scarred skin, a welcoming contrast to the fire he feels oozing from every pore.

His other hand slides to your other thigh, cupping the underside and forces your leg to bend. The hair between your legs parts and he bears witness to a glistening wetness only described to him on pages. Moonlight reflects off of you and Adam understands then how temptation and desire could break a man, draw him to his knees and devour him until there was nothing left. How can anyone resist such a beauty given to them so openly?

Curious fingers find their way to the coarse hair and the air stills between you both. Both bracing for the impact of your fervent and wicked proclivity for sexual gratification. Adam’s mouth begins to water the moment his index finger presses into the wetness, it’s warm— so warm that it almost feels like it burns his very skin. His eyes grow wide with wonder, pupils blowing out until they’re black marbles. You watch him with bated breath, once more bracing on your elbows and letting your mouth drop open when he slowly circles his finger around your soft hole. Adam looks up at you with wonderment.

“Like this?” He barely inserts it, almost too afraid to because how can one finger even fit into such a tiny thing? Giggling, you don’t intervene physically but you guide him with words.

“Bigger circles, try going up and down…” He obeys, almost immediately understanding. The books he read didn’t care to get into too much detail of the outer workings of the vaginal anatomy but having it right in front of him now— he wonders how anyone could ignore the clear pleasure button located just a little below the pubic area. Hidden partially by hair and a hood of skin, Adam lays his four fingers flat at the top of your pubic region and pushes, exposing your twitching clit. He feels his saliva trickle near the corner of his mouth.

An urge flows through him. With his other fingers, he slides your wetness up, using his index and middle finger to cup around your clit. He squeezes them together experimentally and your reaction is enough to encourage him further. You moan, a gasp breaks it and gets caught in your throat. Gripping a portion of your bedding, you attempt to draw your knees together but Adam uses his wide shoulders to deny them the privilege. A whimper escapes you and he laughs, actually laughs.

“Close to a mewl,” He comments. “But not quite.” He slides his fingers back down, circling his fingertip to where the liquid resides. He understands now what the book meant, despite its size, you easily suck him in. Your walls give around the girth of his finger easily and he gets to his first knuckle before pulling it back out to gaze upon the clear natural lubrication. His neurons make the connection— natural lubricant. He gazes back at you to see you’re bracing for more. An arm slings over your forehead and you gaze at him from your pillow. Smiling you draw into yourself and your knees squeeze reassuringly on either shoulder of his.

His animalistic sounds come forth from his chest, rumbling against his throat. Circling around your clit again— he strives to hear you moan again. Occasionally dipping into the ever growing wetness forming below, he focuses on the pulse and twitching of your nerves when he touches you at a certain angle or pushes a certain away into the soft, pliable flesh. His curiosity of how much you can handle gets the better of him and he finds himself toying with your clit and daring to press his other finger to where you're fluttering open and closed. His eyes flicker between each hand and putting all concentration on the way you react, he dips a finger in and you let your head drop back to your pillow. A sound escapes you akin to a cry and he almost pulls away but he hears it—

“Please…”

A need to hear it again invokes him to thrust a finger again, he has that knowledge at least— he knows a man uses what he possesses between the legs to penetrate in and out of one’s partner, surely fingers worked the same way.

He grunts, a possessiveness driving him to go harder. Two fingers encircle your clit, his other finger curling naturally with the curve of your inner walls and pushing so deeply that his palm begins pressing against the lower portion of your vulva. You release a sound, a broken plea that draws out into a moan and the sheets in your fists are subjected to torment as you are subjected to intense pleasure.

A filthy, slick sound coupled with Adam’s monstrous grunting fills the room and you cry out for him, releasing what can only be described as a mewl.

“There it is,” He says harshly, his words growling with a satisfaction lacing his tone. Sounding like a predator who’s finally caught their prey. “I implore for more,” He almost begs, his finger slipping out only to press his forefinger and middle one together— increasing the girth and stretch.

His fingers speak his promise of pleasure. The build up of your orgasm pressing into your lower abdomen when his long fingers drive so deeply you feel as though the shape of them will forever be engraved within you. You pray they do. You pray that your body carves itself into the shape of him.

Adam’s mouth is unbearably wet, his spit collecting against his teeth and it releases by a string from his bottom lip. It trickles from him and lands into the valley of your hair— something comes to Adam’s mind at the salacious view of it. He’s dumbfounded, jaw slack open and he slowly evens the thrusts of his fingers and removes his other from your clit. The light in his eyes brightens when you cry at the loss of his touch. To think he of all people could make you sound so pathetic, so needy.

