a little fluffy comforting noah through a thunderstorm thing.
It’s 1am when the heat from the past few sweltering days finally breaks with a flash of lightning that illuminates the sky, and your bedroom. For a second, everything is lit bright and blinding before you’re plunged into darkness once more.
You count the seconds. One… two… thre—
A thunderous roar echoes in the distance, crawling closer, louder than the muffled rumbles that had previously stirred you awake.
A thunderstorm had been looming on the horizon, weather warnings already in place for the day ahead. They never phased you. If anything, you relished them, watching from the window with a thrill curling at the base of your skull with every crack of lightning splitting the sky, followed moments later by the roar of thunder. Sometimes it came loud and deafening, powerful enough to penetrate even closed windows. Other times, it softened into distant rumbles that faded with the passing of a brief storm.
Tonight, it’s the former.
The sound of thunder penetrates louder with your windows left open, and as you turn toward the window from where you lie in bed, listening to the rain striking against the pavement as the heavens finally open, Noah jolts awake beside you at the sudden gunshot-crack of thunder. Unlike you, he isn’t calm when it comes to thunderstorms, and being ripped so suddenly from sleep by one is enough to leave him visibly panicked and disoriented beside you.
Even in the dim illumination cast by the streetlights outside, you can make out the furrow of his brows when you turn to face him. Instinctively, he reaches for you like a safety blanket, your name spilling past his lips in nothing more than a rough croak as he desperately seeks reassurance.
Raising your hands, you cradle his face. “Shh, it’s okay, baby. I’m here. It’s just a little thunder.” Your voice softens as your thumb strokes against his cheek, and he melts into your touch like a cat seeking warmth and affection.
A moment later, your hand slips around to cradle the back of his head, gently guiding him down against your chest while you shift against your already squashed pillows to hold him comfortably.
“I thought this wasn’t until—”
Crack.
Another flash of lightning, followed by a booming roar, cuts him off, and you feel him tremble against you.
“Fuck,” he hisses beneath his breath, burying his face into your chest while your fingers comb soothingly through his hair.
“I guess it came early,” you murmur with a quiet laugh, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his head.
His fingers curl tightly into the fabric of your shirt, his arms winding around you as though the tighter he holds on, the safer he’ll be.
“It can’t hurt you, baby.”
All you get in response is a grunted acknowledgement that sounds closer to a disbelieving whine, because no matter how many times you’ve reassured him through past storms, it never quite settles the anxiety brewing while he waits for it to pass.
“Why don’t you put on that anime you’ve been watching?” you suggest, taking a different approach, hopeful that a distraction might help and keep him from spiralling into the catastrophising thoughts no doubt brewing in his mind.
“Okay…” Noah murmurs, his voice sounding so small compared to his overbearing size. Even as he shifts to reach for the TV remote he refuses to let go of you, one arm still tightly wrapped around your waist.
Another flash of lightning spills into the room, and Noah immediately tenses beside you. Your touch travels soothingly down his chest as he settles back against you after retrieving the remote.
“Here.” You gently take it from his hand, allowing him to return to his clingy form of self soothing.
The room is soon bathed in the glow of the TV light as you switch it on.
“Which one was it again?”
Opening Netflix, you scroll through the options before moving down to the ‘Continue Watching’ section just as Noah mumbles, “Naruto.”
You could roll your eyes at the amount of times he’s watched it already.
A small grin tugs at the corner of your mouth as you hit play. The screen turns black before the familiar Netflix logo appears on the screen and the signature ta-dum sound suddenly blares through the room, causing Noah to flinch violently against you.
“Oh, baby, did that scare you?” Even though you try to hide it, amusement bleeds into your voice, earning a quiet chuckle from him in return.
“It caught me off guard. It was loud, okay?” he harrumphs, shaking his head before nestling his cheek against your chest again as he settles comfortably into place.
His attention eventually drifts toward the TV, growing quieter as the episode begins, while yours flickers between Noah and the bedroom window.
Outside, the night sky lights up intermittently, cracks of lightning branching across the darkness in jagged lines and fleeting shapes before vanishing just as quickly. At last, the cooling temperature begins to drift through the open window, no longer rendering your fan useless from doing nothing but blowing hot air around the room.
💜 yay! So my idea is fem!reader is a musician too and she and dom collab on a song and film a video for it. While filming, things get a little heated and the tension is palpable and the video isn't even supposed to be like that. After filming they end up in a dressing room on the couch unable to keep hands off each other. Spicy spicy spicy 🥵 if you please 🙏
Static & Skin
dom x female reader 🪽 smut 🪽 dirty talk 🪽 competence kink 🪽 rough sex 🪽 intimate
The song ends. Silence. The kind that hums.
Dom steps back first, jaw tight, eyes dark. “If we keep goin’,” he says carefully, “this stops bein’ about music.”
