'When fine shyt said "I'm busy working" so you pull out your most skimpiest outfit, and send her a photo of yourself wearing said outfit in the most whorish and sexiest pose ever just to have her attention on you'
HOT MAMA ITS TIME TO OLAY HSR MORE that slutty waist is asking to be grabbed
summary: you've never let him in. Not once. And still, every night without fail, he comes crawling back to your doorstep. Thirteen centuries old and rotting with want, Remmick worships you from the porch, drooling thick onto the floorboards, begging for permission to taste. And you? You watch. You love the power. Love the ache in him. Love the way he weeps when you deny him again and again.
But the night you finally say come in—he breaks.
Now that he’s inside, he’s never leaving. Not quietly. Not gently. And not until he crawls all the way inside you and makes a cathedral of your skin.
wc: 5.4k
a/n: based off this prompt that blew up!! It's been exactly one month since I released my first Remmick fic Mercy Made Flesh so it felt fitting to release something today, as a thank you for the tidal wave of love and support I've received since!! Seriously it's insane!! So, as a further thank you, I'm hosting a giveaway for followers here if you're interested, as a way to give back to all of you <333 thanks to @ddlydevotion for finding the photo refs for the banner!! and thanks to Liz @fuckoffbard for once again beta reading for me!! credit to Diana @hyoscyxmine for the photo of Remmick she initially edited <333
warnings: vampirism, blood kink, obsessive behavior, feral begging, oral (f! receiving), sub!remmick, somno-adjacent sleepiness, religious undertones, predator/prey dynamics, begging kink, worship kink, voice kink, monsterfucking, marking, blood drinking during sex, degradation, dark romance, possessive partner, crawling kink, aftercare, bite kink, creampie, power imbalance, bodily fluids (drool, blood, etc), control kink, manipulation by omission, mildly blasphemous themes
likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!
Masterlist
You've never let him in. Not once.
And still, every night without fail, he shows up like clockwork—barefoot and bloodstained, wife beater stained and torn, revealing a sliver of lean muscle beneath, reeking of smoke and obsession.
Slouched on your porch like a dying dog, scratching at the threshold with dirt-caked nails, mouth open and drooling thick, almost foamy, like hunger’s rotted him from the inside out. His voice is raw from begging. But tonight? Tonight he’s feral.
You've got one leg draped over the door frame, robe hitched up just enough to taunt, a cool glass of iced tea sweating in your hand while he writhes just inches from your feet.
“You cruel little thing,” he rasps, drawl dragging slow and syrupy, his tongue catching on the words like they hurt.
“Y’gon’ make me crawl again, huh? ‘Cause I will. I’ll fuckin’—I’ll get on my belly like a damn animal, just for a taste. Just for a breath of you, sugar.”
His jaw’s slack, saliva roping down his chin, staining the porch dark beneath him as he grips the floorboards hard enough they creak.
“Let me in,” he whimpers, voice cracked and desperate, eyes blown wide.
“Please, I—I cain’t stand it no more. I cain’t fuckin’ breathe without you. Let me in. I’ll behave. I’ll worship you. I’ll—I’ll starve if you don’t.”
Your just watch him, tilt your glass.
“You've lived thirteen centuries, and you're on your knees for a girl in a nightgown?”
He nods, drooling harder, trembling.
“Yes ma’am. I’d beg for thirteen more if it meant you’d finally say the word.”
You don’t answer him at first.
Just lift your drink—slow, lazy, like the heat has made you sun-warmed and lethargic—and watch the ice swirl against the cylindrical sides. Your lips part only enough for a sip, sharp and cold on your tongue, as his voice frays at the threshold like an unraveling thread.
The porch groans under his weight when he shifts, mouth still hanging open, chin wet with the thick rope of saliva that’s already puddled beneath him. He doesn’t even wipe it away anymore. Doesn’t flinch at the indignity. If anything, he leans into it. As if the sloppier he gets, the more beastly and broken, the closer he’ll be to what you want.
Not human. Not civilized. Just yours.
Your bare toes flex against the doorframe—propped up, exposed, painted peach—and his breath stutters when he sees them. His jaw works open wider like he might sink his teeth into the wood instead, like he’s fighting the animal thing in him that wants to bite something until it bleeds.
“You gone quiet, sugar,” he drawls, voice like gravel scraped against wood. “You plannin’ to kill me out here?”
You hum. Just a little. Low in your throat.
Then finally, finally, you lean forward just a bit, letting the hem of your robe fall loose from your thigh, letting him see the curve of it where the porchlight catches golden on your skin. You know what you’re doing. You always know.
“You look like shit, Remmick.”
He moans—moans—like the insult made him hard.
“I—I know, baby. I know,” he gasps, crawling an inch closer on his knees, voice choked with some terrible, trembling reverence. “I’d tear out my fuckin’ ribs if it meant you’d give me one more breath. Just one. I’m—I’m so close to bein’ bones out here.”
His hands drag slow across the floorboards, smearing blood and spit as he chases your shadow like it might feed him. His claws are cracked and dirty, black at the edges, clacking like dull knives as he reaches for you.
But he won’t cross the threshold. Can’t.
Not unless you say the word.
You drag one foot down, let it press lightly against his chest, the ball of it nestling into the place where his heart doesn’t beat. You feel the way he flinches at the touch like it hurts him, like your skin is too holy for his body to bear. He makes a sound deep in his chest—part growl, part sob—and his head drops forward.
He presses his forehead to your ankle. Worships it.
“You’re a goddamn sickness,” you whisper, soft and cruel.
“I am, baby,” he breathes. “You made me sick. Ruined me good, didn’t you?”
And oh, how he sounds ruined.
You tilt your glass again, watch the last ice cube swirl and crack, watch his tongue dart out as if he could taste it from the air. His pupils are blown, wide and dark and endless, and his mouth keeps trying to form the word please like it’s the only one he remembers anymore.
A breeze rolls over the porch, stirring the trees, carrying the scent of you—hibiscus lotion, clean skin, cool linen and blood beneath it all—and Remmick shudders like a dying thing. His hips roll into the floor like he’s fucking the air, like scent alone could push him to the edge.
“Let me in,” he begs again, softer now. “Let me in before I do somethin’ wicked.”
You lean closer, dragging your foot up his chest and under his chin, tilting his face up toward you like a command.
“You already are wicked.”
He smiles, wild and ruined.
“Yes ma’am. And I’d be worse for you.”
You let the silence stretch just long enough for his breath to hitch.
