➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader
➥ word count | 4.5k
➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; mildly dubious consent, dirty talk, degradation kink, fingering, squirting, rough sex, size kink, standing doggystyle, overstimulation, teasing, choking, dacryphilia, cooper howard is his own warning (he nasty y'all), canon compliant - takes place around ep 7, a grab bag mix of the show and the games
➥ summary | “Lil girls should know it’s rude ta steal.”
➥ notes | i love my men like i love my beef jerky 🫠 i wrote this over 16 fevered hours after finishing the finale. hope you enjoy~
minor edits 4/22/24 | x posted to ao3
💚masterlist | feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | feedback is always appreciated 💚
It begins, as most things in the Southwest Commonwealth do, with a fight for survival.
City life is tough to be sure, but here on the outskirts of pocket civilizations where there’s nothing but long stretches of desolate wasteland - arid, sunbaked earth and scorched shrubbery - for miles around?
Well, if the ferals, fiends, and super mutants don’t get you in the night, then the desert itself will. During the day the sun burns overhead so nuclear hot, heat glimmers on the horizon in dancing waves.
Unforgiving, relentless as blink-and-you-miss-it mirages are swallowed by ever shifting sands.
It’s easy to get lost.
Even easier to boil alive in your armor if you’re unprepared.
Far too many travelers from the Eastern Commonwealths have met their demise here, where shade is sparse, and water even moreso. The rain - if it does blow in over the mountains - brings rad sickness.
If you’re lucky enough to still be alive, the only reprieve from the heat is in the stooped bones of bombed buildings and ramshackle shacks... where you're just as likely to catch a knife in the back from a chem fried addict as you are relief.
Because here, in the Wastes, danger lurks in sand and shadow alike.
You don’t trek out into the flats half-cocked: a fact all locals know. And if you do decide to? Well, you learn one way or another.
No, only the truly ignorant - or the desperate - dare to tempt man and nature.
Consequently, as you dust off the crumbs from the last half of a Fancy Lads Snack Cake and suck a melted smear of icing from your thumb, you're of the latter half.
You tried holding off for as long as you could. But once the shakes started, you knew you couldn’t put off eating lest you pass out and wake up in a slaver camp.
Well, shit, you think as you rattle a dented canister of purified water. This fucking sucks.
Almost going cross-eyed, your tongue hovers under the rim as you watch the last lazy drop fall free. You catch it with a grimace, smacking your lips. The water tastes metal warm in your sour mouth, barely enough to wet your whistle - let alone your thirst.
You began rationing the last of your supplies days ago, and it’s been a battle against light-headedness ever since. Pretty soon you won’t have the strength to defend yourself, scavving be damned.
Come on. Think - gotta think. What can I scrap for caps?
Not only is Filly more than half a day away, Ma June isn’t one for charity cases. The fact she offered twenty extra caps last time for some burnt books and bent bobby pins was as close as you were ever going to get to a Wasteland miracle.
Sunken cheeks and pleading eyes can only get you so far; everyone’s gotta eat.
"Fuck..." The palms of your hands grind into your eye sockets until you see stars. "FUCK!"
There are two unspoken laws in this otherwise lawless land: steal or starve, live or die. A grim reminder that surrounds you in old bleached bones, empty bullet casings, and scraps of cloth fluttering in the breeze.
Someone always has to be top dog. If you’re lucky, they might be willing to share their spoils.
It’s as you’re considering what pieces of yourself you’re willing to barter that you see them. On the horizon, coming from the west, are two dark blobs.
Stark against the flat plains - a shining beacon of salvation - is a man in a ratty duster and cowboy hat. The saddlebag tossed over his shoulder bounces with his steps while a dog trots beside him, its sable coat rippling with muscle.
Pay dirt.
Making sure to keep low and distant, you stalk them. Watching, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.
When the sun dips low, the sky a swath of pale pink and gold, they make camp at a blown-out Drumlin Diner. Off in the distance, thunder rumbles and sickly clouds gather.
Dark and roiling, acid green; a Radstorm brewing.
Electricity cracks at your skin, stands your hair on end. You scrub your hands over your arms, huddling into yourself for warmth. Meanwhile, the stranger seems to luxuriate in the budding promise of rad rain.