“I crave for you,” He breathes against your pubic bone, cooling the wetness encasing your most private area. “Indulge me and I promise you’ll find contentment,” he states, not even giving you time to answer before he mimics what he read earlier today. His mouth latches to you, hair and all, his blackberry lips pressing firmly to your mound. Adam lets his lips draw in your juices, bringing them slowly together to a kiss just beneath the hood of your clit. The feeling is hot and wet, like boiling lava creeping across stone. He lets his tongue slide out from his bottom lip, coupling with the fingers planted firmly inside you. He thrusts once, twice, each push making your toes curl and his tongue captures the taste of your oozing cream. Salty and musky with that hint of lavender soap, he breathes deeply through his nose and every scent lacing his sinuses smells of you.

Eagerness gets the better of him and he forgets his strength for a small moment. His fingers work in quick succession— thrusting so deeply that it reaches his metacarpal knuckle. He feels something soft and plush far into you, ramming into it as he lets his tongue trail his spit toward your clit.

“Adam—!” You draw out with a shriek, your legs bending upward towards your chest. His warm hand palms at your thigh and he forces one leg open once more. He raises his head momentarily, strands of his hair sticking to the corner of his mouth, his chin glistening in the moonlight. Droplets of his spit and your desire trickle down and land on the bedding below. He catches his breath, hot and heavy against you and he cracks a smile.

“Say my name again,” he demands. So you do as you bring a hand down to card your fingers through the hair at the top of his scalp. He whimpers, a purr vibrating against you when his mouth finds your clit. Lips wrap around it, teeth softly press into the sensitive skin as he sucks the muscle into his mouth and slides the tip of his tongue up and down your hood.

He pulls away with a pop, drawing his thumb to your outer lip to stretch you open and get a good look at you. You’re twitching, hole fluttering around his perfect fingers. The creature gathers his saliva and sticks his tongue out to push out the clear liquid. It globs down onto your clit and the act is filthy and irreverent, especially when he coos at the way you beg his name.

“Mewl for me again, won’t you?” He requests, lowering his head once more. “Let me drive you to salvation.”

The overwhelming pressure inside you feels like it’s ready to burst at any moment and Adam’s wicked tongue has no intention of showing mercy. He moans into your mound, lapping at you like this was his final meal. His fingers are thick and soaking wet with your desire for him. The sounds bouncing off the walls— your moans, his name falling from your tongue, his fingers driving deeply into you only increase the pressure. The simmer in your lower abdomen comes to a boiling point. You begin to lose control of any bodily functions.

You cry, reaching for the pillow under you and biting your bottom lip in an attempt to hold back your exclaims of pleasure but there’s no use. “Adam…Adam…ah—my dear—please—!” You fight helplessly against his grip on your leg, attempting to draw your legs together due to the unbearable pleasure.

He almost falters, the petname making his brain become muddled but he doesn’t stop, instead he flutters his lashes open to look up at you. Drunk on the taste and smell of you, now all he can gaze up at is you. Your face flushing red, chest rising and falling rapidly. The feeling of your entrance spasming around his digits. Adam strives to find out what will happen if he pushes you further.

He’s barely been paying attention to his hard-on, it’s been on the very back of his mind as something to pay little attention to when your pleasure is the most important. He didn’t notice the way he was rutting into the bed or the sudden wetness of his precum that he felt against the quilt. The bed rocks as he begins thrusting himself into it and he lets out a monstrous groan at the satisfaction of it all.

There’s a tightness that’s grown to its peak inside you, you begin babbling, releasing a sling of pleas that sound incoherent. Your mouth locks open in a moan and the way Adam opens his mouth and shows you his pink tongue lapping at you—starved and needy— it drives you over the edge. Your orgasm washes over you like a bucket of piping hot water, it makes you cry his name one final time. Hips moving on their own accord, hand drawing his hair into a fist and tugging on it as you grind against his face with all the strength you can muster. Adam takes it— going limp under your grasp and letting you fuck yourself on his face. His fingers go in rhythm with your swaying hips and the bed creaks with your incessant need to ride out this pleasure.

Clit pulsing, hole clenching and unclenching after the orgasm has reached its peak. Your bicep aches at the tenseness you used and you relax, releasing a sigh and flopping onto the bed. Adam looks at you, his fingers slowly pulling out of you— coated in your cum, he draws them to his lips and licks them clean. He looks down to the mess he made of your bedding. White paints the quilted squares and he’s almost ashamed for it had it not been for the lightheaded pleasure coursing through his veins.