Then you pull your foot away and stand, letting the robe slip an inch lower on your hips as you do. He tracks the movement like an animal locked on prey, hands gripping the wood, teeth bared like he might bite the air between you.
But you say nothing.
You turn, walk back into the house, and the door swings shut with a slow, echoing click.
And Remmick?
He stays there on the porch, slack-jawed, drooling, whispering your name like a prayer he wasn’t meant to know, his muscles flexing as his arms come up over his head in desperation, thick and defined, his face pinched in pain, fractals of dying light dancing off the worn gold of his chain, off the sweaty creases highlighting his biceps.
| six months ago |
You didn’t move here expecting silence.
You expected a little mold, sure. Some creaky floorboards, maybe a wasp’s nest under the porch or a possum in the crawlspace. You expected the gnats. You expected the heat. You expected the isolation.
But not the silence.
Not this bone-deep, split-the-world-open kind of silence. The kind that settles between your ribs and listens to your heartbeat like it’s trying to time its own.
The house—your house now, left to you by some long-dead aunt you don’t remember—is old and sagging at the edges. It leans a little to the right. The paint is peeled and sun-faded, the porch boards bow like a tired back, and the front screen door barely stays shut unless you wedge a rock into it.
But the bones are good. The land is wild and wide and humming with secrets.
And the silence? You’ve started to like it.
Until one night, it breaks.
It’s not thunder. Not a tree branch. Not the slam of a car door or the high bark of a neighbor’s dog. It’s slower than that. Heavier. Like footsteps made of velvet and grave dirt, deliberate and soft, but too certain to be harmless.
You hear it just past dusk, when the sky is soaked in pinks and bruised purples, and the porch light buzzes weakly behind you. You’re sitting on the front step, knees up, the sweat from your lemonade collecting in droplets between your thighs. Your robe’s open at the chest. The heat has stuck it to the small of your back. You haven’t seen a soul all week.
And then—
“Evenin’, darlin’.”
You look up.
There’s a man standing just past the gate. Barefoot. Broad-shouldered. Dressed like a memory from somewhere you’ve never lived—boots slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a face that looks like it’s been carved from heartbreak.
You can smell weathered leather. Wet pennies. Something faintly intoxicating.
You don’t move. Neither does he.
He’s handsome, you think, in a way that feels off. Like he walked out of a photograph too old to be yours. His hair is a mess, dark and sweat-matted at the temples. There’s a thin scar along his throat. He looks...starved. But not in the way that makes you pity him.
In the way that makes you want to keep your distance.
Still, you don’t get up. You don’t speak. The air between you thickens, trembles.
He tips his head slightly, a crooked smile cutting across his face.
“You look like you could use some company.”
You don’t invite him in.
You don’t say much at all.
Just glance toward the horizon, murmur something about supper, and let the screen door slam behind you before he can take a step forward. You watch through the curtains as he lingers at the gate, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying to look harmless.
But you saw the way his eyes followed your legs. You saw how he noticed the sweat beading at your neck. How he inhaled when you passed him.
You lock the door that night. And the next. But he keeps coming.
First, it’s flowers.
Not from a store. Not anything wrapped in plastic or tied with ribbon. Just a bundle of wildflowers laid gently on your porch, still dusted with dew. You find them in the morning, no note, no explanation.
Then it’s peaches. Sun-warm and soft, their fuzz still clinging with bits of leaf and dirt. You bite into one and taste sweet nectar.
Then it’s a knife. Clean. Sharp. Ornate.
Then a book of poetry. Tattered, spine cracked, pages dog-eared with a name you don’t recognize scribbled inside the cover.
Then the sound of humming—just past the treeline. Low. Gentle. Almost...worshipful.
You don’t see him again for a week.
And when he returns, he stands on the bottom step like he’s been summoned.
You sit in the doorway this time, robe slipping off one shoulder. You’re not afraid. Not curious, either. Just...ready.
Ripe.
He keeps his eyes low. His voice is softer.
“You ain’t said my name yet.”
“I don’t know it,” you say.
He smiles like that hurts him.
“You don’t need it,” he says. “You already own me without it.”
It’s hot enough to peel the paint from the porch railing.
The air hums with crickets, thick as syrup, the kind of Southern heat that presses down on you like hands. Nothing moves. Not the trees. Not the wind. Not even the birds. The silence is alive—dense and waiting, like the breath before a confession.
And there he is. Again.
You hear him before you see him: the soft scrape of skin on wood, the faintest creak of a loose board under bare feet, the hitch in his breath when your scent hits him like perfume and punishment all at once. You left the door open tonight—not all the way, just ajar—and the porch light off. A single candle burns on the windowsill.
He doesn’t knock.
He never does anymore.
Just leans his weight into the frame, like even that much closeness is enough to tide him over for another day. But it’s not. You know it’s not. You can feel it in the way his fingers twitch. In the way he shifts his hips. In the way the wood creaks beneath his knees when he starts to lower himself.
You don’t speak.
You just watch.
The hem of your robe rides high on your thighs, your legs bare and smooth against the old floorboards, one knee bent, one foot outstretched. You could shut the door. You don’t. You could invite him in—but that’s not the game.
You’ve seen how he suffers.
And you love the way he suffers.
He’s filthy tonight. Shirtless and sweaty, streaked with soot and dry blood that canaled in the defined avenues of his abs, a bruise blooming along one side of his ribcage. His hair’s a mess. His eyes look hollow. His lips are parted, pink and trembling, like he’s been mouthing your name into the dirt all night long.
When he drops to his knees, it’s not a performance. Not anymore. There’s no seduction in it. Just ache. Just need.
He whispers something you don’t quite catch—your name, maybe, or the shape of a prayer that lost its way. You hear him drag his nails against the porch, slow and rhythmic, like he’s trying to carve your initials into the floor.
“I dreamed of you again,” he rasps.
His voice is shredded. Used up.
“You were wearin’ that white thing. The one with the lace at the top. You smelled like vanilla and thunder. You called me darlin’ and I almost cried.”
You breathe through your nose, slow and even, but your thighs shift. You don’t think he notices, but he does.
His eyes flick to the motion and he moans—soft and low, broken at the edges. He presses his forehead to the floor like it’s consecrated ground. Like maybe if he can just touch it long enough, you’ll take pity.
“Please.”
The word is wet in his mouth. He says it again.
“Please, I—I don’t care what you do to me. Don’t even have to let me in. Just talk to me, sugar. Just say somethin’. Let me hear your voice. Let me see you.”
You shift in the doorway.
Then you speak—finally—voice quiet and even, your glass catching the candlelight as you raise it to your lips.