You nod, though your body protests the space he’s put between you.
“It already did, Dom. It's no longer about the damn music.”
You don’t expect the studio to feel this intimate. It’s a converted warehouse with white walls that echo if you speak loudly. Someone’s tried to make it sterile for filming; softbox lights, reflectors, cables taped to the floor, but it hasn’t worked. The place hums. With sound. With intent. With him.
Dom stands across the room, jacket shrugged off, his black shirt clinging in that careless way men never mean to make dangerous. His curls are a little wild, pushed back from his face, his jaw shadowed like he didn’t bother shaving because today didn’t feel like a day that required neatness. You’re not meant to be this aware of him. This is supposed to be work. A collaboration.
The song had come together too easily, late night voice notes, unfinished verses passed back and forth, harmonies that locked the first time you tried them. You’d told yourself that kind of chemistry happens when two people speak the same musical language. You hadn’t factored in him.
“Alright,” the director says, clapping once. “Let’s do a dry run.”
The concept is simple. Too simple. Minimalist. Two musicians in a room, writing, creating, feeding off each other’s energy. No storyline. No touching. Intimacy through proximity and sound. It was never meant to feel like this. You take your place at the mic, fingers brushing the stand as you adjust it. Dom steps in beside you, close enough that you feel the heat of him before you hear him breathe.
“You good?” he murmurs, his British accent thick, low, and pitched just for you.
You nod. “Yeah.”
Your voice betrays nothing. Your body does. The beat starts slow, restrained, all tension and space. You come in first, voice steady, eyes focused somewhere over his shoulder. You know better than to look at him right now. He watches you anyway. You feel it. That prickle between your shoulder blades. The weight of his attention, deliberate and unashamed.
When he joins in, his voice slips under yours like it belongs there. It always has. The harmony curls around you, intimate in a way that feels private, like you’re singing something you shouldn’t be letting anyone hear.
The director gestures for you to move closer. “Just… inhabit the space,” she says. “Feed off each other.”
You step in. So does Dom. There’s less than a foot between you now. Too close for comfort. Too close to pretend this is neutral. You can see the way his throat works when he swallows, the faint crease between his brows like he’s concentrating too hard on not doing something reckless. His eyes flick to your mouth. Then back up.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, barely audible. “Sorry.”
“What for?” you whisper.
“For this.”
The cameras roll. You sing again, softer this time, and Dom mirrors you instinctively. The space between you shrinks without either of you consciously deciding it should. When you breathe in, your chest nearly brushes his. This wasn’t planned. You can feel the tension ripple outward, the crew shifting behind the lenses, aware something has changed. The song deepens, stretches. It becomes something else entirely.
Dom lifts a hand, not touching you, not quite, but close enough that the air between his fingers and your arm feels charged.
“Don’t,” you murmur, not sure who you’re saying it to.
He huffs a breathy laugh. “I’m not.” But his voice is rough now.
You finish the take like that. Hovering. Unresolved. The last note hangs in the air longer than it should. “Cut,” the director says, voice a little breathless herself. “That was… really good. The chemistry you guys have is mind blowing.”
Too good. The next takes don’t get any safer. Dom starts circling you as you sing, slow and deliberate, like he’s mapping you. At one point his hand brushes your lower back—an accident, technically. Your spine lights up like you’ve been struck. You look at him then. Big mistake. His eyes are dark, intent, fixed on you with something dangerously close to hunger. He leans in on the next line, voice dropping into your ear like a confession meant only for you.
Your lyric falters. He notices.
“Eyes on me, baby. Eyes here.” he says quietly, the words almost swallowed by the music.
You obey before you can stop yourself. The take ends. Silence crashes down hard. The director lowers her headset slowly. “Okay,” she says. “That’s… not what we planned.”
No one laughs. Dom steps back, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Sorry. Might’ve gone a bit off there.”
You’re still breathing too fast to speak. She considers you both. “I don’t hate it. Let’s break for ten. Reset.”
The crew disperses with the kind of polite speed that suggests everyone knows something just happened and no one wants to be standing too close when it finishes happening. Dom doesn’t look at you again until you’re alone in the hallway.
“You alright?” he asks.
You nod, then shake your head. “I don’t know.”
He leans against the wall, arms folded, studying the floor like it might give him answers. “This wasn’t meant to… feel like that.”
“No,” you agree. “It wasn’t.”
Silence stretches. Heavy. Magnetic. He lifts his gaze to you, eyes searching. “We should probably get some air.”
“Yeah.”
Neither of you moves.
“Dressing room’s free,” he adds, softer. “Just… sit. Breathe.”
You follow him without thinking. The dressing room is dim, couch pushed against one wall, mirror lights casting everything in a golden haze. Dom shuts the door behind you, not locking it but it still feels like a line has been crossed. You sit on the couch. He does too. Too close.