Adrenaline runs through both of you, your heart beats in sync with one another as they calm after such an intense night. Your body is sticky with sweat and your legs tremble when you can finally draw them together. The remnants of your orgasm drips from between your legs and you roll to the side. Catching your breath, you crack an eye open to look over to Adam who’s sitting on his knees at the end of the bed. He’s looking at you curiously like a dog looks at a human— eager, impatient but aware that you’re in charge.

You pat the space beside you on the bed. “Come,” you gasp, breath still dissipated from your lungs. Adam’s long limbs crawl awkwardly back to the bed, laying beside you and drawing his naked body up against yours. He wraps a careful arm around your middle and rests his chin atop your shoulder.

“Satisfied?” He asks, his lips soft against the shell of your ear. You giggle at the tickle of his rumbling voice and nod in response.

He’s so warm, so large, and holds you as if you were made of porcelain. Careful and soft— afraid you’ll crack if he wraps his arms around you too tightly. For such a large man, or someone who would describe himself as a monster— he was the furthest thing from it. Your hand draws behind you to his naked thigh, rubbing your thumb across his skin, he grumbles something and sighs into your skin at the intimate touch.

“You should read more of those books…” You say quietly.

Adam giggles behind you, wraps his arm tightly around you and buries his face into your neck. How could you have gotten so lucky?

[jarsofpluto]

i know you too well.

summary: a modern adam frankenstein au. the moon hangs low as your band endlessly practices for an important gig tomorrow. tension rises between you and the drummer who knows exactly how to pull you in.

pairing: the creature (adam frankenstein) x reader

word count: 7k words

tags: no use of y/n, established relationship, set in the modern times OBVIOUSLY, i keep his stitches and animalistic grows OBVIOUSLY, so much heat and tension and yearning, banter between characters, i dont know how to tag

author's note: i recommend listening to the summoning and infinite baths by sleep token. and knot by shyeye while reading this !!! this is my first time writing a fanfic in a VERY LONG WHILEEE. frankenstein woke something in me and im lowkey proud of this work of mine. :3 ENJOYYYYY

the bass riff shudders through the basement. it's a low yet restless growl that digs into your bones. the neck of the bass is warm under your palm, sweat-slick even, the wood vibrating hard enough to send a dull throb up your forearm. your left shoulder aches under the weight of it, it's a slow and punishing throb earned from forcing yourself through an all-night rehearsal. you could’ve stopped hours ago—everyone else wanted to—but tomorrow isn’t just another gig. it's your one way ticket out of this town, out of the mess you call home. so you didn’t let anyone leave. you kept them awake, kept the basement lights buzzing, kept drilling the same section until the strings burned into your fingertips.

the syncopated riff of your chorus is jagged, dissonant, all stuttered tremors that feel more like warnings than melody. you pluck each note with too much force, fingertips buzzing, strings snapping back with a sharp metallic ring that barely has time to breathe before adam’s scream cuts in behind you. his voice tears through the stale air, a guttural burst that shoves the whole room forward.

your hips lean into the body of the bass, swaying to the beat as the sound snarls out of the amp. you dig your thumb harder into the back of the neck, knuckles turning into a white sheet of skin as you try to force the damn thing into obedience. the haunting melody bleeding out of your bass cuts off hard when adam jumps in too early and a bead of sweat slides down the center of your already-knotted brows.

you turn towards him, shoulders slumping as the heat climbs your cheeks, the sticky strands of hair plastered to your back making you shift impatiently. “i think you need to watch your lines,” you snap, venom rolling off your tongue without concern for who it hits.

adam’s knee bounces, restless, as he drags a towel across his forehead, sweat trailing down the stitches of his bare arms. he’s in a muscle tee tonight, his hair shoved into a messy bun, and the stitches along his skin gleam under the basement light. the threadwork, a hush of faded lilac and moth blue, the colours of dried flowers crushed flat in someone's long forgotten book as you've described it to him one evening. it was normally hidden beneath bandages, a substitute for armor against eyes that shouldn’t pry. but you’ve always preferred them uncovered.

“i think you need to watch your mouth,” he snaps back, low and gravelly, a growl that settles into the hollow of your chest and thrums in your ears. it’s a voice that builds heat, dragging the air into a fever pitch until reasoning feels impossible. a smirk—although imperceptible, almost hidden by the flush creeping across your face—flickers there for a heartbeat.

