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Chris Redfield x Reader

You're not sure how you can get the big, boulder-punching Chris Redfield to fold, but you're gonna try.

based on this request

“Hi there,” Chris greets, smiling wide. He’s wearing a black henley, the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, masterfully sculpted, mottled with a splattering of brown freckles, a few green veins that run up and down the length. With his hands on your elbows, he pulls you in for a hug, not too close, but not at all cold. Perfectly suitable for a pair of people who have yet to even kiss on the lips.

“Hi, handsome,” you return in his ear, rising up on your tip-toes to press a chaste peck onto his cheek. As you retreat, you notice his face flush the slightest tinge of pink, and it’s not from the shimmering print of your lipgloss.  

Over dinner, the two of you exchange questions and get-to-know-yous, banter typical of a third date. He tells you about his job, sparing you the gory details of what you come to learn has been quite the incredible career. But it’s not the chatter of bioterrorism and boulder-punching that has you intrigued. 

It’s the way he blushes every time you lend him a compliment; how he takes in an especially deep inhale when you smile with your pearly whites. And that glimmer in his eyes, the one that tells you he’s falling. Hard. 

Making a man like Chris fall in love is easy enough. You want to make him fold. 

(Gif not mine)

Disclaimer: spoilers

Okay I have THOUGHTS about THE BRIDE! and I’m still kind of processing them.

Where Guillermo del Toro’s take on Frankenstein felt like a love letter to Mary Shelley’s original novel, THE BRIDE! feels like someone completely ripped the Frankenstein mythos out of its original context and rebuilt it into something entirely new. The story being told is definitely not about the creature (Frank) and his bride. The focus from beginning to the bitter end is about the Bride and her identity, her autonomy, and what it means to be created without your consent and then forced to figure out who you are anyway.

JESSIE BUCKLEY for Entertainment Weekly

Frank (The Creature) x Fem!Reader

Tags: NSFW, smut, blurb / WIP (~400 words), body worship, oral sex (f), unprotected p in v sex, idk what I am doing but this is my first attempt to write Frank from the Bride (2026).

The studio door creaked open. Frank filled the frame—rain dripping from his coat, eyes scanning the room: easels draped in cloth, canvases of stormy lakes and shadowed figures, the scent of linseed oil thick in the air. A single bulb swung overhead, casting warm pools of light.

"You came," you breathed.

"Couldn't stay away." He stepped inside, door shutting softly. "This... all yours?"

"All mine." You crossed to him, taking his wet coat, hanging it on a hook. "No servants. No father. Just us."

He looked at the chaise in the corner—blankets you'd arranged, pillows, a low table with candles unlit. Understanding dawned in his mismatched eyes.

"I... don't know how," he admitted, voice cracking. "Never been wanted like this. Afraid I'll break you. Or... repulse you."

You cupped his scarred face. "You saved me once. Let me show you how wanted you are."

You kissed him—slow, careful. His lips were cool, tasting faintly of rain and iron, but he learned quickly, parting for you with a quiet groan. Hands—massive, trembling—settled on your waist.

Clothes fell away gently. Your silk slip, his shirt—buttons undone one by one—kisses pressed to every revealed stitch. When he was bare, you traced him tenderly: bolts, seams, the thick line down his chest. He shivered.

"Beautiful," you whispered.

You guided him to the chaise. He lay back carefully, like the world might crack. You straddled his chest first, bare skin against his coolness.

"Teach me," he rasped. "Want to please you."

You shifted up, knees bracketing his shoulders. "Start here." You guided his head, fingers in his hair. "Tongue soft... yes."

He licked tentatively—flat stripe along your folds. You moaned; he paused.

"Good," you encouraged. "Now circle—here."

You touched your clit. He obeyed, tongue swirling slow circles, then sucking gently when you gasped. His hands gripped your thighs—careful strength holding you steady. The contrast—cool mouth, your building heat—made stars burst behind your eyes.

You came with a soft cry, trembling above him. He lifted his head, lips shining, eyes wide with awe.

"Tasted... alive. Like everything good."

You slid down, kissing him deeply—tasting yourself. His cock pressed against you, hard and cool, waiting.

"Ready?" you asked.

"Please."

You sank onto him slowly—inch by thick inch. He filled you completely; you both gasped. Foreheads touched.

"Too much?" you whispered.

"No," he choked. "Just... warm. So warm."

You moved—gentle rolls, deep and unhurried. His hands roamed: one cradling your back, the other cupping your breast, thumb brushing your nipple with wonder. Every thrust drew a low, desperate sound from him.

"You feel... everything," he murmured. "Heartbeat. Around me. Inside."

You kissed his stitches, tongue tracing lines like brushstrokes. The rhythm built—passionate, but never rushed. His strength showed in how he lifted you slightly, meeting each roll, yet always tender.

...