Sweet yet spooky, naughty but nice.

Rose. Femme bi goth gf. Here be vampires. Patreon: patreon.com/Ventruess | Paypal: [email protected] | Ko-Fi: ko-fi.com/pyschoticbiotic. RP side blogs @bluebloodbabe, @astray-with-the-fae

[ventrue-rosary]

Been a while, but worth a shot! Please donate towards me and my fiancés wedding if you can!

https://gofund.me/83667559

[ismellpestilence]

He has bewitched me body and soul

[red-seas]

[sammyquarius]

Being Victor Frankenstein Wife Would Include

-Victor fears losing you more than death. The idea doesn’t make him sad, it makes him terrified, frantic, and reckless.

-Sleepless nights where you wake to find him sitting at the edge of the bed, just watching you breathe, reassurance flooding his face with every rise of your chest.

-Victor doesn’t dominate; he binds himself to you emotionally. You are his last tether to humanity

-You noticing how gentle he is only with you careful fingers, soft kisses pressed to your knuckles, as if he’s afraid to break you the way he’s broken everything else

-Long nights alone while he locks himself away, candles burning until dawn. You learn to recognize the sound of frantic pacing versus triumphant scribbling and which nights he will forget to eat unless you bring food to his study.

-Long absences where he vanishes into his study for days, then returns hollow-eyed, immediately seeking you out just to prove you’re still alive and real

-You being the only person allowed to interrupt his work without consequences. Anyone else would be dismissed.

-Victor is fiercely protective of you, almost possessive. He watches strangers too closely, keeps you close at gatherings, and bristles at anyone who lingers near you too long especially other intellectual men

-Quiet domestic moments are rare but precious. On good days, he reads to you softly, kisses your knuckles absentmindedly, and speaks of futures he swears he wants: children, peace, redemption.

-You being the only person who can touch him when he’s spiraling your hand on his wrist grounding him when his thoughts turn feverish and obsessive.

-Becoming his moral anchor. You ask should we, not can we and sometimes he listens. Sometimes he doesn’t.

-Loving him despite the monster not just the one he created, but the one he believes lives inside him. Loving Victor Frankenstein means loving a man split between godhood and damnation and being the one thing that keeps him human.

-Victor fears losing you more than death. The idea doesn’t make him sad it makes him terrified, frantic, reckless

-He would rather destroy his own work than let it endanger you. If forced to choose, the world loses you never do.

Note: For more content, follow me on https://www.tumblr.com/sammyquarius

[phantom-threaded]

Frankenstein 2025, dir. Guillermo del Toro

[cuntbitchandthebottlemen]

he's so prettyyyyy

[taylortut]

i CANNOT express how much more lovable my friends are to me at their most annoying. i'd rather hear the same story 3 times than not at all. i'd rather read a 22 message text rant about something totally inconsequential than not hear from you all day. i'd rather you tag me in the stupidest post i've ever seen than not know that it made you think of a conversation we had a month ago. BE ANNOYING AT ME. I LOVE YOU

[bunnyprincessmorgue-deactivated]

Soft mornings with Adam…

Fluff and suggestive at the end!!

“Why do you do this?” Adam asked you, gently turning you around to face him. You tilt your head in question, holding a mug and preparing to pour coffee inside.

He softly cups your face and then presses his lips to your cheek. And then the other, followed with your nose and finishing with your forehead. You smile up at him as he lingers over your skin for a few seconds. His dark hair is combed out of his face and he leans back. Adam’s hands rest on the side of your neck.

“Oh, I read about it in a book many years ago. I saved it for the right man, I always thought it was sweet to do.” He gave you the softest expression.

“And I am the…right man?” He questioned and you set the mug down on the kitchen counter. You stretched on your tip toes and then wrapped your arms around him. He returned the hug with expert control of his super strength. Adam breathed in the scent of your hair and lifted you off the floor.

“You are the perfect man, Adam.” You said against his ear. He didn’t set you down on the ground, instead he carried you to the couch and knelt on his knees.

You swept a thumb across his cheekbone and Adam melted into your touch. He was similar to a puppy in that way. He placed his hands on your knees and peppered kisses on your legs, making you giggle. He traveled up your stomach and made his way up. Adam kissed your entire face, pressing you further onto the seat. He caught your lips, silencing your laughter.

“Do it again.” He whispered and you happily granted his wish. Adam held still as you kissed both sides of his face; forehead and then mouth. He brushed his tongue against yours, sighing as he added intensity.