He lounges under an awning, his back pressed against a defunct Nuka Cola fridge. He gazes in the direction of the oncoming weather while mindlessly running his fingers through the dog’s fur as it curls up against his legs.
Occasionally, its ears twitch, and its eyes crack open.
Whenever it glances in your direction, you hold your breath and squeeze your eyes shut but it never gives any other indication that it notices your presence.
A small mercy you’re thankful for.
While you’re a pretty good shot, your body is weak with hunger. Besides, you have quick hands and light feet. There’s no doubt you can stealth your way in and out before he realizes his pack is lighter than he left it.
You’ll only take what you need - not interested in causing any more trouble than is necessary. Some food, maybe something to drink if he can spare it, and something to pawn. Just enough supplies to get you sorted in Filly.
Anyway, he certainly isn’t hurting for it by the look of things.
Any guilt you felt was short-lived when he settled down after dropping his pack inside, walking out with an inhaler of Jet in one hand and a can of Cram in the other.
Watched, greedy, as he cracked it open and picked at the tin of meat with lazy fingers. Salivated as he sucked them clean in between deep pulls of chem.
Soon, you decide, licking your lips as he chews, swallows. Soon.
However when push comes to shove, the stranger proves far more keen than you give him credit for.
The world spins like a hit of Daytripper, a kaleidoscope of color as your skull bounces off the wall with a loud crack. Air rushes from your lungs as something huge - hot and heavy - slams into you from behind.
Pins you against the wall with ease as your ears ring.
Something rattles loose; your teeth too large and your tongue too thick. Warm metal floods your mouth as the side of your face throbs in time with the rabbit fast stutter of your heartbeat.
Pain sparks and your stomach rolls.
"Wha's?" you slur, thoughts dripping like wax. "Wh-at's..."
Meanwhile, a gloved hand lassos around your throat like a collar. Brute fingers squeeze the tender flesh of your jugular until you hear your pulse in your ears. Senses struggling - sluggish to adjust in the encroaching night - as tiny cavities eat at your vision, little pockets of darkness.
“Lil girls should know it’s rude ta steal," a gruff voice mocks. “Betcha thought you was real slick, huh? Tch. You ask me, you’re dumber than shit, Darlin'.”
Trying to regain your bearings, you shake your head only to groan. “I don’t - ‘m not -” It’s difficult to concentrate, a throbbing tempo taking up residence in your temples. The words come slow. “Wha’d you mean?”
He whistles, long and low-pitched, "D’ya have any idea who you're fucking with?"
“N-No…”
“How’s about I show you, then?”
Warm breath puffs over the shell of your ear, a tongue sliding out to trace along the lobe. You jolt, squirming in discomfort as he crowds closer.
“Tasty lil thing like you, wrapped up all nice and pretty just for me." He chuckles. "Why, it must be Christmas.”
What the hell is he talking about?
It’s hard to breathe with his heavy weight suffocating you; the scent of gunpowder and bitter smoke clogging your nostrils with every labored inhale. His lips - ragged - scrape over the nape of your neck.
The grip on your throat squeezes once, twice; leather sticks to your sweaty skin.
You squint your sore eyes, taking in the faint flickers of firelight that spill through the open doorway. The desert chill of night has settled in, creeping through the busted out windows to dig beneath your padded armor.
Thunder rumbles directly overhead as lightning follows in flashes of acid green. It’s only a matter of time before sheets of rain come pouring down; the air sticky with humidity, trembling with energy.
The Radstorm has finally arrived.
You’ll undoubtedly get sick if you leave the shelter of the diner - might even die from it if you can’t afford or find any RadAway. But as the stranger’s chest digs into your shoulders, and the dog curls up in the corner - uncaring of your plight as its nose tucks into the whip-thin tail - you think you’ll take your chances.
Tilting back to glance at him from over your shoulder through damp eyes, you say, “Look--”
Only his hand moves, viper quick, as it slides from the front of your neck to the nape. Strong fingers clamp down like a vice, like scuffing an unruly dog.
He grinds your face into the wall, rough metal shredding your cheek.
You cry out, a soft, pained little thing that echoes through the empty diner.
“Now why’d you gotta go an' make me do that?”
A phantom glimpse told you all you needed to know; broad jaw, thin lips, a hollow nasal ridge, creeping radiation burns and cracked skin. Ghoul.
“Let’s try this again, Sugar.”
