Hi I see you're begging for HH requests (especially subby ones) and I am here to deliver. I NEVER see subby Adam and that's all I want 😩 you have free reign over literally everything else, I just need to see more sub fics of that man
────۶ৎ bratty.
or... your husband being nothing sort of needy !!
warnings : suggestive !!
ᐟᐟ ⟢ a/n: ... yeah so.. subby adam my beloved
( 🏷 @callme-holly , @johnnycadesslut , @cozm1xxx )
The heavenly bureaucracy was a symphony of order, a celestial machine of perfect, humming efficiency. Or, it usually was. Today, a distinctly discordant note was trailing you through the gilded halls of the Angelic Council building, and his name was Adam.
He’d been shadowing you since you’d both woken, a storm cloud of petulance in a faded black band t-shirt of his own band and angelic linen pants. Without his usual archangel robes and mask, he seemed… smaller, more exposed. It also made his every pout and scowl devastatingly clear. He’d been shadowing you since you’d both woken, a storm cloud in simple, form-fitting angelic whites—a stark contrast to his usual ornate "Dickmaster" regalia. Without the mask and the armor, he seemed smaller, more tangible, and infinitely more petulant. He was a predator of attention, and you were his sole prey.
“This is bullshit,” he grumbled for the tenth time, his boots scuffing against the pearlescent floor. “A whole fucking day of you signing papers? Who even needs this many papers? We’re in Heaven, not a DMV in Ohio.”
You continued your graceful glide towards the Hall of Eternal Records, a serene smile on your face. “The cosmos does not run on faith alone, my love. It runs on triplicate forms.”
“Well, it’s boring,” he whined, stepping directly into your path so you had to stop, his golden eyes narrowed. “I had plans. I was gonna work on my solo. It’s a face-melter.”
You sidestepped him smoothly. “A tragedy for the ages. I’m sure the cosmos will mourn the loss.”
He fell back into step beside you, his shoulder bumping yours—not accidentally. “You’re not taking this seriously. My art is suffering. I’m suffering. Look at me.” He gestured to his face. “I’m wasting away from neglect.”
You glanced at him. He looked as he always did: healthy, glowing, and utterly full of himself. “You’ll survive, Adam.”
A low-ranking Virtue, carrying a stack of scrolls, bowed as you passed. Adam immediately sneered at him. “What are you looking at? Get a move on, feather-duster.” The angel scurried away.
“Was that necessary?” you asked, your tone still light, but a subtle edge forming.
“He was looking at you,” Adam muttered, his petulance taking on a possessive, jealous tone. He reached out and tugged on the sash of your gown. “Why do you have to wear this today? It’s… distracting. And it makes you look all… Seraphimy.”
"It's just fucking paperwork," he grumbled, his voice a low, grating whine as you glided through the Hall of Echoing Hymns, where choirs of Cherubim were practicing a new composition for the summer solstice. "Who gives a shit about the summer solstice? It happens every year. It's not even the good one. The winter one has the pretty lights."
You offered a serene smile to the choir master, who bowed deeply, ignoring the way Adam kicked at a loose, shimmering tile on the floor.
"Adam, my light, if you are bored, you have an entire arsenal of Exorcists to command. Go… practice your power chords," you suggested, your voice the epitome of calm.
He scoffed, shoving his hands in the pockets of his trousers. "Lute's got it handled. They're all boring today."
The comment was laced with a bitterness that didn't quite hide the need beneath it. You continued your rounds, moving to the Celestial Orrery, where star-charting angels were mapping new constellations. Adam trailed you, a sulking, golden-eyed shadow.
"Ooooh, sparkly dots," he mocked, leaning over a junior angel's shoulder, making the poor soul jump. "You know, I invented stars. Well, not these ones. But the idea of stars. Pretty fucking revolutionary if you ask me." He poked a finger at a glowing model of a nascent nebula, making it wobble. "This one looks like a dick. You should name it after me."
