OmG THABK GOD SOMEONE IS WRITING FOR THE CREATURE AAAAAA
I am devouring your every piece 😩😩😩
Could we maybe have the reader give Adam some aftercare and some cuddles pls
So this one is tied to guilt of thinking someone isn't worthy of love or pleasure during sex. Just a fair warning. Gender Neutral reader.
I will be here
Adam Frankenstein lays beneath you, the two of you nude, his softening cock inside of you, the both of you panting, bodies still thrumming with pleasure.
A kiss, you brought him from his thoughts, a slow series of kisses up his neck to his cheek.
"Are you ok?" You breathe out.
He nods, silent, and for a moment you fear that he didn't enjoy it, that maybe you had done something wrong.
"Adam?" You say gently, pulling away from him.
"Did you not enjoy yourself."
"I did.." he says with a sigh, his arms loosely around your waist.
"But I feel as if I should not have.. that I am.. unworthy of such pleasure of what love I felt from you in that activity."
Your heart breaks, leaning forward, your hands move to each side of his face. Pressing your forehead against his own.
"I love you." You say gently, "Know that, and you are worthy of every bit of pleasure and love."
You feel him stiffen beneath you, and feel a warm tear down his face.
"Oh my love.." you say meeting his gaze, you pull him into your arms, he holds you tightly now, and for a while you two hold each other as he cries.
"We never have to do this again." You say softly, "If you never wish to I only want to love you."
Adam nods, tears on your skin, you press a kiss to his temple, your heart breaking.
"You are my heart." You say to him, "Whatever you need of me, I will do my best to give."
He nods again, kissing your shoulder, your chest, still crying as if it's all he can do, as if his sorrow has taken his words.
All you can do is hold him, to tell him how loved he is worthy of life, of love, of pleasure.
Eventually you do move off of him, legs shaky, to the point where Adam can not allow himself stay behind in the comfort of your bed and helps you move, his arms holding you in a bridal style.
You two go to the kitchen and get some water, a snack, and then you clean each other, no touches that cause a great amount of desire.
Instead you wash him with tenderness, you kiss his chest where his heart sits, alive. He, in turn presses tender kisses to your body, as you guide him to help him wash you (his request to do so).
The two of you pulling each other back to bed after you're washed, arms wrapped around one another under the covers, Adams head against your chest as you run your hands through his dampened hair.
"I would like," Adam says gently, "To do that with you again."
"We will.." You say tenderly, Adams arms around you light a firm protector. "And when we will, when you want to, I'll be here."
"It will take time." Adam says, "To… trust what you say about me. That I am worthy of this, that it isn't wrong."
"I'll be here." You promise. "I swear it Adam, I will not leave your side now until I am old and withered."
He chuckles, a soft sigh leaving him, healing. He was healing from the Hell he had been through and he would get better if not for himself than for you.
You held him through the night, until slumber took you both.
Summary: When a storm drives a lonely creature into your home, fear gives way to compassion.
The night the storm came, it tore the sky apart.
Wind screamed through the valley, shaking the windows of your cottage and howling like a wounded beast.
You had gone into the village before dusk, unaware of the tempest that would soon rise. By the time you returned, drenched and shivering, the path was a blur of mud and darkness.
You reached your door, desperate for warmth, only to find it already ajar.
Your breath stopped along with your heart.
The candle you had left by the hearth was burning low, and something, or rather, someone, was inside.
He stood in the centre of the room, his frame stooped under the rafters.
Torn clothes clung to a body of impossible strength. His face, half-lit by the trembling candle, bore scars like broken lightning across his skin. In his hands was the loaf you had baked that morning, now torn and half-eaten.
You opened your mouth to scream, but then he looked at you.
There was terror in his eyes. Not cruelty, not hunger, fear.
The kind of fear that belonged to a creature who had known only rejection, who had never been given the grace of gentleness. His lips parted as though to speak, but no sound came.
You slowly lowered your hand from your mouth.
“You must be cold,” you said softly, voice trembling more from pity than fright. “Sit by the fire. I will bring you something warm.”
He hesitated, confusion flickering over his features, before nodding, a small, uncertain movement.
When you set a bowl of stew in front of him, his hands were shaking as he took it. He ate in silence, glancing at you as if expecting you to drive him out at any moment.
But you didn’t.
Over the days that followed, he stayed.
At first, he spoke little, retreating to the shadows whenever you approached.
Yet in time, he began to read from your books in a low, small voice.
You learned that he had no name, no home. He was a being assembled and abandoned, shunned by every soul who saw his face.
You found yourself lingering in the evenings, the two of you sitting by the fire as rain tapped against the windows.
You would read to him, and he would listen, quiet, almost reverent. Sometimes his eyes would soften when you smiled, as though the warmth of your presence reached some part of him long thought dead.