His free hand - sans glove - creeps over the curve of your hip to splay along the swell of your belly, fingers tucking up under the hem of your shirt. You shiver at the stroke of roughened skin.
“Don’t take another peep or I might jus' have ta pluck out those pretty eyes of yours.”
Dread pools low in your gut, a leaden ball.
Everything in you screams: RUN, RUN, RUN.
Alarms blare but you freeze. Stare straight ahead at the featureless wall, eyes wide and unseeing. Through the foggy mire of your thoughts - half formed and shapeless - you have enough presence to understand the precarious nature of your position.
Heart hammering, you plead for mercy, “Please, I’m - I’m sorry.”
"Aw, ain't that real sweet?" He remains impassive, unmoved. "The little thief does got some manners after all."
Without warning, the sharp toe of his cowboy boot kicks apart your feet. In the ensuing empty space between your thighs, his leg slots into place. Spurs dig into the tender meat of your ankle, little kisses of pain, as his hips rut forward against your ass.
You choke on your spit, pulse jumping in your throat.
"H-Hey, that's..." You attempt to shove at any part of him you can reach to no avail. Built and broad with compact muscle, it's like trying to move a brick wall. "I said I was sorry, okay!"
He ignores you, burying his face into the space behind your ear. A deep inhale sounds next to your head, the expansion of his chest against your back so firm you're not sure you won't fuse together.
The whiskey rough groan he releases does wicked things, makes your mind wander to places it shouldn't. Full of grit and gravel as his cock twitches against your backside, a burning line of heat.
A shiver ricochets down your spine.
He grunts, says, "Mm, you smell good enough ta eat."
The cap of his knee nudges up against your clit with a sudden jolt, shocks of pleasure electrifying your body. Tears prick the corners of your eyes, and a sob threatens to scrape its way up from the depths of your throat.
You swallow, mouth desert dry. "Come on, let's just forget all about this, yeah?" you reason. "No harm done. I'll even give you whatever I've got left so - so..."
He makes a noise in the back of his throat, the vibration rattling through your chest. "So?" he prompts, plucking at the waistband of your trousers.
"So let me go?"
"Now why would I go an' do an asinine thing like that?" he replies. "If you think you can buy your freedom, think again, Sweetheart."
Rain pings off the metal roof, the smell of pungent ozone and rusting metal wafting in through busted windows and open doors.
“'Sides,” he pauses to turn your attention outside, “I’d hate ta have you yakin’ before the fun’s even started.”
There’s no way to misconstrue his meaning when he punctuates the statement with a teasing rut of his hips. Those rugged fingers tug open the clasp of your trousers, yank until the material goes slack and pools around your ankles.
“Hey, wait--!”
You jolt, hands scrambling for purchase as he slides his leg against your core. The friction of his pants through your thin cotton underwear makes you ache.
Ripping through your bottom lip, blood beading to the surface, you choke on a high-pitched whimper. "I..."
There's no way he can't feel your reaction.
How quickly you're getting wet as he drags you along the length of his thigh while yanking your hips back into the cradle of his pelvis. You meet him in a slow grind that boils your blood and steals the breath from your lungs.
It’s been - shit - far too long since you’ve felt anything other than hunger, thirst; the animal drive to keep pushing forward.
"You like this, don'tcha?"
You hear the dagger-sharp smile hidden in his words.
He croons, "What would your fellow smoothies think, huh? Here you are lettin’ a ghoul get you all hot n bothered - and you’re lovin’ it. Ain't you?"
You throb in response, heat stealing its way into your cheeks as you turn your head away in shame. His dark chuckle lets you know he felt the squeeze of your thighs, the rock and dip of your hips against his knee.
"I - I don't..." you stutter, struggling for a retort. “I’m not--”
A tremble works its way through your body, crushed as you are between the rad warm burn of his body and the wall. Completely at his mercy as you try to figure out where it all went wrong and what you can do to worm your way out of this one.
Terrified of what'll happen if you stay, terrified of what'll happen if you go; stuck in limbo as what was meant to be a simple grab-and-dash devolved into this confusing cluster of shame and lust.
You loathe the embers of desire kindling to life low in your belly.
"You really outta start bein' more honest, Sweetheart."
A large hand dips beneath the worn band of your underwear, and you wait with baited breath. Helpless as calloused fingertips brush over the swell of your mond.