You gently took his wrist and moved his hand away. "Adam, behave."
He yanked his hand back, a flash of genuine irritation in his eyes. "Why? What're you gonna do about it?" It was a challenge, thrown down with the bravado of a teenager, but his gaze was hungry, desperate for an answer.
The pattern continued for hours. Through the Ambrosia Gardens, where he complained the fruit wasn't sweet enough. Through the Archives of Infinite Song, where he hummed loudly and off-key to disrupt the scholars. He was a vortex of need, tugging at the sleeve of your robe, stepping on the hem of your gown, his voice a constant, grating commentary designed for one purpose and one purpose only: to get a rise out of you.
It was in the quiet hall leading to your private office in the Angelic Council building that the pieces finally clicked into place. He was following so close you could feel the heat of his body, his breath ghosting against the back of your neck.
The realization, which had been dawning all morning, finally clicked into place. This wasn't just general brattiness. This was a specific, targeted campaign. He was like a child tugging on a parent’s sleeve, but the goal wasn't candy. It was far more primal.
A slow, knowing smile touched your lips. "You know," you said, stopping so suddenly he almost walked into you. You turned, looking down at him, a slow, knowing smile playing on your lips. "For someone who claims to be the pinnacle of masculine perfection, you're being awfully… clingy today."
"I'm not clingy! I'm just… ensuring the structural integrity of this wing. As head Exorcist. It's my duty."
"Your duty," you repeated, your voice a soft, teasing melody. "Is that what we're calling it? It seems to me, my dear First Man, that all this noise, all this… performance…" you gestured to all of him, "...is just a very loud, very obnoxious way of asking for something."
His eyes widened, then narrowed into a defensive glare. "Asking for what? I don't ask for anything. I'm Adam. The first fucking man. I take."
"Oh, I know what you take," you purred, leaning in slightly. "And I think you're throwing this little tantrum because you want to be taken."
A wave of crimson washed over his face and neck. "That is NOT true!" he snapped, his voice cracking with a mixture of outrage and sheer, exposed panic. "You think this is about that? Fuck no! I just think your job is boring and you’re ignoring me! Please. I get that whenever I want. I'm the fucking man! I could have any angel in this realm—"
"But you don't want any angel," you interrupted, your tone final. "You want me. And you want me to stop everything I'm doing and pay attention to you. Isn't that right, my darling husband?"
He sputtered, his mouth opening and closing, no sound coming out. The denial was there, burning in his eyes, but the truth had been laid bare. He was a junkie, and your authority was his drug. With a huff that was all defeated fury, he stomped past you into your office. "Whatever. Just do your stupid paperwork. Don't let me keep you from your very important scrolls."
You followed, the smile never leaving your face. Your office was a sanctuary of soft light and towering shelves of glowing scrolls. You settled into your large, ornate chair behind the massive pearl-inlaid desk. Adam didn't sit. He paced. He fiddled with the trinkets on your shelves. He sighed, loudly and dramatically. He was a live wire of frustrated, sexual energy, twitchy and tense, refusing to meet your gaze, his lower lip pushed out in a world-class pout.
You settled into your high-backed chair, the very image of divine composure, and pulled the first document towards you. The soft scratch of your quill was the only sound for a few minutes, and it seemed to grate on his every nerve.
“This is fucking stupid,” he grumbled, breaking the silence. “Who even needs to know how many cherubs are assigned to cloud-density maintenance? It’s a waste of your talents. Of your time. Of my time.”
You didn’t look up. “Then feel free to go, darling. No one is forcing you to stay.”
A huff. A shift in his chair. Silence. Then, “That quill is too scratchy. It’s annoying.”
You dipped the quill again, the scratch of nib on parchment deliberately slow and precise.
“My ass is going numb. These chairs are a crime against comfort.”