Neither of you speaks for a long moment. Then Dom exhales sharply. “This is a bad idea.”
You swallow. “Yeah.”
His knee brushes yours. You don’t pull away.
“Say the word,” he murmurs. “And I’ll behave.”
You look at him. Really look. He looks wrecked. Hair messy. Jaw tight. Like restraint is costing him something. You don’t say the word. You don’t fucking know which word it is.
His hand finds your thigh; tentative at first, like he’s still asking. When you don’t stop him, his thumb presses in gently, grounding, possessive without being forceful. Your breath stutters.
“Fuck,” he whispers, forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder. “You’re killin’ me.”
Your fingers curl into his shirt. Just fabric. Nothing more. Not yet.
The building empties slowly. You hear it happen in stages: the echo of footsteps fading down the hall, the clatter of equipment cases being rolled away, voices thinning until there’s nothing left but the low electrical hum that never quite shuts off in places like this.
You’re packing your bag when Dom appears in the doorway again. He looks different now. Looser. Jacket back on, sleeves pushed up, watch glinting when he moves his wrist. Less performer, more predator. Like he’s decided the night isn’t over yet.
“Got a minute?” he asks.
You glance at the clock. Late. Stupidly late. You nod anyway.
“I was thinkin’,” he says, stepping inside, lowering his voice though there’s no one left to hear. “You mentioned you had some stuff you wrote on your own.”
Your pulse stutters. “Yeah.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
There’s something in his tone, casual on the surface, but underneath it, intent. Ownership-adjacent. Like the idea of your songs already belongs to him a little.
“They’re rough,” you say. “Not produced.”
“Good,” he replies immediately. “I hate polished.” He gestures with his head toward the hallway. “Studio’s free.”
You hesitate. Just for a second. Then you follow him. The smaller studio is darker, more intimate than the main room. One mic. One stool. No glass, no control booth—just you, him, and the quiet expectation that something is about to be exposed. Dom shuts the door behind you. Not locked.
“Alright,” he says, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it over a chair. “Play me somethin’.”
You pull your laptop from your bag, hands slightly unsteady, and cue up the instrumental. It feels suddenly too quiet, too personal.
“I don’t usually…” you start.
“I know,” he cuts in gently. “That’s why I wanna hear it.”
You step up to the mic. Dom doesn’t sit. He’s standing, a few feet away, arms folded, head tilted like he’s already listening before you make a sound.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he says.
He moves like he owns the space now. Jacket off. Sleeves pushed up. Familiar with the equipment in a way that borders on intimate.
“Play ’em,” he says at last, nodding toward your laptop.
Your stomach tightens. “All of them?”
“Whatever you’re comfortable with,” he replies, already lowering himself into the producer’s chair. Then, glancing back at you with a half-smile: “Which I’m guessin’ isn’t much.”
You hesitate, then hand him your device. He plugs it in without ceremony, scrolling with practiced ease. The first track starts rough, unfinished, unmistakably yours. Bare drums. A synth line you never quite resolved. Your voice raw, unprocessed. Dom leans back as he listens. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t comment. Just watches the screen, one hand idly resting near the faders like he’s resisting the urge to touch them.
By the second track, his jaw tightens. By the third, he’s leaning forward.
“Christ,” he mutters quietly. “You write like you’re expectin’ someone to overhear.”
You cross your arms. “That’s not wh-”
“I mean that as a compliment.”
He pauses the track and looks at you then, really looks at you. There’s something different in his eyes now. Focused. Appraising. Like he’s stopped seeing you as a collaborator and started seeing you as the woman underneath.
“Come here,” he says.
You step closer to the desk. He pulls the session into his software, fingers moving fast, confident. He isolates your vocal stem, strips it bare. The room fills with just your voice, every breath, every tiny hesitation laid open.
Your pulse spikes. “That’s… intimate,” you say quietly.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “That’s why I like it.”
He starts building around it. Minimal at first. A low bass. Space. Silence where silence hurts.
“You leave too much room,” he says, adjusting a knob. “But it’s not a flaw. It’s an invitation.” He glances at you. “You ever sing it live?”
You shake your head. “No. I didn’t think it was…”
“Finished?” he supplies. Then smiles, slow and knowing. “Neither do I.”
He pushes back from the desk and stands. “Mic’s hot,” he says. “Get in there.”
You blink. “Now?”
“Yeah. Now.” His accent thickens when he gets serious. “I wanna hear what happens when you sing into this.”
You step up to the mic, heart pounding. The track plays back, different now. Darker. Slower. Built around you like it knows where you’re weakest. You glance through the glass at him. Dom meets your gaze and doesn’t look away.
“Don’t perform,” he says into the talkback, voice low. “Just react.”