“or what?” you draw the last word out as you drag the mic stand toward him, chest and shoulders angling in his direction, forcing him to meet you head on. you thrive on this—the little game you play, pushing and prodding when he’s already frayed. adding a spark to the quiet inferno you’ve both learned to ignore with little success.

without a word, you return to your bass, letting your fingers crawl across the frets like a spider as you trace the familiar curves of each bar while threading the riff together with a precision that feels almost possesive and challenging. there’s a wildness in the way he watches you. lean and hungry, like a predator tracking something it already considers its own. adam watches you as if waiting for the smallest slip to lunge and claim you for every taunt you’ve dared to offer. you, his little lamb, undone by its own teasing.

“brat,” he hisses, the word sharp and loud enough for you to hear, his stick striking the cymbal in perfect rhythm with the kick drum. he leans into the mic, neck arched just enough to look almost yielding, a faint submission. but you know it's all a deception for it demands your gaze and nothing else. every muscle on his neck is tight, his stitches darkening from today's labour and you feel guilty for having a hand in that, the faint bloom of guilt mixing with something hotter. your gaze drifts down instead, memorizing the landscape of his body without permission, even as your fingers threaten to slip from the strings.

adam doesn’t break eye contact, side-eyeing you with a feral intensity that makes your chest tighten and your calloused fingertips burn, his nostrils flaring as the words leave him slowly, dripping with a kind of weight that feels ancient, almost religious, making your mouth go dry and your pulse spike. the song coils into its final measure and with one last sharp blow, the riff ends in a high pitched ring. it leaves the room suspended in a heavy and trembling silence, your breaths finding the same ragged rhythm, short and shaky, so close that it feels like you could drown in the space between him and you.

“good boy,” you breathe out, chest rising and falling as you finally put your guitar down, rolling your shoulders back to ease the tension built from hours of rehearsal. adam perks up with that praise and there's a low yet resonant purr that rolls through his chest. it’s ridiculous, really, how easy he makes it for you. how he lets you tug him from rage to reverence. he feels insane by the way you push him up to the edge, letting him taste that dizzying burn, then dragging him right back down where you want him. but he never resists. he likes playing this game with you. likes being the piece you move across the board. he’s starved for your attention and proud to be fed by your hand alone. you give him your water bottle and adam slyly brushes his hands over your knuckles as he takes it, lingering just long enough to make every nerve in your body ignite.

he stands up, body towering over you, and for a moment your knees buckle at the sudden proximity. well, if it isn’t the consequences of your own actions biting back. of course adam doesn’t back down from a challenge—if anything, he thrives in it. he feeds on your pseudo confidence.

“careful,” he murmurs, voice velvet dark as he sets your water bottle on the table behind you, his other hand finding purchase at the small of your back. your skin tingles as you try—and fail—not to flinch.

“call me that again and you won’t make it to the door.” he laughs softly, taunting you with his worn-out voice, but it only drives you even more insane.

you clear up your throat and turn away, trying to find footing as the floor suddenly feels uneven. your final words to the band float across the room, ignored by the shuffle of everyone packing up as they are eager to escape and go their separate ways.

you stand by the door with your arms folded across your chest, waiting, as anticipation sits tight in your stomach. your gaze drifts over his silhouette, then back to the door. the second it clicks shut behind the last person, something in you loosens; a slow smile unfurls, meant only for the two of you now that the room is finally empty. he "pavlov'ed" you, as your friends would say, a pattern so subtle it almost feels like instinct. it started when he insisted on opening the door for you every day, for no reason at all. you’ve mistaken it for kindness, but now it has seeped into your routine, your body refusing to open that slab of door even though you are perfectly capable of doing it on your own. adam knows this, as if his plan has been perfectly laid out and you complied unknowingly. he loves doing things for you without you asking, already knowing what you need just by looking at you.

“your hair looks really nice like that,” you softly say, watching the expanse of his back flex as he wraps wires around his palm. you follow the white streak in his hair, a few strands escaping adam’s messy bun.

“i put that up for you.” he turns around with a smile, walking toward you with an arm beckoning you closer. adam pulls you into him, making it very clear that he’s much bigger than you. you curve softly against him and surrender to his kiss, his lips brushing softly on your forehead as he smoothly grabs your backpack and swings it onto his shoulder.

he opens the door for you like it’s second nature, and you slip your hand between his large ones, thumbing over the ridges of his mismatched skin with a softness that makes adam melt. the breeze is cool as you both walk toward your car, your heart lingering on the edge of combustion.