He was gentle.
Always gentle with you.
Love came slowly, like dawn after a long winter night. You felt it in the way he mended the gate with his great, careful hands, in the way he turned his face away when you dressed a wound on his arm, afraid to frighten you.
And you knew he felt it too, though neither of you spoke it aloud.
Until that evening.
The rain had returned, light and steady this time, unlike the rage and thunder.
You came downstairs to find him standing by the door, cloak drawn over his shoulders. His eyes were heavy with sorrow.
“I must go,” he said. “They will find me one day. And when they do, they will not spare you. I cannot stay. I am not meant for peace… nor for love.”
You stepped closer, shaking your head.
“Don’t say that. You’ve done nothing but bring me peace.”
He turned away.
“If they come, they will kill me. And you-” His voice broke. “They would hurt you for harbouring me. I will not allow it.”
You reached for his hand, feeling the coldness of his skin.
“Then let them come. I will not live in fear of kindness.”
He pulled free and opened the door. The storm’s breath swept in, damp and cold. Without thinking, you followed him into the rain.
“Please,” you called. “Don’t leave me!”
He stopped, his broad frame shaking as thunder rolled over the hills.
You ran to him, your feet splashing through the puddles, your heart pounding. When he turned, you saw tears mixing with the rain on his cheeks.
“I love you,” you whispered. “You are not a monster. Not to me. You are everything I have ever wanted kind, gentle, and alive. Stay.”
He stared at you, disbelieving. His lips parted, trembling. And then you kissed him.
It was not soft, not perfect, but it was real, desperate and full of the life he thought he could never have. When you drew back, his shoulders eased, and the years of loneliness seemed to fall away.
The fear was gone from his eyes.
He cupped your face, hands trembling as though holding something too precious to be real.
“Then I will stay,” he said, voice breaking into a smile. “If you will have me.”
You nodded, tears warming your rain-chilled cheeks. Together, you turned back toward the cottage, where the candlelight still glowed through the storm.
And for the first time in his life, he no longer feared the dawn.
The storm passed that night, leaving the air washed clean and bright. Morning came soft and golden, seeping through the shutters like a promise. When you woke, he was already sitting by the hearth, the faintest smile on his lips as he watched the fire’s embers glow.
He looked different in the daylight.
The harsh shadows that once carved his face into something otherworldly now softened; his eyes caught the light like polished glass, clear and gentle. He turned when you stirred, his smile uncertain but warm.
“Good morning,” he said. His voice was quiet, careful, as though the words might shatter.
You smiled back. “Good morning.”
He helped you prepare breakfast, moving with a quiet reverence that made the simplest moments feel sacred.
When your hand brushed his, he froze, and then, slowly, laced his fingers with yours. His touch was tender, and you could feel his pulse racing under his skin.
The days began to fold into one another like pages in a well-worn book. He mended the fence, learned to bake, and gathered wood from the edge of the forest where no one dared wander.
At night, you read aloud to him by candlelight, poetry, mostly.
He liked the words about hope, about mercy. Sometimes he would repeat a line softly to himself, tasting the meaning as though it was something new.
“‘Love seeketh not itself to please, nor for itself hath any care…’” he murmured one evening, tracing the edge of the page with his rough fingertip. “How strange, that I should learn from a poem what my maker never taught me.”
You looked at him, the firelight dancing across his scarred hands.
“He gave you life. But you gave yourself a soul.”
He glanced up at you, eyes shining.
“Because of you.”
The weeks became months.
Spring softened the earth, and your garden bloomed. He built you a small bench under the willow tree, carving your initials into the wood.
He would sit there when you worked among the flowers, happy to simply watch you.
There were still moments of fear, when a rider passed too close to the path, or when distant voices carried on the wind.
Each time, you would see the old panic flash across his face, and you would take his hand until it faded. He never spoke of running again.
One night, as summer began to wane, you found him standing by the window, watching the stars. His shoulders were bare beneath a linen shirt, his hair falling over his brow. The lamplight turned his scars to gold.
“What are you thinking?” you asked softly.
He smiled faintly without turning.
“That I am no longer afraid of the dark. Once, it hid me. Now, it feels like home.”
You stepped closer, resting a hand on his back.
“Because of me?”
He turned then, cupping your cheek with that same care as the night you kissed him in the storm.
“Because of us,” he said.
You leaned into his touch, heart full. For the first time in a long time, the world beyond your walls seemed small, distant, almost forgotten. What mattered was here, the warmth of the fire, the steady rhythm of his breath, and the simple miracle that he had found you.
He kissed you again, softly this time. And in that quiet, you knew that love had done what science never could.
It had brought life to the creature once abandoned by the world.
And as the night continued, he whispered the words he had long feared to speak.
“I am not a monster,” he said, his voice breaking into a smile. “Not anymore.”