“Why do you keep coming here?”
He whimpers.
“‘Cause I cain’t not. ‘Cause you’ve got me chained up in here—” He presses a palm to his chest, hard enough you can hear the bones creak. “—and I like it. I fuckin’ like it, baby. Ain’t that sick?”
You don’t respond.
Instead, you lean forward just enough to let your fingers curl over the frame of the door, letting your robe fall slightly open at the neck. His mouth opens wider. His pupils blow black like a hungry shark.
“You want to come in?” you murmur.
His breath catches.
Then he nods. Frantic. Wild.
“Yes. Yes ma’am. Please.”
You tilt your head.
“Why?”
He blinks. He’s confused by the question. Then hurt. Then desperate.
“Because I—I need you. Need what’s inside. I cain’t smell nothin’ else but you. You’re in my fuckin’ blood, sweetheart, and I ain’t never tasted you but it’s killin’ me just knowin’ you’re behind that door.”
He leans forward, mouth brushing the frame. His tongue darts out—not quite licking it, but close—and you see the briefest flick of the forked tip, glistening and trembling with restraint. He pulls it back like he’s ashamed of it, like he wasn’t supposed to let you see that part of him.
Your stomach flips.
You almost say it. Almost.
But then you pull back.
And he breaks.
He wasn’t always like this.
You remember that. You remind yourself of it often—because it makes this part better. Sweeter. Sicker.
Because once upon a time, he tried to play it cool. Casual. Almost charming. Leaned against your gate with that low, lopsided smile, said things like ma’am and pleasure to meet you and you sure keep to yourself, don’t you, sugar?
Now?
He’s a wreck.
On all fours.
Spit roping from his lips in long, trembling strands as he drags himself toward your feet like a dog that’s been kicked too many times but still comes running. His pupils bleed red, eclipsing the black. His shirt is gone. His nails are cracked and black at the edges, scrabbling over the porch boards in slow, shivering motions that match the tremble in his voice.
His mouth hangs open. Tongue wet. Forked.
You can see the way it splits when he pants—like he can’t decide whether to speak or taste or crawl inside you and live there forever.
He looks up at you through his lashes, and it’s not seductive.
It’s pleading.
Pathetic.
Eyes wide and glossy, like something half-feral and half-forgotten, a kicked-puppy expression clinging to him even as he drools down his chin. He’s shaking. His knees have long since gone raw from dragging over your porch, and he presses his forehead to the step just beneath you.
You tilt your glass. Take a sip.
He moans. Loud. Unfiltered. Buckling at the sound.
“God, please,” he breathes, his voice hoarse and slurred like he’s drunk on the smell of you. “Please, I can’t—I can’t take it no more, baby. You’re killin’ me. Killin’ me soft and slow and I fuckin’ love it.”
You shift, just enough for your robe to slide up one thigh.
His hands curl into fists. He bites down on a sob.
“I’ll be so good to you,” he whimpers, dragging himself another inch forward. “You don’t—you don’t know what I could give you. What I wanna give you. What I think about every night with my hand on my cock, prayin’ for a dream of your fuckin’ voice.”
You raise an eyebrow. But you don’t stop him. And that’s all the permission he needs.
“I’d eat it for hours,” he blurts, voice breaking. “I’d keep my tongue on you till you forgot your own name. I’d fuckin’ cry for the chance, darlin’. You don’t know what I’d do just to smell you on my face. Let me clean you up with my mouth. Let me keep you sweet.”
He pants like a sinner, sweating through the knees of his jeans, forked tongue slipping past his lips as he mouths at the space near your ankle. Never quite touching. Never daring.
“I’d make it good for you,” he groans. “Better than anyone. I’d hold you down or let you ride. Whatever you wanted. However you wanted. I’d tear my fuckin’ throat out if it made you wet.”
You stay silent.
Let him spiral.
Let him beg.
Let him drown in everything you’ll never give him.
His jaw hangs slack again, saliva pouring freely now, staining the porch with slick, twitching need. He doesn’t even seem to notice. His hips rock forward once—pathetically—like he’s rutting against the air just from being this close.
Then—
“Say it,” he croaks, wrecked and delirious. “Say the word. Just the once. Just once and I’ll die happy. I’ll let you ruin me every night. Let you bleed me dry, fuck me dumb, use me up ‘til I’m nothing but bones and thank you for it. I’ll be your thing. Your pet. Your meal. Just say it. Say it and let me in.”
You watch him twitch.
You don’t speak.
And that silence?
It undoes him.
He presses his face into the porch and sobs—one sharp, cracked sound that makes your thighs clench—and you think, maybe next time.
Maybe.
But not tonight.
It’s late.
Later than you usually sit up for him.
The air outside smells like wet bark and heat lightning. You’ve just bathed—skin still damp, robe clean, lips glossy with something sweet and sticky you let melt over your tongue before you opened the door.
The floorboards are still slick from the storm earlier, and the moon’s a thin thing, half-ash and half-bone. Somewhere in the trees, something howls.
But he’s louder.
He’s already there when you pull the door open, sprawled out like roadkill—on his side, one cheek pressed against the porch wood, arms limp at his sides, knees bent in. Like he dragged himself here and died at the edge of your mercy.
But when he hears the door creak, he moves.
Head jerks. Eyes flash. His nostrils flare, and he moans—low and open-mouthed, like he’s just caught your scent for the first time all over again.
“Sweetheart,” he gasps, trying to sit up and immediately wobbling, weak from hunger or lust or both. “Sweetheart, I—I dreamed you were gonna open it tonight.”
You say nothing.
He drags himself upright, kneeling again, hands in his lap like a penitent priest waiting for permission to sin. His thighs are slick with drool and sweat and something darker—something old. You don’t ask. He’s trembling.
You step forward.
And he growls.
Low. Feral. Possessive. His shoulders hunch, his nails dig into the wood, his tongue flashes out—forked, twitching—and he presses his forehead to the threshold like it burns him.
“You smell like soap,” he whimpers. “Like you’re clean and warm and wantin’. You did it on purpose, didn’t you? You always do.”
You kneel in front of him, robe gaping where the sash has gone loose.
He chokes.
You brush a knuckle down his cheek. He shudders so violently you think he might break apart at the seams.
And then you whisper it.
Soft. Small.
The word.
“Come in.”
He doesn’t believe you at first.
His body goes very still. Breath caught. Eyes searching your face for the trick. His mouth parts around a sob so sharp it cuts his throat on the way out.
“Wh-what?” he croaks.
“You heard me,” you say, voice low. “You can come in.”