"don't get too comfortable." adam teases but his voice rumbles low, a weight in the air that presses against your ribs. it makes your stomach flip as you're reminded of your little exchange earlier. a nervous giggle slips past you, echoing faintly in the empty parking lot as he leans down to kiss your cheek. his lips trailing down to your neck. you can feel the weight of his smile pressing down as he nuzzles you, nose buried in your scent. the air between you feels charged, a warning that he isn’t done and neither are you.

[elizabeatles]

Are you planning on continuing with the librarian Adam? Or was it just one shot? I’d love to read more of him!!! Like, him recommending books to the reader or ranting to the reader about historical facts…!!!

i am 100% continuing the librarian headcanon! im aiming for a 3 part series. their first introduction, their connection, and then their complete romance! :) and he would absolutely recommend books or get into a ranting convo over history! im a very new writer so i would love for anyone to give me ideas for these fics! they all mean sm to me

— thank you for the ask!

[elizabeatles]

What do you think modern Adam would wear? 👀

honestly I think he would wear baggy and comfortable clothing! big sweaters, hoodies, sweatpants, jackets, etc! he’s already a large man and as modern!adam assimilates into society, I think he’s very aware of other people’s perceptions so he tries to appear as small as possible to not scare off anyone. id also imagine his nerves are more sensitive than others so he feels some materials more than others and leans towards softer clothing.

— thank you for the ask!

[elizabeatles]

Your thoughts are so very important to me, your love for Adam is amazing ☹️

thank you so much 😭💙 I truly love him soso much, he deserves all the good things in this world :(

— thank you for the ask! <3

[elizabeatles]

librarian’s assistant — a.frankenstein

fic prompt: modern!adam/the creature’s job

word count: 2,466 | warnings : awkward meet-cute

— summary: you’re a college student in need of some quick printing at the local library. while you’re there, you meet the newly hired librarian assistant: a 6’5 tall long-haired man with a sweet disposition

The compact clock ticks as it hangs over the wooden desk. The space is cluttered with scattered papers and pens as the spine of your back is hunched over it. The cheap plastic chair you bought on a whim for your apartment creaks under the weight of your shaking leg. Your laptop is posted in front of you with your fingers typing diligently away. You pause for a moment and recline against the chair. Your back arches as you bring your arms up in the air until a faint pop echoes through the small bedroom. Your eyes glance down to the miniature time on the corner of your laptop.  

“It’s 5:37 PM… Still have enough time in the day to do whatever I want.” You mumble mindlessly to yourself.

Your hands lower to the desk and start clearing off the sheets of notes previously used for the essay. The sheets are placed inside of their designated folders as a faint ding comes from your phone. Your eyes squint in confusion as you read the notification on your lock screen.

ESSAY UPDATED REQIUREMENTS: Needs to be PRINTED and handed in person tomorrow for class.

Your jaw slacks almost cartoonishly, “Printed?!” A gasp leaves your lips. Your mouth open in a continued state of shock.

Your fingers rush to pick the phone up and fumble through your passcode. Your eyes scan the screen as they triple check the email from your professor. An exasperated sound comes out of your mouth while your hands tangle themselves in your hair.

“What do I do? I don’t have a printer!” You cried. You begin to anxiously pace on the carpeted floor. Fluffy socks padding against the wooly ground.

Your teeth bite down on your bottom lip out of habit, “I could head to the library? I think it was still open the last I went around this time.” You nod positively to yourself.

With a new sense of self-assurance, you promptly begin inserting your things into a nearby tote bag. Little huffs of air leave from your nostrils as a method to self-soothe. Your feet slip out of your house slippers and into a comfortable pair of shoes. The jacket that was previously thrown carelessly over your bed is now fitted on your body. With a quick look into the mirror, you try to flatten down any stray hairs into a more presentable look.

“Okay! Time to go.” You smile to yourself.