[mintaii]

to simply exist

[multific]

Gingerbread Kisses

The cottage smells like winter warmth.

Cinnamon, cloves, and ginger swirl lazily in the air as the fire crackles behind you.

Snow presses against the windows, but the kitchen is bright and golden.

He stands at the counter, sleeves rolled up, a dusting of flour across his arms and nose.

Once, his movements had been hesitant and fearful. Now he stirs with confidence.

“You are smiling,” he says, glancing up from the mixing bowl.

“You look very serious about the dough,” you tease.

“Gingerbread must be respected.”

You laugh, and his mouth curves into a proud smile.

He pours the flour into the bowl and mixes the butter and sugar with strong, steady strokes.

The smell of molasses fills the room.

He presses the dough onto the counter, kneading it easily.

“It feels right to make something warm with you.”

Your heart melts a little at that.

Together, you cut the dough into shapes.

He chooses the gingerbread man cutter and holds it up beside his face.

“Do you think it resembles me?” he asks, tone playful.

“Not nearly tall enough,” you reply.

He huffs amusement and presses the cutter into the dough with a gentle precision that comes naturally now. When his hand brushes yours, he doesn’t flinch, instead, he lets his thumb linger for a slow, soft second.

The cookies bake into golden perfection, filling the cottage with sweetness.

And then comes the decorating.

He stands over the small bowls of icing and sugar decorations like a giant trying to master tiny tools.

You hand him a piping bag, already snickering.

“Do not laugh. I am perfectly capable of this.”

The first squeeze sends a thick line of icing shooting across the gingerbread man’s face like a crooked smile. He stares at it.

You try not to laugh.

“You promised not to,” he mutters, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

“It’s beautiful,” you choke out.

“It is… lopsided,” he admits, staring at the unfortunate icing.

Before he can start over, you dip your finger into a bit of icing and dab a tiny dot onto his nose.

He freezes.

Then slowly, very slowly, he raises his gaze to you.

“You have… marked me.”

“Revenge for laughing at your icing skills.” You grin.

He narrows his eyes and dips a large finger boldly into the icing bowl.

“Do not dare,” you warn, already backing up.

But he does dare.

He boops your cheek with a gentle but unmistakably victorious smear of icing.

You burst out laughing.

He laughs too, a deep, warm, delighted sound that fills your home better than any Christmas spice ever could.

Soon, you are both leaning over the counter, icing everywhere: on the cookies, on your hands, on his forearm, even a bit in his hair. Decorated gingerbread men line the tray, some neat, some chaotic, some clearly made in the middle of a frosting battle.

Your sides hurt from laughing when he finally captures your hand in his, holding you still.

The mess doesn’t bother him. Not anymore.

He looks at you with warmth so deep it softens everything about him.

“You make this life… sweet.” he says softly, brushing a crumb from your lips with the gentlest touch.

You lift your hand and wipe a tiny bit of icing from his cheek, smiling.

“So do you.”

He leans his forehead against yours, breathing your warmth in, his thumbs brushing the backs of your hands.

“This is the best Christmas I have ever known,” he murmurs.

You kiss him, tasting of sugar and ginger.

And he kisses you back, steady and sure, surrounded by crooked gingerbread men that somehow feel perfect.

~Masterlist~

Frankenstein Collection

[chickenwaffles17]

i had to

[marshmallow--3]

[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.

[pabbit]

you bring me home

pairing: frankenstein’s creature x fem!reader

tags: established relationship, kissing, loss of virginity, baby’s first handjob <3 lol, finger sucking, guided touching, clit play, vaginal fingering, unprotected sex

a/n: hello EEEEK long time no see…. this movie has taken over my life and obviously i had to do something about it. so here’s this. title from harry styles’ sweet creature… hehe… see what i did there. anyways, i hope you enjoy <3

w/c: 4.9k

the one you love concerns himself with your worn books and your sleepy-eyed cat that likes to curl beside him on the bookshelf while he reads. 

she’s there beside him now, perched precariously and purring on the shelf by his shoulder and swishing her tail against the end strands of his long hair. he doesn’t mind it, he never does, despite the shudder that courses through him at the ticklish feeling and the way his neck pops when he tucks his head to the side. your love is still skittish when it comes to the yipping dog outside that jumps and barks his greeting, but he has taken a gentle interest in your little orange tabby, and she is just as interested in him. 