And that’s all it takes.
He lunges.
Not with violence. Not with fury. But with such pure, starved need it knocks the breath out of your lungs. He collapses forward into the doorway like a beast finally slipping its leash, dragging himself across the threshold like it hurts—but in a way he wants.
He weeps.
On his knees again. Hands clutching your thighs. Mouth open and dripping against your bare skin as he repeats your name over and over, shaking, whispering thanks like a dying man kissing dirt.
And he wails—the sound muffled against your flesh, trembling like a man who’s tasted Heaven and is terrified he’ll be dragged back to Hell. His arms wrap around your hips, pulling you down with him, until your knees hit the floor and you’re seated right there in the doorway with him cradled between your legs like a body in prayer.
“I’ll be so gentle,” he babbles, licking a stripe up your inner thigh. “I’ll be good. I’ll be sweet, sugar, I swear it—I won’t bite unless you ask. I’ll eat and eat ‘til you shake and sob and soak my chin and then I’ll fuckin’ beg for seconds.”
You let your head fall back, lips parted, robe slipping.
He sees it.
And loses what’s left of his composure.
He goes slow at first—painfully, reverently slow.
Tongue pressed flat to your cunt, hands gripping your thighs like lifelines, the tip of that sinful, split tongue tracing soft, teasing figure-eights just to feel you tremble.
And you do.
Every flick, every moan, every whimper he pulls from your throat drives him deeper into madness. He cries as he eats you. Cries. Big, open-mouthed sobs against your pussy as he whispers nonsense:
“So sweet—so sweet, fuck—never tasted anything like you—please, let me die here—let me drown—let me be your floorboard, your shadow, your fuckin’ leash, baby, I’ll be anything—”
You come on his tongue once, and he doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t even pause.
Just whimpers like your pleasure is sustenance, like your slick is water and he’s been crawling the desert for years.
You tangle your fingers in his hair. Tug. He moans into you. Grinds his hips to the floor.
“Can I fuck you?” he begs against your cunt. “Please, can I? I’ll go slow. I’ll go soft. I’ll make you feel worshipped. You want it rough? I’ll give you rough. Want it sweet? I’ll make you sob. I’ll bite your throat open and make you scream my name ‘til the walls crack.”
He looks up at you, face wet, chin slick, forked tongue flicking out like a serpent sensing the heat of your body. His eyes are glassy. Wild.
“Tell me I can fuck you.”
You nod.
He breaks again.
And then—
He crawls forward, palms flat on the floor, reverent and quiet. His cock is hard, flushed and weeping, twitching against his stomach. You see the way his hands shake as he guides himself to you. The way he groans—choked and low and obscene—when the head of it brushes against your entrance.
He looks up at you, panting. Lips parted.
“You sure?” he whispers. Like he’s asking permission to live.
You nod again.
“Then hold on to me, sugar,” he says, voice raw and trembling. “I ain't never comin’ back from this.”
And he pushes in—
Slow. So slow. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish beneath him. Like your heat is swallowing him whole. Like the walls of your body were carved centuries ago to hold only him.
He moans into your neck, hips stilling halfway through.
“Fuck,” he whimpers, voice shattered. “You feel like—like you were made for me. I’m—I’m not gonna last. I ain’t—please don’t let go of me.”
You clutch his shoulders.
He bottoms out with a sob, every inch of him buried in you, shaking like a man who’s finally come home. His forehead presses to yours. His hips roll once, reverent, like worship.
He doesn’t move at first.
Just stays buried to the hilt, mouth slack against your throat, breathing like a dying animal in your ear. You feel him twitch inside you—thick, hot, leaking—and for a moment you think he might cry again.
Then he growls.
Low. Deep. Possessive.
And moves.
One slow pull out—almost all the way—followed by a brutal thrust that slams your back against the floorboards hard enough to rattle the doorframe. You gasp. He moans. Loud. Open-mouthed. Obscene.
“Fuck,” he chokes, already shaking. “Oh, sugar. Oh, baby, you—you don’t know what you’ve done. What you let loose.”
He doesn’t wait for permission anymore. Doesn’t need it. You gave it the second you said come in.
Now he’s fucking like it’s all he knows how to do.
His hips snap forward over and over, wet slaps echoing through the open doorway, sweat dripping from his brow, tongue lolling out as he pants like a rabid thing. He braces one hand beside your head and the other beneath your thigh, holding you open, dragging you into every thrust like he wants to feel himself hit the back of you.
You’re soaked. Wrecked. Clawing at his back and gasping his name over and over like it’s the only prayer you’ve got.
“You wanted me like this, didn’t you?” he snarls, his drawl thick and guttural now. “Wanted to see me come undone. Wanted to see the monster in me. Well, here he is, sugar. Here I fuckin’ am.”
He grinds down. Deep. You cry out.
He smirks, wild and broken and high off the sound.
“You feel that?” he whispers against your mouth. “That’s me in you. Deep as I can go. You’ll feel me for days. I’ll make sure of it.”
And he does.
He fucks you until your legs tremble, until your voice is raw, until the only sounds are slick, messy, filthy. He presses his chest to yours, forehead to your jaw, panting through clenched teeth as he drives into you like he can’t stop. Like if he slows down, he’ll die.
You feel the sharp tips of his fangs graze your throat. His voice is wrecked.
“Let me taste you,” he begs. “Let me drink while I’m inside you. Let me be full, sugar. Let me be whole.”
You nod.
He doesn’t even hesitate.
His mouth opens wide and you feel the bite—sharp, electric, perfect—right where your neck meets your shoulder, and suddenly his hips are slamming into you harder, messier, feral, rutting through your orgasm as he drinks, drinks, drinks.
It hits you all at once. Heat. Pain. Pleasure so sharp it blinds you.
You come hard, clenching around him, and he sobs into your throat like it’s sacred, like he’s breaking apart inside your body.
You feel him twitch. His breath goes ragged.
“Gonna come,” he warns, voice slurred, tongue lapping at your skin between frantic, messy thrusts. “Gonna—fuck, sugar, I’m gonna fill you—gonna mark you—make you mine—mine—mine—”
And he does.
Hot and thick and endless.
He spills inside you with a guttural cry, hips stuttering, teeth still buried in your skin. You feel it pulse into you—claiming you, over and over, like his body doesn’t know how to stop. Like his need has no end.
He finally stills, trembling.
Still buried inside you. Still panting. Still moaning your name into the crook of your neck like he’s worshipping it.
And then—
He kisses the bite.
Soft.
Gentle.