A gush of air flies through you as you exit the front door. The icy wind bites away at your face and you scrunch your nose in displeasure. Walking down the steel stairs connected to the apartment building, you make your way to the still parking lot. You hum a low tone as you unlock your car, trying to distract yourself from the cold seeping into your skin. Shoving your bag into the passenger seat, you situate yourself at the wheel and insert your key. The mechanical machine rumbles awake under your weight. After looking into your blind spots and the rearview mirrors, your foot press down onto the gas pedal. The drive to the college library was steady and peaceful, for a moment you forgot the reason for the late-evening drive. You pull up to the campus building and swiftly park into an empty parking spot. The lights from inside the library were still on but there was an absence of people evident. Pulling onto the handle of the driver’s side, you push the door open while extending your other arm to retrieve the tote bag. After slinging it comfortably on your shoulder, you tread towards the library’s doors.

Your fingers meet the cold metal of the handles as you push them inwards. The humming sound of the building’s AC fills your ears. Your eyes adjust to the intense illumination overhead. Rows of shelves containing books consume your worldview. Your footsteps are the loudest sound to be heard apart from the circulating whirring. Letting out a soft exhale, you pause and twist your head around to find the front desk. As your eyes scan the area, you spot a dark-haired man sitting behind a large desk to the left side of the room. Strands of his umber colored hair hide his features as he hunches over the novel. Large slender fingers tenderly hold the sides of the covers. You pause for a moment before leisurely walking over to him. The thumping of your steps grows louder as the distance closes between the two of you.  

“Um, excuse me?” You call out softly.

The man’s figure jolts straight as he lets out a muffled grunt. His head shifts upwards towards the sound of your voice. His eyes are wide as he meets your gaze. Lips partly open as if he were nibbling on his bottom lip ever so lightly as he read. He rushes to stand up with a sheepish smile.

A low-toned voice sounds out, “Welcome. What can I assist you with?” He says with a manner of rehearsed presentation.

Your eyebrows rise in pleasant surprise at the sound of his voice. You feel at a loss for words while you study his previously hidden features. Pale, almost light blue skin, littered with faint red scars across his face with the biggest and prettiest brown eyes you’ve ever seen. His hair length is long enough to fall to his broad shoulders. He brushes a strand behind his ear.

“Huh…” Rings out in your head momentarily before you realize you haven’t replied to the man.

Heat rushes to your face. A sense of light-headiness waves over you as you fumble with your speech, “Oh, I just wanted to know where the printers were at?” You squeak out.

You mentally pinch yourself at the awkwardness, “Since when were the librarians here so attractive?” You rhetorically ask in your thoughts.

The last time you came here was for a study group after a biology class. Although the librarian at the time was an old sweet lady who had poor vision. You wonder if he was going to be a permanent addition to the campus. Your fingers grip the strap of your tote bag, grounding yourself with the rough material between your fingertips. His eyes study your nervous demeanor while his face furrows with a lightly pouted lip. His hands twitch at his side with some of his fingers bending outwards. You assume this as an anxious habit to your reaction and immediately stop your fiddling. You straighten your back somewhat and flash him with a small grin. He seems to relax at the change in posture, his shoulders dropping its tension.

“They are in the computer laboratory, next to the non-fiction shelves but I can lead you to them if you wish?” He steadily responds, an accent clinging to his husky voice.

You nod without a second thought, hanging onto every single word. He lets out a pleased huff and promptly stunters out from the chair. His sweater’s long sleeves drape over his knuckles, swaying with every movement. Your eyes observe the gentle maneuver of his limbs. He turns to you and wordlessly gestures with a tilt of his head to accompany him. A small noise escapes your lips as you pick your feet off the ground and follow behind. Your vision fills with the sight of his broad back. His shoulders drooped and arms hidden under the comfort of his sweater. A pair of black sweatpants hang on his hips and cut at his ankles. A sense of embarrassment fills your stomach as you ogle this poor man. You let yourself gaze over his body one last time but abruptly stopped by the same back.  His sudden freeze in movement causes you to bump into him, face first.

“Ouch,” You whispered quietly, an awkward grimace appears on your features.

He lets out a small noise of surprise as he whips his head to you. His body is nearing closer as he brings his arms upwards. A whiff of pine tree and coconut scented soap circulates near you. Slender fingers delicately reach your bumped nose with an evident frown on his face. The full lashes on his face flutter rapidly in clear unsatisfaction.

He speaks out gravelly in an apologetic tone, “Please accept my apologies, I did not mean to hurt you.” His face scrunches up ashamedly.

“No, no! It’s okay, I was the one who bumped into you. I wasn’t watching. I was…um, distracted.” You rambled out clumsily.

You lift your own hands to his gently splayed fingers on your nose bridge. He diligently inspects the skin. An evident expression of displeasure sticks despite your words. His large frame overpowering yours as you take this moment to look closer at his eyes. One of his eyes seem slightly larger than the other, a faint shade of red swirls in it.