“she’s fond of you,” you smile, hands tucked under your chin and blanket curled in your fists. the bed is cold without him but nearly just as cold with him in it, patchwork skin stuck in a constant chill that never seems to leave him unless you’re pressed close. your body still searches for his regardless, curling inward and bending toward his silhouette like a flower reaching for sunlight. adam looks to you with shining eyes and closes his book before turning his attention to the cat. 

his lifts his hand slowly and lets her smell him, his body held taut and still. only after she butts his hand with her hard little head does he caress her ears with a subdued palm and benevolent fingers, humming deep under his breath when her purring only increases at his touch. 

you cannot lie and say you don’t understand her. you feel the same way when adam graces you with his touch too, a hand over your heart as you sleep soundly beside him, a hesitant pat to your head after a hearty supper or a particularly good book you found for him. always gentle, mostly painstakingly hesitant. boundless reassurance and patience chips away slowly at the thawing want that you know resides under the surface of his skin; underneath innate selflessness lies the vastness of his yearning, the warmth of his own beating heart aiding your practice. he longs for merciful touches and a forgiving gaze, though there’s hardly a thing to forgive him for. 

adam is slow and soft to speak, his voice a rumbling gravel when it finally kisses your ears. “she likes this.” 

she tilts her head again and rubs her face into his palm. 

“she likes you,” you reiterate. there’s a shy, pleased smile tugging at the dark corners of his lips, and your own trails behind. “she is not the only one who does.” 

you tuck your face further into your pillow to laugh at your own brazenness, and when you look to adam again, he’s standing from his chair and regarding you with those shining eyes of his, regarding you like you’re something purely unbelievable. you uncurl your fists from the blanket and beckon him with a quirked finger and a thrumming heart. 

his first few steps are stiff, his neck cracks again as he sets his shoulders, but he moves with the motion of your beckoning finger and sheds his clothes the closer he comes, rounding the corner of the bed and hesitating only a moment before you lift the blankets for him. he’s stiff again as he settles beside you, shifting on his back to find the most comfortable position to lay in. 

“do you hurt?” you ask. your hand finds his sternum, fingers tracing suture lines along cool, blue-gray skin. 

“my body aches,” he answers easily. day in and day out he aches, but the cold always makes it worse. you frown then, only appeased by the way his fingers twitch when you curl closer to him to share your body heat, a long pinky grazing the soft skin of your thigh. “but it feels better like this.” 

only when you slip your thigh over his and tuck your face into his shoulder does he allow himself the simple pleasure of wrapping an arm around you; he slips it underneath your neck and around your back, cold fingers relearning the shape of your spine and the give of your hip. his other hand slips to the bent elbow of your arm that’s resting on his puzzle piece chest. everything about you is so soft, so warm. 

“my love,” you whisper, a kiss placed over his heart, over the tender lines of borrowed flesh. 

your nose brushes his chin when you lift your head to find him already peering down at you, gaze as warm as the lit hearth crackling by your bed, an equally orange tint in one sparkling eye. the tip of his nose taps the bridge of yours then and traces shyly upwards until his lips meet your forehead. he rests them there for a moment, turning himself closer to you to lay his forehead on yours and share your trembling breath. 

“why do you refer to me as such? is adam not to your liking?” 

adam is very much to your liking. he is your adam, just as he is your love, your sweetheart and darling and treasure. he told you that was his name the first time you met. how could you take that away from him when it belongs so wholeheartedly to him? 

adam, the first of his kind, the antithesis of sin. an unwitting creation and the greatest joy of your life. 

“adam is certainly to my liking,” it’s said through smiling lips and glinting teeth. you lift your arm to tuck the sweet strands of white behind his ear. “it’s like… hm. a term of endearment for someone you care about, you see? i call you that because i love you. you are my love because you have my heart.” 

his breath wheezes. he lifts his own hand to mimic you, tucking your hair behind your ear in return. you cup his scarred cheek in your hand and he leans into the touch, closing his eyes in contentment when you keep it there. you keep it there when you lean in too, your nose nudging the gray tip of his just before you press your lips to his for the first time that night. adam exhales through his nose, shuddered and surprised as always, even though this is far from the first time you’ve come together to share a sweet kiss. 

it’s slow and chaste, a soft press of lips that’s easy for him to melt into. and that’s exactly what he does — he melts, thawing underneath your touch and the give of your mouth. adam is pliant under your hands and content to let you guide him, tilting his head as you do to deepen it and sighing into your slick lips. his body clings to the cold but his mouth is blissfully warm, his timid tongue hot when it finally brushes yours. 