His hands cradle your face like you’re glass, and for the first time all night, his voice goes quiet.
“You saved me,” he breathes.
And for once, you don’t correct him.
You don’t know how long you lie there.
Could be minutes. Could be hours. The air has gone still, heavy with sweat and sex and iron and him. The storm’s long gone, but you can still smell the rain—sweet and earthy, mixing with the blood drying at your throat.
You feel it when he finally starts to move.
Just a shift.
The slow drag of his hand up your thigh, fingertips curling into the dip of your waist like he’s reminding himself you’re real. His body is still flush against yours, cock soft now but still inside you, holding you open. Keeping you full. Like he’s afraid pulling out will make the whole night unravel.
You reach up, bury a hand in his tangled hair.
He makes a sound—small, shattered—and curls tighter against you.
“Don’t go,” he whispers, voice hoarse and full of something too heavy to name. “Don’t make me leave. Not after that. I’ll—I’ll be good. I’ll be so good.”
You don’t answer. You don’t need to.
Your fingers stay in his hair, stroking gently. His body softens against yours.
There’s blood smeared across your neck, your chest, down your ribs. His bite still stings, the skin pulsing, raw—but it doesn’t hurt. Not really. It burns. Like a seal. Like a signature.
You glance down.
He’s watching you.
Eyes half-lidded. Glazed. Glowing, almost—faint and strange, like he’s lit from within. There’s a little blood on his mouth. More on his chin. But he doesn’t wipe it away.
You wonder if he’s ever looked more peaceful.
“You taste like sunlight,” he murmurs, dream-drunk. “Like nectar. Like the end of the world.”
You huff a laugh, quiet and breathless.
“Don’t get poetic on me now.”
“I ain’t,” he slurs, eyes fluttering. “Just honest.”
He nuzzles into your collarbone, forked tongue flicking lazily against your skin like he’s still trying to memorize it. His hands roam—slow, aimless, like he doesn’t know how to stop touching. One settles on your hip. The other slides beneath your spine and pulls you closer.
“I ain’t lettin’ you go,” he mumbles. “Not after this. You said it. You let me in.”
You nod. You did.
And you meant it.
He presses his nose to your pulse point, breath fogging across your skin. His lips ghost over the bite. He presses a kiss there, reverent.
“I’ll be good,” he repeats, softer now. “You just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. You want a house? I’ll build it. You want blood? I’ll bring you the whole fuckin’ town. You want me to rot on the floor again? I will. Long as I’m yours.”
“You’re mine,” you whisper.
And he moans.
Like the words filled him with something he’s never had in thirteen centuries.
You feel him soften completely then, sinking into your body like sleep. One leg slung over yours, one arm anchoring you to his chest, his cock slipping free with a wet noise that makes him groan as you shudder. Your body aches, raw and sore and claimed, but you don’t move.
Neither does he.
Eventually, he sleeps.
You know because the grip he has on you loosens—but only a little. He still breathes you in. Still holds you like something holy and fragile and violently his.
And you?
You stay awake a while longer, staring at the door still cracked open, the threshold now crossed, the air inside heavy with what you both became tonight.
The blood on your neck has dried.
The slick between your thighs has cooled.
But his body stays warm against you.
And outside, the sky hasn’t yet begun to lighten.
No birds. No blue.
Just that inky pre-dawn blackness pressing soft against the windows, holding the night still around you like a secret.
Because he can’t survive the sun.
And tonight, for once, you don’t want the morning to come either.
using naoya while he's drunk and submissive
unfortunately he’s fine, it can’t be helped
since you were born, you had been promised to be sold off the zen'in clan, to marry one of the many male counterparts, and the one who you were married off to was jinichi zen'in. he's about 20 years older than you, which is blah. but he's never home, out on missions, or doing god knows what.
so you spend your days and nights dilly-dallying around with your personal servant. she kept you company for the most part. on this particular night, it was the start of many nights for you .. and him.
you quickly shoo the servant away as you watch the most disgusting of them all stumble towards you from the end of the hall. dragging himself on the traditional japanese walls, clearly drunk. he slowly but surely found himself to you mumbling something under his breath—dropping to his knees, he looked up at you with glossy eyes. he clung to your kimono, still spilling drunken slurs, letting little 'pleases' slip.
with pure disgust, you hissed, "what the fuck are you doing?" he winced at your words, snuggling closer to your legs. with his slurred speech, he finally spoke, “tell me .. tell me i’m good please..” like instinct, you kick him off, and almost immediately, he came crawling back. the heat of his face burning through your clothes—burying and whining into your thigh, sliding his hands up your kimono, gripping onto your skin for more security.
you flinch at his nails digging into your thighs, making you grab a fist full of his dirty blonde hair. the grip made him squirm a little, his whines grew louder at the pain—the whines started bouncing off the walls of the halls, making you nervous that anyone could find you and him like this.
naoya lets out a nasty groan as the grip on his hair was suddenly stronger—it was like the world was spinning around him as he tried to steady his uncoordinated steps. throwing him into a small room—with the alcohol in his system, he still couldn’t catch his step, and with your throw, he ended up with his back slamming into the wall, making him ‘ack’.
sliding the door shut, you turn around to find him looking at you like a lost puppy. “god, you make me sick.” letting out a soft whine, his feelings hurt at your harsh words, “please .. please don’t say that, y-you don’t mean it..” you scoff, “oh yes i do.”
you continue to watch him as he squirmed at your words, and then you noticed his raging boner—the lighting was dim so you didn’t notice at first, his breath hitched as you came to notice his obvious stiffness—he tried to cover it up, but it was too late.
covering his boner, he droops his head to avoid your gaze. he peeks up as he felt your footsteps come closer to him—he bit his lip as you kick his hands away and then pushing his legs open. slowly putting pressure on him, a soft whimper escaped from his lips. grabbing onto your legs—he bucks against it, chasing more friction. ugh.
taking your foot off, you wave him up. “get up.” and as obedient as a dog, he stood up, stumbling back just a little, looking at you for the next command. leaning against the wall, you motion him on the ground—and again without hesitation he complied, “crawl to me.” he moved with grace as you made his way towards you—stopping at your feet, he looked at you with those puppy eyes.
taking off your panties, you throw it at his face—as they fell to the ground, the wetness leaving a trail. lifting your kimono, you put your leg on his shoulder, his face leaned into your inner thigh, still looking up at you. “ever eat pussy before? or are you too high and mighty for that?” he answered with his eyes darting away from you, “yes, yes i have.”