Your inner thighs are uncomfortably sticky with slick, and your eyes burn in humiliation. Your throat trembles around all the words you want to say.
"Didn't anyone teach you lyin' was bad?" he asks rhetorically as his fingers slip down to play with the swollen bud of your clit, tapping lightly.
You keen, low and wounded.
Short nails dig into your palms as you flex your hands for want of something to grab onto.
“I am being honest,” you bite out through grit teeth. Sweat dapples your furrowed brow. “Just lemme go, please.”
"I find that hard ta believe," he replies. "Sorry to say, but you're shit at lyin'. Just look how hungry your lil cunt is for me."
It’s the only warning you get before those long digits plunge deep inside, two becoming three as they stretch you wide. Hollow you out; knuckles massaging your entrance as the tips prod along the sensitive front wall of your cunt.
You clamp down with a strangled moan. “Shit!”
This is a horrible idea - but it’s been forever and a day since you’ve felt anything other than your own touch.
Whether it be the bone-deep loneliness you’ve been shoving down for months or the sudden, inexplicable need for contact, you long for a reminder that you’re still alive.
That you’re not some wrath of the Wasteland filled with sand and blood, doing whatever it takes to survive in a place that would rather see you fail.
“I - I’m not sure.”
He snorts but offers no council or reassurances, using his free hand to yank at the back of your head in impatience. While it might’ve been a fairer fight if you weren’t in such bad shape, there’s no denying that he’s proven himself to be more adept.
Stronger, quicker.
This is going to happen either way.
And that turns you on - even though you feel like it shouldn’t.
If you give in, if he forces you to give in, it’s not really your fault then, is it? You can enjoy it because you have no choice.
Fuck it, you think, closing your eyes and tilting your head to the side in submission.
Like a doll with cut strings, all the fight drains from your body and you’re left sharing space. The ghoul is a furnace of heat behind you, barely any space to breathe he’s crowded so close.
His cock thickens where it digs into the soft fat of your ass, as large and intimidating as the man himself. “Now stay still for me.”
The or else goes unspoken.
Then he’s stepping away, a rush of cold air filling the empty space at your back.
You shiver, tempted to turn around. Maybe make a run for it. The only thing stopping you is the awareness that his threats aren’t so idle. In your experience, it’s far better to befriend the monster than to anger it.
So you comply, waiting an eternity as your senses strain to pick up on anything other than the murmuring hush of rain, the rumble of thunder, as the Radstorm continues to blow its way through.
Though just when you think he might’ve left, ready to chance moving, you hear the clink of a belt buckle clicking open. The scuff of boots across the linoleum before broad hands shove up under your shirt, scarred palms bare as they settle on your hips.
You tense before forcing yourself to relax.
“You ain’t as stupid as I thought,” he says. “Good girl.”
A test.
You breathe a sigh of relief.
“I can listen,” you mumble, keeping calm as his hands explore the plains of your stomach, pluck at the waistband of your panties. “Promise ‘m not gonna do anything else.”
Learned my lesson the first time. Got my skull cracked open for it.
“That’s what I like ta hear.”
Without warning, your panties are being ripped from you, scraps of fabric fluttering useless to the floor. You squawk in indignation but then a heavy hand settles between your shoulder blades.
He presses down, and you follow without complaint, finding yourself bent in half.
And then the fat head of his cock is right there, teasing at your entrance. He plays with your cunt, slipping the shaft between your wet folds. Dragging up the length of you to tap at your swollen clit.
Jerking in his hold, you whine and try to bear down with all your weight. “Please,” you squirm. “Please, c’mon…”
His grip remains firm, bruising as he exhales next to your ear, a pleased little grumble. “Thatta girl. Now tell me, who’s my pretty lil thief?”
Every hard ridge of his body bites into the softness of yours, your stiff nipples dragging against the rough material of your shirt. Zings of pleasure shoot through you; bursting in your bloodstream, fizzy like warm Nuka Cola.
“I-”
“Go on now, Sweetheart: say it.” Fingers dig into your hips so hard your bones ache. “Or I jus' might be tempted ta take a bite outta your pretty lil backside instead.”
He’s bluffing, you think, half delirious, … Right? He wouldn’t--
You swallow, throat clicking, and squirm against him.
Is that a chance you’re willing to take?
No, no it’s not.
“Y-Yours - I’m - I’m your little thief.”