the noise you breathe into his mouth is as earnest as your greedy hands. that’s what you wholly are to your core, greedy, the furthest inverse of adam’s selfless nature, open and honest in your desire for him while he learns to navigate his own. what he gives, you will undoubtedly take. 

and take you do, with hands roaming the bare ridges of his shoulder and carding through his hair. adam is lax when you lift onto an elbow to kiss him deeper, a large hand smoothing up your spine to brush the ends of your hair, but he stiffens when you adjust your leg that’s settled over his hip. 

adam shudders then, your name a ragged whisper through his uneven breath. his cock is hard at the bend of your knee, hard from longing touches and a kiss that reached the depths of your soul. he looks away from you as if he’s ashamed, so you cup his cheek once more to guide him back to you. 

“i apologize,” he insists. adam’s hand comes to cup yours that still rests on his cheek. “it was not my intention-”

“it’s alright,” you insist in return. you’re faring the same, an ache deep in your belly and heat dripping between your legs. honey dipped and slick you are for him, your body readying itself to take and take and take in whatever capacity he wants to give. you tuck yourself further into his side so that your breasts press to his cool skin, nipples tightening at the instant chill. his hips kick as if he can’t help but move against you, and he ducks his head to the side to press his forehead to the top of your head. your arm slips down his chest, your fingers find the taut skin of his stomach. “may i… touch you?” 

adam’s throat clicks as he swallows, another small grunt leaves his lips and his searching eyes look to yours for reassurance. 

“yes.” whispered yet steady. willing. curious. 

“even here?” your own voice is hushed, scared to speak any louder as if it would shatter the moment you’re sharing together. the tips of your fingers trail underneath his bellybutton in wait of his answer. his cock bobs its own response underneath the blanket, but you still wait for his with a drying mouth and a rabbiting heart. 

“anywhere that would please you.” his fingers find the ball of your shoulder, twitching and tapping where they caress. 

you want to touch him so badly you feel it in your bones, carved deep in your marrow. a lifetime of pain and sorrow eclipsed by the vastness of pleasure and love, both of which you are willing and able to pour upon him until he understands that he’s deserving of both. 

“but i want it to please you,” you beg. you sit up on your elbow again to look at him closely. you cup his neck desperately with one trembling hand, brush your fingers along the lobe of his ear. “i want to show you, if you would let me. i want to show you what it feels like to be touched in this way.” 

you adjust your knee again, curling further onto your side so that it’s the softness of your thigh pressing to the length of his cock instead. adam’s lashes flutter, his breath leaves his heaving lungs in a rush. 

“please. please, show me everything.” 

your eyes roam his face, the lines that make him. shifting your leg away from his cock, the first brush of your fingers against his drooling tip makes your brows furrow and your jaw drop. adam clings to you like a limpet, blue-gray fingers curling around wherever they can, but they don’t seem to stay in place for long. he doesn’t know where to keep his hands, so he keeps them everywhere, your shoulder, your hips, the back of your head and arms. despite the chill coming from the rest of his body, he’s warm here, from the collection of pooled blood or the weight of your leg or both. his body tightens and releases when you wrap your fingers around the head and ease your grip down. he’s leaking enough that the slide is slick. it could be slicker if you went to retrieve a vial of oil, but there’s nothing you’d rather do less than pull away from him. 

you stroke him slowly, eyes locked on his and reeling over the way his fight to stay on yours when they want to roll into his skull. his breathing is ragged, a soft, gruff growl leaving his lips every time you twist your wrist at the crown of him. 

“how do you feel?”

“i feel,” he starts. his throat bobs, his legs twitch. “i cannot… i cannot describe it, my lady. i have never… felt this.” 

greed flares, a boiling pot of water that’s bubbling over the edges and spilling down the sides. you whimper then, the simple thought that you’re the one showing him even the basest pleasure sends a lick of heat down your spine. 

“does it feel nice?” a push. you need to know if it feels as good to him as it feels to you. 

“yes. yes, it is nice. you are… so soft, your hand. on me.” 

his stomach tightens. you know he’s close to his climax before he does, and that’s just another thing you’ll be able to show him. his eyes sparkle in the dim light, one reflecting the flickering firelight like he’s the one who’s ablaze inside. adam places his hand on your flexing arm to feel your muscles working, and his teeth gnash. 