“well, let’s put the mouth to use then.” dropping the rest of the length of the kimono over him, you feel his body heat fill up the space. his large hands gripped at your ass for stability—his wet lips kissed and teased at the spot where he once lay his head. he placed kisses on your clit, rotating between sucking and licking.
the room was filled with the soft noises from naoya, and your wetness as he continued to eat. his tongue worked slow, deliberate circles before flattening into you—his breath hitching as he vibrated a ragged moan into you. his hips jerked into the air, the friction from his straining cock against his pants making him moan a broken sound into you.
with trembling hands, he muttered against you, “please-tell me i’m good .. tell me-ah-plea-“ the rest of his words dissolved into a muffled moan as his hips jerked again. lifting your dress back up—crushing him with your thighs you hissed, “did i say you could rut into the air like a dog?” his cock twitch at your words—a soft whine slips out, you watched as he shook his head ‘no’. “didn’t think so.” releasing him from the thigh hold, you caressed his lips, smearing your juices across his cheek. “get back to work.”
“y-yes .. fuck, yes, ma’am.” as the dress surrounded him again, his tongue continued to drag flat and firm against your clit, before sealing his lips tight around it.
the sloppier his mouth work, the closer you were, and he knew that. naoya's body jerked as you pushed him in deeper, holding him in place as he moved in frantic, desperate circles. “fuck, fuck, fuck.”
then all movements stopped—he withdrew from under your dress, his face covered and glistening in your slick, looking at the wet floor, then up at you—drenched from your squirt.
rubbing his face against you again, “i’m glad i could please you.
It's cute, you think, how Dan Heng has refused to go to sleep without you cradled to his chest ever since returning from Amphoreus.
Though he hasn't outright said it, it doesn't take a genius to realise. Not with the way he scuttles into your room on nights where you've fallen asleep there instead of the archives.
He's bigger now as well, taller, broader, warmer when he curls around you. His tail has practically made a home for itself around your waist and thigh.
One thing that hasn't changed, however, is the way his sleeping form tends to gently rut against you once he's got you pinned. That and his soft groans against the back of your neck always had your heart flutter.
But the feel of not one but two bulges rubbing against your rear? Now that was enough to have your face heat and your body squirming.
You gasped at the realisation that wetness was slowly seeping into the fabric of your cotton shorts.
𝐙𝐀𝐍𝐊𝐀. uses his Lovely Assistaff like an extension of himself. That much should be obvious though, right? But you don't understand just how much it's woven into his every action until you're completely, hoplessly, in love with each other.
He likes to use it to keep you close.
If you're just out of reach, just a fingertip out of his reach, he's sliding the curve around your waist and tugging you back close to him.
When he wants your attention, he'll push the end of the handle against your lower back. It’s more effective than just calling your name, he says.
He also likes to use it to protect you.
When he senses danger, he'll throw the staff across your middle, the same way he would with his arm to protect you from harm.
And whenever he needs to reach out for you in battle, he'll swing Lovely Assistaff out for you to grab before his hand.
But he also likes to use it when he thinks he’s being slick.
Lovely Assistaff is his shield. But...not really. He tries to cover both your faces whenever he leans in for a kiss...but it's still a staff. The others can still see you clear as day.
Prompt: Everyone at the SDN knows one universal truth: Sonar’s brain stops working the moment boobs enter the equation. Put him between a pair and he becomes a drooling, touch-starved mess.
Pairing(s): Victor (Sonar) x Reader
Warnings: NSFW, smut, boobs, boob jobs, cum marking
A/N: so um 👉🏼👈🏼 the other sonar fic is taking particularly long soooo here's my treat for not finishing that yet 😃
You are a menace. Truly.
Sonar was supposed to be on call, Robert having continuously pinged him through comms, yet he wouldn't answer. Couldn't, really.
He’d told him he was “busy.”
And he wasn’t lying.
He was just busy doing something Robert absolutely did not need to know about.
A rough, desperate moan escaped him, smothered somewhere between your breasts. His breath was hot against your skin, his nose dragging along the swell as he buried himself deeper, like he was trying to suffocate on purpose. Goosebumps prickled up your arms, your teeth sinking into your lip as you watched him cling to you like an addict finally getting a fix.
All it took was one message.
“Got a surprise for you.”
And then the photo: the edge of a black lace bra hugging the perfect curve of your chest, just enough of a tease to fry every neuron in his stupid bat brain.
You’d think he would’ve learned after Coupé had handcuffed him for falling for the exact same setup in the gym.
But nope.
Genius Boy saw one glimpse of cleavage and came running like you rang the dinner bell.
At least you kept your word.
Small mercies.
“Sonar…” you giggled breathlessly.
He peeked up at you, white eyes glazed. “Feels good…” he mumbled, almost slurring. “You’re so pretty.” Then, softer, like he was asking for oxygen, “Can I… can I lick ’em?”
You giggled again, nodding before he even finished.
He dove back in immediately.
His tongue slid over your skin, slow and hungry. A groan rumbled through him, the vibration buzzing against your chest as he rubbed his face all over you, snout dragging over the lace. The texture made him shudder, fur brushing the fabric in a way that had him practically whining.
His hands gripped your waist tighter, like he thought you’d vanish if he didn’t anchor himself. His breath came hot against your skin, every exhale sounding like a man seeing god for the first time.
“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, licking harder, “you smell so good…”
You were already panting, chest rising and falling under the onslaught of his obsession. One hand slid into the fur at the back of his neck, stroking once before you curled your fingers and pulled him back just enough to make him whimper.
His white eyes flicked up at you, pleading, then froze when he saw what you were doing.
A slow, wicked grin tugged at your lips.
You lifted a hand, hooked a finger beneath the center of your bra, and yanked it down in one sharp motion. Your breasts spilled free, nipples hardening instantly in the cool air.
Sonar’s whole body jolted.
His eyes practically turned into cartoon hearts.
He didn’t even try to play it cool—he lunged, latching onto one nipple with a desperate, needy groan, tongue swirling around it like he’d been starved for weeks.
“Thank you… thank you…” he whined against your skin, voice muffled and pathetic in the best way.
He switched sides without warning, burying his face in your other breast with an eager, breathless sound. He mouthed at it like he worshipped it, each lap more frantic than the last, hands squeezing the sides of your chest like he couldn’t get enough.
You're pretty sure he would’ve cried if you pulled him off again.
You were barely managing to breathe with the way he worshiped your chest, mouth buried between your breasts like he was trying to ascend to a higher plane. One hand braced against a metal shelf behind you, the other slid into the fur at the back of his neck, tugging just enough to keep yourself steady while he left dark, messy hickies across every inch of exposed skin.