Before you could stop it, you mutter lowly, “Pretty.”

His fingers cease their inspecting motions, freezing under the touch of your fingers. His dark eyes widen comically large with a flush painting his cheeks and nose. A croak leaves your throat as you stare at him in shock. Your face burns deeply under his gaze. A knowing but shy smirk curls on his face. You drop your hands to your sides, fingers curling into your palms. He follows suit in an unhurried manner. Long sleeves swiftly fall to his torso as he turns back around. He lets out a shaky breath unheard by you. Fingers that held your nose delicately now twitched.

“The printers are located in this room here. I will be at the front desk if you require any assistance.” His voice deeply resonates out.

“Thank you…” You murmur.

He twists his head to face you one last time, letting his eyes fall over form. He intakes a sharp breath as he catches your eyes. There’s a strange but deep sense of affection in those doe-like eyes of his. You swallow a gulp before forcing yourself to part away from his heavy observation. He takes your reaction as his cue to leave, leaving you with a hesitant smile before rushing back to the front of the library. You stand motionless outside of the doors of the computer lab, watching the muscles of his back shift. A soft buzz brings you out of your frozen state. Your fingers reach into the tote bag slung over shoulder and pull out your phone. The notification was a set reminder to submit your essay on time.

You curse under your breath in annoyance. Twisting the handle of the door, you enter and instantly spot the large printer next to a row of computers. The door clicks shut behind you as you swiftly make your way to it. You draw out a nearby chair and slip your laptop out of the tote bag. Briskly typing in the login, you’re able to pull up your essay with no issue.

“Thank God for good Wi-Fi.” You mutter to yourself.

The printer whirrs and hums while processing the document. Letting out a stream of noise as it ejects the sheets of paper with freshly inked text. They’re warm on your fingertips when you carefully retrieve them. A pleased hum comes from you. After arranging them neatly in a folder, you stuff all your items back into your bag. You exhale dramatically in the quiet room. The recent interactions flash through your head. You let out an exaggerated groan but shake your head sideways as if to expel the thoughts. You press the power button on the side of your phone to briefly check the time. You weren’t sure when the library closed but you didn’t want to cause the cute guy, who helped you, to stay longer than needed. The phone slips back into the tote bag and you silently hype yourself up to interact once again with the unnamed pretty librarian on duty.

You exit the computer lab and start treading to the front desk. You see him sitting down reading the same novel as before but with a half-comfortable position. Almost as he was expecting to talk with someone soon.

You clear your throat before you speak, “How much per sheet? You ask.

He looks at you from under his dark eyelashes and grins sweetly, “It’s $0.15 per sheet.” He recalls with a hint of pridefulness at himself for remembering the detail.

“Okay! Here you go.” You reply cheerfully and hand him your student id.

He holds it meticulously and purses his lips as he reads it. His lips mouth your name in a quiet whisper.

“Hm. Pretty.” He mumbles.

You shift your weight on your feet in a flustered state. To play off normalcy, you continue pulling out your wallet and shuffle through your assortment of coins before you grab the ones needed. Your open palm is extended out towards him expectantly. His own scarred hand hovers over yours for a second. His eyes lock onto the passing touch of your skin as he picks up the coins with care. He counts them under his breath while he transports them from your palm to his. His gruff voice intimately low between the both of you. If you were reading too much into this, you would think he was dragging this exchange with purpose. A silly smile rests on his face as he finishes counting.

You let out a giggle at his expression, “Thank you…?” You pause, hoping to learn the name of this endearing man.

“Adam.” He responds with haste, the low rumble of his voice accompanying it.

He rubs the back of his neck as he huffs a chuckle. His chest rising and falling with the deep breaths he takes between the soothing action. You repeat his name back to him with a curl to your lip. He looks directly in line with your eyes and presents you with a toothy smile. A happy hum passes through his lips at the sound of your voice. He nods as to reassure you that that is his name, the one that so sweetly left your lips.

“Well, goodnight, Adam.” You say to him.

He hesitates before mimicking your farewell, “Goodbye.”