“something is-” he starts, but you don’t let him finish. 

“mm. yes, that’s good. it’ll feel even nicer soon. is that alright? may i help you feel nice, lovie?” 

adam is too overcome by the feeling of his building orgasm to give you a verbal answer, but he nods his head because he’s nothing if not polite. his hips buck unconsciously into your slick grip, his fingers squeeze your skin lightly every time your stroke hits his pelvic bone. adam’s eyes roam then to the movement of your hand underneath the blankets, so you push them to his thighs so he can watch himself receive the pleasure you so willingly give him. you look too — eyes widening at the sheer size of him in your grip, the dark color at his tip and the way your fingers shine with his pre. your love curls into you when he cums from just your hand, a new, serene first, feral growl bursting from his lips as he tips over the edge and sinks into your embrace. 

your hand is sticky with his release, white coating your fingertips. it’s without a second thought that you bring them to your lips for a taste and suck the bitter spend down your throat with a low hum. adam watches with curious, wide eyes and equally curious fingers. they trail to your cheek and then to your neck to feel the way you swallow. 

“is there-?” adam’s chest heaves, those beautiful eyes find yours again. “is there something i could do for you? like that.” 

you smile then, suddenly shy at the mere thought of reciprocation. it wasn’t what you were seeking when you wrapped your hand around him, hungry only to make him feel the pleasure he so graciously deserves. 

“well, yes, but. but it was my desire to do this for you, not to have you do something for me.” 

he shakes his head, silk strands falling into bright eyes. “please,” he pleads. “i beg, allow me this. you have shown me a new world, i only wish for you to accompany me there.” 

adam finishes his plea by pressing his angular face to your chest and kissing whatever he can reach. he is clumsy and sweet, his chapped lips mapping your collarbones and the tender swells of your breasts. he grunts and whines into your skin, and you can’t deny him anything, especially when he asks for something so sweetly, even more so when he’s admitting to something he wants. 

your fingers find his, and he waits with bated breath against your chest as you bring his digits between your thighs. he’s cold where you’re warm, boiling hot and silky wet under the touch of his fingers. he looks to you then, as he so often does, letting you guide him under your touch so that he can learn the feel of somewhere so intimate, a place he’s never been before. you settle further into your pillow with a dreamy sigh, curling an arm around adam’s shoulders to hold onto him. he watches you keenly as his fingers slip and nudge and assess. 

“i’m soaked,” you whisper, half disbelieving of just how much his fingers slide against you. there’s hardly any friction between your legs. “for you.” 

“for… me?” 

he lifts his hand from you then, eyes leaving your face only to survey the wetness coating the pads of his fingers. they shine under the light of the fire, and you press your thighs together at the sight. 

“would you like to taste it?” your eyes are heavy lidded and your voice is low. he nods then, slowly, like he’s making sure he’s allowed to want such a thing. you take hold of his wrist but let him set the speed, bringing his own fingers to his lips and meeting them with a slippery tongue. his pulse spikes under the tips of your fingers, and he takes his own between his lips then to get a better taste.  

adam purrs from deep in his throat, a sound reminiscent of your orange tabby he loves so much, pleased and content and satisfied at the new taste of you on his tongue. you slip your hand up his arm and back down just to feel him while he sucks your sweetness from his fingers. they pop from his mouth when he’s done, and he looks at you with something akin to awe in his dark eyes, that starry wonder only deepening when you take the meat of his hand in your grasp to bring his fingers to your own lips. your tongue finds the wet tips of them and meets the taste of his skin, only the faintest hint of yourself left behind from his diligence. 

his hand dips back between your legs with a renewed vigor, a curious tenancy to learn your body the way you so quickly learned his. but he falters at the first moan you give him, something loud and unbridled that he’s not expecting. his hand snaps away like he’s been shocked. 

“i- apologize, i apologize, i couldn’t help it.” your words are warbled and wet in your throat, tongue thick and heavy. you reach for him with trembling hands and clutch onto his arm in a pitiful attempt to bring his fingers back to your core. 

“you are not in pain?” 

a wild shake of your head. adam’s fingers find you then after your quick reassurance, gentle and cool like a fall breeze in a place that burns so hot. his hair sweeps into his eyes as he leans over you to keep careful watch on your face, the expressions you make that cause conflict in his mind. furrowed brows, a clenching jaw, wild noises falling from your lips that he immediately assumes are out of pain, but you hold him close to you instead of pushing him away. you don’t hit him or scold him or mock him, you lean into him with spread legs and tender arms.  

