Boy - Adam Driver Kylo Ren Fanfic

The Cleanest I'll Ever Be

***A/N***
Dudes, I know most of you fell in love with Kylo Ren but Adam from Girls has always been my kryptonite. AND THEN HE WAS FUCKING NAKED, holding Jessa with his milk pudding body. Basically I'm a mess, and I started this book to write Adam to be the opposite of my boyfriend/husband (angry, demanding, sex-crazed) but the more I write him, I see I'm just recreating my favorite bf attributes (sweet, funny, sexy as hell) so that now I'm basically writing husband fanfic. But I'll try to still keep it smutty for you. ENJOY! 😜

***

This is how you lose your mind. He's leading you to the bathroom. He's turning on the faucet and the room is filling with steam. He's removing his underwear, his body so pale its almost blinding. Moles dot his skin like stars in the sky on a very clear night.

He's removing your shirt. He's kissing his way down your body like he's Helen Keller learning the words as he goes: Forehead. Lips. Neck. Clavicle.

"First I'm going to clean you." He reaches his fingers deep inside of me, slowly.

"And then I'm going to make you very, very dirty again."

You stare at his naked body, the whiteness contrasted with his dark hair, the patch between his legs. You imagine he is a woman and you can't get close enough to each other; you end up diagonal, scissoring, covered in the scent of each other.

His lightsaber is thicker than any you've ever seen, with a tip so perfectly sculpted it should be made from alabaster. Its ridge is like a mountain's, worn by time, so ideal in structure it may as well have been crafted by God. Only a female God could make a dick that nice.

He bends to kiss you, his back rounded like a prehistoric man gone mad with desire, like he could tear meat from the bone with his jaw. He pulls you to him, claws you.

"You're shaking." He says sweetly, surprised.

"I'm not," you deny even though you are, like Lloyd Dobler in his car on the beach. You step into the steam, trying to hide your fear. You've never felt this strongly before.

"I've wanted this for a very long time, he says as he follows you in, pulls you towards him under the scalding water.

"Me too," you admit, relieved.

You'd spent years falling for the wrong guys in all the wrong places: small cities, at work, in college, at the bar. Guys who rejected you for your hotter friends, girls with one syllable boy names like Quinn. These girls weren't as witty or smart as you but their makeup and hair always looked perfect and they never made self-deprecating jokes. You were always the guy's good friend: ready to lend an ear when they cried over some dumb shit, ready to drink whiskey from the bottle whenever they rallied. You'd lose respect for those guys but not before having your heart break a little every time you had to watch them kiss her.

That was before you moved away, before you came into your own. You try to remember the moment it shifted. You stopped trying to ape their style; you got a job you liked. You wore what you wanted, dressed to entertain yourself,  you read non-stop, watched all the French New Wave movies you could find, you stopped giving off desperate vibes. But still, no one had impressed you. They were either too pretentious and self-serious and bad in bed or they were chubby dudes who made you laugh but weren't exactly rocking the tight pants or hipster haircuts that got you off.

Until he sauntered into your life. He had that childlike wonder, the goofiness, the laugh that spread across your skin like poison ivy. But he was also a sex demon: strong enough to palm your naked back like Lebron James would hold a tennis ball, like an Anne Geddes cabbage leaf holds a baby. And he had mysteries in spades: his art, his past, the military service, the notebook you eyed on his bedside table filled with indecipherable scribbling. You wanted inside.

"Hey, did I get the soap out?" You snap out of your internal psychoanalysis to find he's lathered his hair into a kind of Elvis-style bouffant and he's curling his lips at you, gyrating enough to drive all the dead 1950s teenyboppers wild in their graves.

You smile, reach your arms up. You're chest to chest with him. Nipple to nipple, breasts pressed against each other, soap suds sliding between you both. You can't stop running your hands along the softness of his skin, how slippery it feels: leather slathered in butter. You want to bounce a quarter off his ass but only a half dollar, maybe a toonie, could do it justice.

"I think I'm falling for you, kid." He mutters, cradling your head. "I want to take care of you and I barely know you." Your lips curve; your insides flip. "I look at you and after I'm done thinking about what I want to do to you, I'm thinking about how I want to be the one you'll ask to change your lightbulbs, to make you dinner, to stay up all night talking with the lights turned off."

I can hear the vulnerability in his voice.

"I've seen some shit," his voice trails. You think of the dog tags in your purse. "But being around you makes the world right again. I don't worry about what's out there, or what's in here." He shakes his head as if to knock a table full of memories clear.

You're both gripping each other so tight, foreheads pressed against each other you can feel the water spray across the glass, the shower moans in agreement, like a teen girl watching Love Actually for the 45th time.

"Well, that's enough of the sweet stuff for now I think, don't you?"

He smirks and a devilish grin returns. He slides his monstrous hands down your silky body. He's on his knees. He lifts your leg around his neck. He buries his face in you.

Your hand grasps the warm tile, water washes down your face, a primeval moan escapes your mouth.

"I'm giving this to you as a gift." He says, reminding you of the David Berman poem, Letter to Myself at 27. But he's got more sinister plans, you can tell.

"But ater we're done here, I call the shots." 

You quiver in anticipation. He nibbles. He spreads your legs wider.