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
"You know," he started again, his voice deliberately loud as he came to lean against the front of your desk, his back to you. "This is bullshit. I should be leading a training exercise. I should be composing a new anthem. But no, I'm stuck in here, waiting for you to finish scribbling so we can maybe, I don't know, do something that isn't a cosmic snoozefest—"
You finished signing your name with a graceful flourish and finally, slowly, set the quill down. You looked up at him, at the genuine, frantic need warring with the performative anger in his eyes.
That was it. The final, frayed thread of your patience, though it was a patience born of deep affection and a growing, warm amusement. You reached out, your movement fluid and sudden, and cupped his jaw.
The effect was instantaneous. All the bluster, all the loud, obnoxious noise, evaporated. He stilled completely, a low, shuddering breath escaping him. He leaned into your touch, his skin warm against your palm, his eyes sliding shut. The complaints dissolved into a soft, grumbling mumble against your skin. "…fucking paperwork… waste of my time…"
You held him there, your thumb stroking the line of his jaw as you used your other hand to pull another document towards you. He leaned more heavily against you, his eyes fluttering closed, savoring the contact he’d been desperately provoking all day.
You smiled, a genuine, tender thing he couldn't see. With your thumb, you began to slowly, deliberately stroke his lower lip. It was a subtle, intimate gesture that made him hum contently, his body leaning more heavily against the desk, his weight pressing into your hand. All the while, your other hand continued to sign a document, the celestial ink glowing as you wrote.
And that was when you struck.
In one fluid, unyielding motion, you pushed your first two fingers past his parted lips, deep into his mouth. His eyes flew open, wide with shock, a choked gag reflex seizing him for a second. You held them there, firm, pressing down on his tongue, a silent, dominant command for silence. He had to physically fight to stop his eyes from rolling back in his head, the humiliation of such a visceral, submissive response warring with the overwhelming pleasure of it. A deep, guttural moan-grumble vibrated around your fingers.
“Now,” you said, your voice sweet as ambrosia but firm as celestial steel, your other hand still calmly writing on the document. “You have been an exceptionally bratty little thing today, haven’t you, Adam? Following me. Whining. Disturbing my peace. All because you needed this.” You curled your fingers slightly, making him shudder. “All this noise, just because you needed to be reminded who you belong to.”
You then used the hand under his chin to guide him, pushing him firmly but gently down until he was on his knees, his back against the front of your desk, his legs bracketed by yours. He was looking up at you, his golden eyes hazy with a mixture of indignation and raw want. The power dynamic was absolute.A flicker of his old smugness returned as he began to lick and lap at your fingers, a slow, teasing rhythm, as if he’d somehow won.
"You think this is a game you're winning?" you asked, your voice a silken threat.
That smugness vanished the moment you began a slow, firm, pumping motion with your fingers in his mouth, mimicking a much more intimate act. His hands flew up, gripping your wrist, not to pull you away, but to hold you in place, his knuckles white. His groans became louder, more desperate, a continuous, muffled sound of protest and plea.
When you finally withdrew your fingers, slick with his saliva, he groaned, a pathetic, whiny sound of loss.“Hey… wha—no… c’mon…”
You looked down at him, at the perfect picture of debauched need—the pout, the flushed cheeks, the pleading eyes. “Changed your mind, have we?” you murmured.
"y'can't stop now, that's so—"
His complaint was cut short, replaced by a sharp, airy gasp that was pure, unadulterated relief as your wet, cool hand slid under the waistband of his simple trousers and found its target.
"Oh," he breathed out, his head thumping back against the desk. "Nevermind."
His grip on your wrist tightened, his body arching into your touch. A long, shuddering moan ripped from his chest as you began to move your hand, a slow, deliberate stroke that promised everything he’d been craving.
“Fucking finally,” he whimpered, his brattiness now a thin veneer over utter submission. “It was… ah… about time.”
And as you worked him with one hand, your other picked up the quill once more, the soft scratch of ink on parchment providing a serene, divine counterpoint to the ragged, grateful sounds of the First Man finally, blessedly, getting exactly what he’d been begging for all along.