He didn’t even realize he was doing it.
His hips kept jerking forward helplessly, rutting against your thigh like he didn’t have a choice, straining hard beneath his uniform pants.
Your breath hitched, the cramped supply closet feeling ten degrees hotter.
Finally, you tugged on his hair—gentle but firm.
He whined at the interruption, giving your nipple one last desperate lick before lifting his head. His eyes were glazed, lips swollen, chest heaving. He looked like he’d die if you told him to stop.
Perfect.
You leaned down, voice low and sinful.
“Wanna fuck my tits?”
He froze.
Then nodded so fast you genuinely worried about whiplash.
Your grin turned wicked. You slid off the overturned storage crate you’d been half-sitting on and sank to your knees on the dusty floor, the cleaning supply smell completely overwhelmed by the scent of him.
Sonar’s breath stuttered—sharp, hungry, needy.
You reached up, fingers closing on the buckle of his belt. The metallic clink echoed obscenely loud in the tiny closet. You tugged it open, unzipping him slowly, deliberately, watching him fall apart before you’d even touched him properly.
He was already panting like you were suffocating him with nothing but possibility.
Your hand curled around him, easing his length free from his pants with a care that made him shudder. He was already painfully hard and the moment your fingers wrapped around him, his breath stuttered like he’d forgotten how lungs worked.
You stroked him once.
Twice.
Slow, deliberate, watching the way his hips jerked helplessly into your palm.
Then you leaned in and dragged your tongue in one long, unhurried stripe up the length of him.
Sonar choked on a moan, biting down on the back of his hand to keep himself from yelping loud enough to alert the whole floor.
You didn’t give him a break. You took him into your mouth, bobbing your head just enough to make him whine, making his knees tremble under your hands. His nails scraped the wall behind him, desperately trying to anchor himself.
When you pulled off, saliva clung to him in messy, obscene strings. You didn’t wipe them away, simply letting them shine.
Then, with a slow, teasing confidence, you wrapped your hands around your breasts and pressed them together, sliding him between the soft heat of them. He let out a sound you’re pretty sure would’ve gotten the two of you kicked off the premises.
You leaned forward, tongue flicking across the tip to lap up the bead of precum gathering there, tasting him, savoring the barely-controlled tremor that ran through his whole damn body.
Then you looked up at him—eyes half-lidded, breath warm against his skin—and gave him the slightest nod.
A green light.
He cursed—long, low, and broken—before grabbing for purchase, his fingers scraping the wall beside your head like he needed something, anything, to ground himself.
Then he finally started thrusting.
Slow at first, like he was testing the feel of you. Testing the squeeze of your breasts around him. Testing the way his length slid between your soft skin, the press of your cleavage enveloping him so tightly he let out a strangled whimper.
And then the testing phase ended.
He jerked forward, hips snapping harder, faster, like he couldn’t stop himself once the sensation hit him full-force. His breath stuttered into little gasps, his white eyes fluttering halfway shut as he lost his rhythm, finding it again, losing it again, completely at your mercy.
“F–fuck…” he choked, voice cracked and nearly silent as if speaking at full volume might make him fall apart.
You pressed your hands tighter, squeezing your breasts around him just a little more, and he full-body shuddered. His thighs trembled. His grip on the wall slipped.
Then you raised your chest the slightest bit—lifting him, guiding him—and stuck your tongue out, letting it graze his tip every time it peeked out between your cleavage.
That’s when he really came undone.
A sharp, helpless noise ripped out of him, somewhere between a gasp and a whine. His hips stuttered like he forgot how to move entirely, then thrust forward again in a desperate, jerky motion.
He didn’t care how messy he sounded or looked. His mouth hung open, his breathing ragged as he tried to hold himself back and failed spectacularly.
“W-wait… wait—” he stammered, voice too thin and wrecked. He was trembling from head to toe. “I… I’m close… too close—”
You didn’t even let him finish.
“It’s okay,” you whispered, soft and devastating. “I want you to. Cum all over them.”
His whole body answered before he did—hips pushing forward in a shaky, involuntary thrust, chest arching as though the words alone short-circuited his brain.
“Ah—”
A guttural sound tore out of him.
“That— don’t say it like— I can’t—”
His tip nudged forward again, poking out between your breasts, twitching violently before spilling.
It wasn’t a quick release, it was long, messy, and overwhelming—spurts coating your chest, striping across your cleavage, dripping between your breasts until the warmth of him spread down your skin in slow, languid trails.
Sonar’s knees buckled so hard he had to brace himself with both hands on the wall, forehead dropping down toward you as he groaned through the thickness of it, riding each pulse with small, helpless thrusts.
By the time the last shudder worked through him, he was panting openly, chest heaving, mouth slack with the dazed satisfaction of someone whose entire nervous system just short-circuited.
Even then, his hips gave a tiny, instinctive push—greedy and unashamed—pressing himself between your breasts one last time like he needed the contact or he’d collapse.
He just stood there, flushed and trembling, staring down at the mess he left on you like he wanted to worship it. Like he wanted to drop to his knees and lick every drop off your skin.
“What’s your fav ship?-” “Who’s your fav rare-pair?—”
You think I come on here to see another man be blessed with a bountiful amount of hoes?? NAW TWIN. I arrive at the devils sacrament to collect concubines like a corrupt emperor.
This is MY harem and these are MY bitches, and if anyone’s doing the bending it’s ME 🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️
"It wouldn't be right for me to enter in a lady's quarters"
You look to Varka with your head tilted to the side, a small pout playing into a frown as you hum.
"Its really okay. I've had Flins in here last night"
Varka's eyebrows shoot upwards,
"Flins...? You mean, the lightkeeper? He... stayed the night?"
You nod, "yes, of course. He slept on the table over there"
Varka looks over to the smaller table where you kept most of your luggage. He looks a little confused for a moment before he sighs, "ah, I see. I forgot you were aware of his... true nature. I assume he turned into a lamp"
You nod quickly with a smile, "yes, he doesnt sleep much, but when he does, he turns into one. Its very interesting"
Varka hums along in agreement before biting onto his bottom lip.
"Even still..." he starts, his eyes on yours, his stare is a little hot, "you shouldn't invite him over again. You're a lady, its not proper."
You smile softly and shake your head, "that I am, but I care little for those nonsense rules."
"They're not nonsense" he huffs, "you should take better care of yourself"
"Are you worried for me, sir Varka?"
Varka blushes at the way you've addressed him, your teasing tone has seemed to do a number on the elder man who groans softly.