“your hands feel wonderful,” you breathe. “i sound this way because you are- ah! do you remember how it felt when you spilled over my fingers?” a quiet, throaty yes from adam. “you are making me feel the same. it feels, oh, it feels so nice.” 

“nice?” he parrots. “feels… nice.” 

your hips raise, and the first glide of his fingers over your swollen clit makes you keen. adam repeats the noise back to you, a trill in his throat to copy yours in his own special way, to share the sounds of your pleasure and join with his own. 

“that little bump… it is sensitive to me. touch me there, feel it with your fingers.” 

adam learns what pleases you the most like that, with the pads of his fingers massaging the ridge of your clit and his earnest focus on your face. he takes into account the way your breath hitches when he touches a certain way, or how your thighs quiver when he circles around it slowly. your toes curl when he traps it between his slick fingers; your cries bless his ears when he presses them slightly harder. he lets you guide him further down then with your own insistent fingers, down to the give of something sweet and sticky and warm, where your hunger for him is ravenous. 

you feel it then, so overcome by your own pleasure that the jut of his hard cock against your hip only registers when he prods curious fingers at your clenching hole. you reach down for the length of him, arm hugged between your bodies and tucked tight to your side. you can only brush the tip of his cock with your fingertips, but adam purrs like you’ve fully engulfed him with your hand again. 

“i want to take you.” you’re squirming by now, desperate to wrap your hand around him again but ultimately unable. “i need it. but you must- you must prepare me first, yes?” 

“how, my lady?” 

“with your fingers, like this.” you angle his wrist and use your grip to ease it forward, sliding two long fingers into your cunt. two from the start burns pleasantly, but your desperation exceeds the need for only one, and he slips in soundly regardless, aided by your wetness. “it will help me relax a bit, and it will help you… fit.” 

he mouths the word. you can see the cogs turning in his head — he looks down at himself and then down to where his fingers spear you open. his eyes find yours again when you clench down on him purposefully, and you smile at him, something soft and playful, the type of smile that adam can’t help but return with one of his own. 

“i understand. i have read of such in your books.” 

“in my books!” you guffaw. “my- my-! no. you have not. have you?!” 

he hums in response, pressing his smile to your glistening throat. “mm. the red one, at the far end of the furthest shelf. you have marked several pages. what did you like about them?” 

you release his wrist and throw your arm over your face instead, narrowly missing knocking adam over the head with your errant knuckles. of course you forget about the erotic novel terribly hidden in your bookshelf, and of course adam has already read it front to back, thumbing through countless pages of your wildest desires, of written words that made your heart flutter and your cunt pulse. 

“if you must know, i will inform you later.” you rock your hips into his hand and finally pull your arm away from your face to wrap around the back of his head. “please, my love, will you curl your fingers? place your palm- yes, right there.” 

with his palm pressed to your clit and his fingers curling inside, you see stars on the inside of your closed eyelids. adam is mouthing at your neck once more, his subtle playfulness replaced by his need to please. he listens well and learns quickly, massaging your insides with diligent fingers as your noises pitch in his ear, noises that he responds to in kind, breathing grunts and huffs and coos into your neck to answer your own. 

“you are so warm,” he grunts. a deep hook of his fingers that makes you shudder in his hold. “so soft, everywhere i put my hands.” 

if you don’t feel him inside of you in the next minute, you’re going to burst into a million pieces, stardust covering the floor of your cabin and swept into a jar of glittering desire. 

“because i am ready for you.” he lifts himself from the cradle of your neck and looks into your eyes, leaning down just as you crane your neck in search of a kiss. you lose yourself in it for a moment, the sweet press of his lips and his shy tongue. but his cock still throbs at your hip, and you still pulse around his fingers. “i’m going to roll us over now.” 

adam is as pliant as can be as you roll him onto his back and take your seat atop of his lap. his hands hover for a moment but ultimately seek the solace of your hips while his eyes roam your naked form, pausing at the swell of your breasts before dipping to your heaving belly and then farther down. he resettles his gaze onto your face when your soft fingers knead his shoulders and dig into the base of his throat. 

“your neck must feel better like this,” you muse. 