The unexpected flare of satisfaction in his voice is almost your undoing. A hand pets down your flank, swatting the outside of your thigh playfully.
“Good girl.” He demands, “Say it again.”
Sharp hip bones kick forward against your ass as he lines himself up and starts to bully his way inside.
“I’m - YOURS!”
Your soft, gummy walls flutter, squeeze until giving in with a pop under the hard pressure of the fat head. His cock stretches you out, thick and girthy.
Ridges of scar tissue and patches of rough friction pockmark his shaft, massaging tender places as he fills you up, fucking you open.
He feeds you inch after inch… until he can’t.
“Wait!”
Accommodating his girth is a struggle, your cunt filled to the brim by the time he’s halfway inside. No amount of slick could make him fit, so he makes do with harsh little jerks of his hips. Forces himself deeper and deeper until he glides home nice and smooth, sheathing himself to the base with a sigh of satisfaction.
You clamp down hard with a hiccupy whine, walls furtively trying to push him out. “A-Ah!”
“Goddamn,” he huffs, hands kneading your ass, “You’re a tight fit.”
Tears prick your lash line, your hips shifting as you try to stop him from moving. Begging for a moment of reprieve. You’ve never taken something so big and thick, so textured before.
Coupled with the minimal foreplay, it feels like he’s punched his way through your body. Hollowed you out to make a home for himself.
Pussy aching, a low burning tightness creeps over your lower belly as tender flesh pulses uncomfortably around the unforgiving heft of his cock seated deep inside. You swear you feel him poking your belly button.
“Please,” you pant, heat settling into your cheeks. “J-Just wait a sec-ond! I can’t - oh shit.”
“Aw, look at you.” Fingers reach around to brush over your cheeks, gather the tears that’ve slipped free. “Didn’t mean ta make you cry,” he lies.
The sound of him sucking his fingers clean reaches your ears. Your stomach swoops, and your clit throbs. Dazed as you wonder what his mouth would feel like on your pussy.
"Hah - too much, you're - fuck - you're too big."
He snickers. “Can’t be helped, I guess.” Body rippling in a shrug, his hands re-settling on your hips. “But that’s all right - I like it better when they cry.”
Before you can retort, he pulls his hips back.
Your toes curl in your boots, feet squeaking across the linoleum floor as your sweaty forehead grinds into the cool metal of the wall. The texture of his shaft burns as it slides through your swollen folds, dragging against sensitive spots you didn’t even know existed.
You can’t tell if it’s the best you’ve ever felt or the worst, but you nearly sob all the same, nerves alight with liquid fire. Want him as deep inside as he can go; a frenzy of desperation that needs him to stuff you so full you choke.
“See for all your whining, you’re takin’ me so well. What did I say about bein' honest?”
You sniffle, blurry eyes creaking open to stare out the window.
Your body throbs in time with your pulse, your pussy so stretched out you can’t clench down when he thrusts in deep. The fat mushroom head teases your cervix, a faint whisper, before he’s drawing back again.
“T-Too fast,” you stutter, head rolling back to rest on his shoulder. Your thighs tremble, knees going soft. “Slow down, slow down.”
“Sh, you can take it. I know you can.”
With a grunt, he surges forward. Wasting no time in starting up a brutal pace that rattles your bones. He drives you hard into the side of the diner; tits crushed and face smashed, a disgusting mixture of tears and drool wetting your cheek.
“Just like that, Sweetheart.”
You do little more than hold on, all thoughts driven from your mind as he fucks you swollen and bruised. Cunt a sticky mess as your slick eases the way, clinging to your inner thighs and dripping down his heavy balls.
Every thrust punches little sounds from you, and he grunts. “Fuck!”
Your hands cling to the sides of his hips, focusing on the shift of muscle beneath heavy fabric. “I can’t,” you slur, eyes cloudy as you glance up into his, gazes meeting for the first time. “Please, I - ah!”
His thrusts turn punishing, even more so than they already were, hips meet your ass with enough force to leave bruises. “What did I say about sneakin' a peek?”
While the words sound threatening, his voice is heated and breathy. For all his talk, he doesn’t look away. In fact, his hips slow into languid rolls, grinding close. When your eyes slide from his, he reaches down to pinch your clit between his fingers.
“Ah, ah, ah,” he chides. “You keep those eyes on me.”