"Of course i am" he hushes, "You're impossible sometimes"
"So is that a yes? You'll join me in my room?" Your eyes sparkle as you smile from ear to ear, looking at the man who frowns at you.
"Its a no." He states blandly before tugging onto your waist, pulling you in so you bump into his chest. Your heart pounds as you feel your bodies collide.
"But-" you look up to his eyes, they're stern, yet you notice them wavering as he leans in. His breath hitches, just as yours does,
"Behave" he mumbles into your lips before he lightly nudges your nose with his.
"You're no fun" you huff, your palms on his chest to push away at him, but he holds onto them instead.
You gulp a little when you feel him take a hold of your palms, only to place them near his lips.
Its your turn to fluster when Varka leaves a soft, tender kiss on your knuckles. His eyes, never leaving yours till hes leant back into your ear, whispering,
"Be good and I may just pay you a friendly visit. No more visitors till then, even if they transform into an inanimate object"
So bad that even if you two are already in a relationship he still looks at you like he never got to touch you for years.
Like he didn't had his hands on your waist, kissed you senseless when he arrived home, or that he didn't just made you scream his name an hour ago.
Seeing you just standing there in his shirt doing your skin care routine makes want to kiss you, bad.
"I want you"
He didn't even think twice.
"... We just did it an hour ago"
"No, no, not like that— I mean yes like that but not right now... I just... You look so gorgeous I want you" You turn around to look at him, face mask on and a frog headband pushing your hair out of your face, resisting the urge to visibly react to not ruin your hard work and started to communicate with your eyes.
"Yes, even like that" Came his answer. He wants you so bad that he didn't even need words to communicate with you.
"Phai, I love you"
"I love you too"
note: very short and random because I'm bored and procrastinating. Not proofread will most likely edit it for grammar sake but I do hope you still enjoy reading it.
i really need lilia to take my virginity and talk me through it 😩😩 I KNOW IM A FEMDOM ACC BUT LIKE COME ON NOW
I JUST NEED THAT TEASING OLD MAN SO MUCH
soft teasing first time sex is a NEED rn. he knows exactly what he’s doing, knows how to get you almost to your breaking point but then calming you down so the fun’s not over just yet. he would love to watch you get closer to your orgasm for the first time but idk if he wants it to be from his fingers or dick 🤔 IDK BUT i do know he loves how your legs shake and your words become jumbled up gibberish. your hands are just trying to push him away because it’s to much but he’s stronger so he dosent budge! making teasing remarks as he gets faster and rougher with his actions. then when you finally cum he’s helping you ride it out, slow yet calculated movements till your pushing him away from sensitivity.
I JUST MEED HIM SO BAD like this is the first time i’m craving him in all my years of play twst 😭
When the Demon King strolls into your apothecary to collect his debt — your literal soul — you do what any reasonable witch would do: you poison him. Problem is, you’ve only just inherited the family business, and potion-making isn’t exactly your strong suit. So instead of killing him, you accidentally erase his memory.
Now the once-mighty ruler of hell is nothing more than a giant, terrifyingly pretty, clingy baby, who knows nothing other than you’re his master and your word is the law.
Well.
What’s a girl to do but teach the Demon King how to be a good boy?
demon king!sukuna x witch!reader
warnings: 18+ (will have some dark themes and smut), fantasy au, true form!sukuna, f!reader, some violence, dark themes, dubcon, power imbalance, unethical behaviour, specific chapter warnings will be available at the beginning of relevant chapters, uploads might be irregular and sporadic but I'm aiming to do it every Friday, maybe more often, details on this masterlist (including chapter names and layout) are subject to change
If you'd like to be added to the taglist, you must be 18+ and have your age visible on your blog.
RULE I No collecting souls (especially not mine)
RULE II No going to bed dirty (and don't expect me to clean down there)
RULE III No calling me master (in front of the customers, at least)
RULE IV No saying Hell in front of him (he might remember)
Follo knew what he was doing was wrong, he should be with the other cleaners and helping them with defeating trash beasts, not on the floor of a destroyed building with a raider who is currently straddling his lap and kissing him so feverishly.
As the makeout session continued his doubts slowly vanished and all he could focus on was how you grinded againts his crotch, eliciting a muffled moan from him as the heated kiss continued.
It was when you pulled away that you took a good look at his face. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes half lidded with a look that you could only describe as lovestruck.
A smirk appeared on your face as you took in his disheveled appearance.
“Follo..” you cooed at the man, raising your hand that was on his shoulder to hold his cheek. He in return leaned in closer to your touch.
“Look at you, already a mess for me.” You teased, using your other hand to fix his tilted hat and goggles. His cheeks reddened at your words. As much as he hated to admit, you had an effect on him that left him a needy mess.
“I could just ravish you.”
Please do
He tried leaning in for another kiss, his grip on your waist tightening yet the sound of someone calling out his name caught his attention and made him halt. You turned your head to look at the source of the sound and slowly pulled your hand away.
“Guess we have to save this for another time.” And with much reluctance, you stood up and got off him, fixing up your messy attire. Follo scrambled to get on his feet, eyes darting towards you and the area the sound came from. It was when the person called out his name once again that he realized it was Gris.
Shit
“It’s a shame that we were interrupted… oh well.” A hint of amusement could be found in your voice as you finished tidying yourself up.
“See you later Follo.” You said with a teasing smile and with one last glance at him you turned around and walked away from him, going farther inside the building.
“Wait—” he called out, his hand outstretched yet you simply kept on walking, slowly disappearing into the darkness of the ruined building. His hand fell to his side as stared at where your figure had stood, not hearing the footsteps of Gris as he approached him.
“Follo! There you are! I thought we lost you.” Gris chuckled as he walked towards him, patting his head a bit.
“What are you doing here?” Gris asked but got no response from the supporter. He then noticed his tousled clothes and how he kept on staring at a door. And his flushed face.
“Follo? You alright?”
Follo gulped, forcing himself to look away. He avoided looking at Gris who stared at him with a questioning expression on his face.
“Yeah.. I’m fine.” He cleared his throat and glanced at the ground, his right hand holding his hat, heart hammering against his chest.
Once more, he was left yearning for your touch.
a/n: It’s me again…follosnumberonegooner. The R!reader brainrot is real I had to write something about her and follo. ALSO YALL KNOW THAT RHING FOLLO DOES WITH HIS HAT? LIKE HE HOLDS IT AND I LOVE IT. Is this probably not well written? Yes! Is this ooc? Yes! Is this proof read? No!