Your body moves away from the front desk before your mind does. Adam continues to stay upright as he watches you step out into the night. Scanning the form of your figure until you’re nothing more than a blob of colors hidden by the dark. He looks down to his hands and tenderly traces the skin of his palm. The same hand that was able to touch you for small but perfect moments. Thoughts of the sweet librarian consume your thoughts even as you reach your car. A hope blooms in your chest for the chance to see him again at a later date.

taglist: @hotnsexyprincess @oopsalltropes @yoncecosmic @jennathearcher @jarsofpluto @bug-and-such @vktrsmonster @for2buns @lxvejae @cervusofjudas @hollipolliyozza @storyyeller @uchihashisuii @mothmire @macaroni-stars

(comment below if you want to be added to the taglist! share any thoughts or feelings! my first long fic ever :3 )

[elizabeatles]

Thinking about Adam still having nightmares about Elizabeth’s death and him startling awake in the middle of the night; him just lying there for a while watching and listening to your rhythmic breathing and your steady heartbeat, reassuring himself that you’re still there, alive, with him

my heart!!!!! elizabeth's connection to adam is something that is so interesting to write about in terms of reader fics because how could you gloss over the first person in adam's life that shown him kindness with no expectations in return... he would forever keep her in his heart but it only opened his heart to love others! adam would definitely check the beating of your heart at different times in the day, just to make sure you're okay but it's his most comforting sound when he has those nightmares.

-- thank u for the ask! :3

[elizabeatles]

snowy evenings — a. frankenstein

imagine prompt: quiet adoration w adam/the creature

word count: 673 | no tws

summary — after a night out with adam, the both of you come to a house filled with deep understanding.

The front door behind you clicks shut as you and Adam walk in quietly. The only audible sounds are the dripping droplets of water in the kitchen sink and soft exhales coming from the both of you. You turn to look at him and he looks down at you through his lashes. He gives you a soft and tired smile as he shrugs off his dark coat. Delicate snowflakes litter the ground as you discard the heavy coat of your shoulders. Wordlessly, you step in front of Adam and press your hands on his chest against the soft material of his sweater. He pauses and furrows his face for a moment before looking at your curiously.

"Let me take this off." You speak in a low tone as you move your hands up to grip softly onto his black scarf.

He nods and lets his eyelids flutter shut. His body lets out a shiver at the touch of your fingertips at the skin of his neck underneath his scarf. You unwrap the ends carefully, mindful of what was once freezing snow beginning to soak into the yarn. Once the scarf has fully unraveled, you hang it on the coat hanger a few feet away from you.

"Thank you..." He whispers to you. A part of him is afraid to be any louder in fear he'll break the soft moment.

Your eyes find his as you let out a small exhale. A knowing smile curls your lips upwards. You step back into his space and wrap your arms around the back of his neck. Adam shifts momentarily as his own hands find solace on your hips. His hands trail from the side of your body up to the warm cheeks of your face. Your hands interlock from behind his neck as your press your body closer to his. A soft purr leaves his lips as his fingertips begin caressing the soft skin of your face. You tilt your head and chase the feeling of his cold fingers on your warm skin. His thumb tenderly rubs under your jaw. Your eyes flutter shut, savoring the sensation of his gaze upon you. Adam takes the chance to shift his eye's focus over your form. His eyes trail the curve of your face, the wet strands of your hair, the relaxed posture of your back, and soft pout of your lips pressed to his palm.

He mutters your name reverently as you open your eyelids again.

"Can I kiss you?" Adam breathes out in soft prayer.

Blood rushes to your cheeks as you quietly nod to him. He waits a moment before a soft yes escapes your mouth. A faint shade of red flushes his nose as he bends his neck closer to your face. His hands move ever so slightly to cup the sides of your jaw completely to tilt your head sideways. You move your weight onto your toes as your body reaches up to him before your mind does.

His lips press softly against yours, cold dark lips to your warm ones. He pulls himself back and feels the breath of your mouth before deepening the kiss. His shoulders tremble from the impact of it all. Air blows from his nostrils as he lets out low whimpers on the skin of your lips. An airy feeling blooms in your chest as he lowers one his hands to the left center of your chest. He rests his palm gingerly and feels the thumping of your heart. He pauses and separates from your mouth as he smiles to himself. His closed eyelids crinkle on the sides from his grin.

You speak against his lips, "Happy?" you ask him.

"Yes, very." He replies earnestly with quickness.

You view him from under your eyelashes as you let out quiet giggles, "I'm glad." You tell him as you rest your head against his broad chest.

His arms wrap around your torso instantly, "So am I." He mumbles as he lets his chin drop to the top of your hair.

taglist: @hotnsexyprincess (if you want to be added, don’t be afraid to comment below!)