Pretty, you think, dazed.
Glinting in the slants of firelight like wet sand or a Nuka Cola bottle in the sun; bourbon warm as they peer at you from beneath a heavy brow bone.
“That’s it, there’s my good girl."
Eyes fluttering when he flexes his hips in reward, the tip massaging along your g-spot, your mouth drops open on a whine.
“O-Oh! Right there, I - fuck, please don’t stop. ‘m so close.” F-Feels s'good.
His bare hand reaches up to curl around your jaw, gnarled fingers pushing their way past the open circle of your swollen lips. They compress your tongue as they gather saliva, stroking along your tastebuds.
Gritty, rough; he tastes of dirt, blood, and gunpowder.
You sneak a kiss to his scarred knuckle when he pulls free.
“Shit, I’ll be damned. You’re just a nasty lil freak, ain't you?”
You moan in response, stretching up on your tip-toes and arching your hips to change the angle. Your palms rest beside your head, docile.
A crazed grin cracks the corners of his lips, his teeth bared like an animal. “I like that,” he husks. “Now be a peach…”
Then those soaked digits are finding their way between your thighs, ghosting over your skin to smear spit onto your abused clit. The tender bud throbs beneath his fingertips, swollen and begging for attention.
He hitches his hips forward to feel you jerk, pulsing beneath his touch as he resumes a fast, jolting pace that has you smacking into the wall.
“And cum for me.”
A deep rumble escapes his throat, the sloppy, wet sounds of him fucking you ringing loud in your ears. Your hips roll, unsure if you want to press forward into the swirl of his fingers or back into the rut of his cock.
Tears stream down your cheeks, your chest heaving with weak sobs.
“Please,” you whine, his shaft pinching your walls uncomfortably. You feel swollen, rubbed raw. “A-Almost there.”
A nip to the ear is all it takes.
“Hhaah, I’m--!”
The liquid heat that’s been pooling low in your belly - building and building - finally bursts in a gush of slick that soaks his hand. Darkens the crotch of his pants as it drips down your thighs to splash against the tile.
You sob, a full body tremor zipping through you like bottled lightening.
In the aftermath, your cunt twitches in time with your heartbeat. Hands numb and head full of cotton as cramps bloom between your hips. Sharp little stabs shoot up behind your navel.
“Shit, I’ve got myself a gusher,” he laughs, a nasty little smirk tugging at his lips. “Look at the mess you made. Now if you ask real sweet-like, maybe I’ll let you clean it up with your tongue.”
You sag, too boneless to be ashamed as electric aftershocks tingle along your nerves. All the while, his pace never falters, quickly fucking you into overstimulation.
Your clit twitches pathetically when the fat head of his cock drags along your g-spot. "No more," you mumble weakly, letting him maneuver your body how he likes. "Please."
“Heh, let’s see if you can do that again.”
You whimper, “Oh, oh, please n-no. I - I can’t. You’ll break me.”
“That’s real cute,” his lips, harsh and rasping, drag over the shell of your ear, “but I wasn’t askin’.”
The grip on your hips tightens to the point of pain, digging in and marking you up.
i’m not sure if this has been asked already or not, but how does mr. drow maintain his physique? was he always on the stronger side, or is this a more recent change?
I think fantasy rules is the only real honest answer here.
He is technically more active than most people, but not THAT ACTIVE. He definitely has the body of someone who either a) Has worked out with modern gym equipment minimum 4 times a week for the last decade or b) shoots up a moderate amount of roids. Obviously, he does neither of those things - he wasn't always a beefcake, either!
If I were to come up with an in-universe reason for his physique, it would proooobably be explained away as one of Bhaal's gifts. DU drow bulks up after arriving in Baldur's Gate and being taken into the temple - so, after being indoctrinated by Sarevok and Sceleritas. It could be that after finally "proving" himself as a worthy heir, Bhaal rewarded him with a body fit to rule with (It still took him a couple of years to get there, but it wasn't enough for him to realistically reach that point "naturally", especially at his height).
I think he could potentially lose his shape if he went completely sedentary/starved, obviously, but now as long as he maintains a relatively active lifestyle he will maintain his beefiness.
(And all of this completely disregards the fact that everyone in this universe has delts out to here and a six-pack - so you could just as easily say that, in Faerun, everyone just gets swole real easy.)
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.”
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