“i would not know, as it was not on my mind.” 

he has such a way with words even if he doesn’t know it. your lips tug at the corners, and you lean down to blanket him with your body, kissing his lips just once and then his chin, making your way down to kiss the suture marks on his neck and feeling the saccharine vibrations on your lips when he purrs deep in his throat. 

your cunt drags up his cock like this, and you reach down to hold him steady so that you can ease yourself down onto his tip. it’s hot in your hand, silky and warm and primed for you. adam’s breath leaves his lungs in a rush, his mouth moves like he wants to speak but just can’t. you’re faring no better — it’s sugar coated no matter how base it is, the first act of your coupling is as sweet as the berries that grow on the bushes in the summer. 

“you’re stretching me,” you keen. your fingers scramble for purchase on his patchwork chest, sinking, sinking, sinking down until your clit mashes against his pubic mound.  “adam, my adam, you’re so deep inside.” 

“deep. deep, yes.” 

he’s so deep that it feels like he could pierce your lungs. if he bucked his hips just once he’d carve a place for himself between your ribs. he already holds your heart in his hands, so he might as well, shape a home for himself inside your body where he’s always welcomed, where he’s always loved and wanted. 

but adam doesn’t buck his hips. he doesn’t chase the pleasure you know he must be feeling. he waits for you instead, keen to let you move at your pace and bring the pleasure to him rather than taking it for himself. with your hands braced on his chest, you lift yourself up to the crown of his cock and back down with a whimper. you repeat the movement slowly until you set a rhythm to your liking, and adam’s hands travel to your wrists, cupping the bone and tapping expressive, bending fingers onto the top of your flexed hands. his touch is tender. you’d never expect someone of his size, someone made of his manner to be as gentle as he, but that’s just the nature of your adam. 

just as it is his nature to help you when you falter. despite your eagerness to bounce on his cock, you tire out easily, thighs burning as you lift yourself high to feel the entirety of him. adam’s large hands find the dips of your waist. it’s the hardest he’s ever taken hold of you but only with the purpose to aid in your movements, taking some of your weight into his hands so that you can ride easier. 

it’s beautifully relentless, a never ending pleasure. adam’s long, heavy cock strokes all of the right spots inside. you want to watch his face, see how pleasure contorts it, but your eyes won’t stop rolling, you can hardly keep them open. your own heavy breathing is nearly deafening in your ears, the only thing louder than your own pathetic noises is the steady clap of your skin together, the sound of adam’s raspy grunts following close behind. what a perfect melody you’ve created together, one you want to replicate again and again. 

you bend over him again, pressing your forehead to his to look into his eyes. your hardened nipples brush his chest like this, your belly nudges his, and adam wraps his arms around you to hug you close with two large palms pressed to your spine. 

there are so many ways to make love again. there are so many ways to show him pleasure, to learn that pleasure together. there are locations you can go, positions you can try, sluttish books to read and outdo. but it’s perfect like this, with your fingers brushing through brunette and white strands and a palm to his sutured cheek, kissing his lips and easing your tongue along the slice in his top lip. 

“my lady,” adam growls. he changes his course, follows it up with another deep growl of your name that you swallow down with an eager tongue. “i feel it. it is happening again, i am-”

you cut him off with frantic words and an equally frantic roll of your hips. “inside of me. please, stay inside!” 

adam’s body locks tight when he cums. he clings to you as his cock kicks inside the snug haven of your cunt, pouring rope after rope of his spend where you want it the most. it doesn’t take you long to follow, not when you guide adam’s fingers between your thighs to nudge circles on your sensitive clit. you tip over the precipice just as adam catches his breath — it’s easier for him to catch you this way. 

your heart rabbits in your chest, and when you rest your cheek atop of adam’s sternum, his heart is thunderous, a quick thrum that slows to a lull the longer you breathe together. 

his hand is stuck between your bodies, but he’s made no attempt to move it; his wrists will ache tomorrow from so much diligent work, but you’ll hold them between your hands and blow warmth onto his fingers. you’ll ask him to read to you by the fire, and his voice will lull you into a peaceful sleep, just as the beat of his heart does now.

[dailycatsblog]

[the-composite-doll]

Wait is that THIS cat?

IT IS

[wearewatcher]

Mind your manners, Madej!

[pixlerelish]

My toxic trait is that no matter what I need three hours to myself at the end of the day to do absolutely nothing.

[kinkshame-puncher-666]

Reblog this to ease the back pain of the person you reblogged it from

[guooey]

it’s almost halloween…… vampires…… my window will be open………..