The track starts again. You sing. It’s different immediately. Your voice catches in places it never did before, pulled forward by the way he’s shaped the sound. You feel exposed. Like the mix is undressing you in real time. Dom’s fingers move on the board as you sing, riding your levels, pushing you closer, pulling you back. You feel it in your body, the way your breath changes when he boosts certain frequencies.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “There it is. There it fucking is, baby.”
You finish the verse, breath shallow.
“Again,” he says. “But stay on the note longer this time.”
You do.
“Good,” he says. “Fuckin’ beautiful. Now don’t soften it. Beautiful, fuck.”
You swallow and keep going. Halfway through the chorus, he stands and comes into the room with you. Doesn’t stop the track. Just positions himself beside the mic, close enough that you feel him without seeing him.
“Keep singin’,” he says quietly. “I won’t touch you.”
The promise feels fragile. You sing anyway. Your voice shakes at the end of the line. He notices.
“There,” he murmurs near your ear. “That. That little break. That’s where people feel it.”
Your hands tighten on the mic stand. He leans in, just enough that his breath brushes your skin. “You don’t hide anymore, do you?”
You shake your head, barely.
“Good,” he says. “Neither do I.”
The song ends. Silence. The kind that hums. Dom steps back first, jaw tight, eyes dark.
“If we keep goin’,” he says carefully, “this stops bein’ about music.”You nod, though your body protests the space he’s put between you.
“It already did, Dom. It's no longer about the damn music.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, dragging a hand through his hair. “It did.”
He walks back into the booth. You stay put. “You want me to stop?” he asks, honest.
You look at him through the glass. “No,” you reply.
He nods once, like that was always the answer he expected. “Right then,” he says. “Let’s make somethin’ dangerous.”
The next hour dissolves into something you don’t have a name for. He pulls up another one of your demos, something grittier, more aggressive. He reworks it live while you watch, muttering under his breath about compression, about how to make a kick hit like a pulse in your throat.
“You’re too clean with your production,” he says without looking at you. “You smooth out the rough edges. The rough’s where the fuckin’ truth lives.”
He gets up again. Stands in front of you. “Sing it like you’re angry,” he says. “Like you’ve got something to prove.”
You do. Your voice comes out rawer than before. “There you go,” he murmurs. “That’s it.” He’s watching your mouth again. You falter. “Don’t stop,” he commands gently.
Then he finds the file in your laptop without asking. Just scrolls, cursor hovering, then clicks. The track title is just a string of numbers, anonymous. The opening notes are sparse, a synth pad that breathes like something alive. Your vocal comes in, a whisper, a confession recorded at three in the morning on your phone.
Dom freezes. He listens to the whole thing once without moving. Then he replays it, head tilted, like a scientist examining a specimen. “Fuck,” he breathes, almost reverent. "This is gold, baby. Fuckin' gold."
He doesn’t say anything else. Just stands, walks to the small fridge in the corner of the booth, and takes out a single, elegant ice cube in a small metal dish. He returns, sets it on the console, and comes back into the room with you.
“You sing this like you’re already somewhere else,” he says quietly. “I want to find out where.” He picks up the ice. The condensation is already melting, a single drop sliding down his wrist. “Close your eyes,” he says. “Now sing.”
The track starts again. Your own voice surrounds you, intimate and exposed. You join in, hesitant at first. Then the cold touches the back of your neck. You gasp, but the sound melts into the note.
The song ends. The only sound is the last drop of water sliding from the melted ice down your spine, making you shiver. Dom doesn’t move away. He stays close, breathing your air. You can feel the faint chill from where he touched you and the overwhelming heat radiating from the rest of him.
“Are we alone?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper. It’s not about the crew anymore. You know they’re gone. It’s about everything else.
He knows what you mean. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Everyone’s gone.”
You turn your head, your cheek brushing against the rough cotton of his shirt. You look up at him. His face is in shadow, but you see the glint in his green eyes, the way his jaw is tight with restraint. The question hangs between you, impossible to ignore. You lift a hand, place it flat against the hard plane of his chest. You can feel the rapid, unsteady beat of his heart. You lean in, your lips a breath from his.
“Dom,” you whisper, and it’s both a plea and a silent permission. “I want you to fuck me.”
For a beat, the world goes completely still. His breath hitches, you feel the sharp intake of air against your lips. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t close the final inch. His hands, which were hovering near your waist, curl into fists at his sides.
“Yeah?” he asks, the word a low, rough vibration against your skin. “You sure that’s what you want?”
You nod, a small, desperate movement.
He still doesn’t touch you. He pulls back, just enough to see your face properly, to watch your reaction. A slow, dangerous smile touches the corner of his mouth. “Not so fast,” he murmurs. His gaze drops, tracing your throat, the line of your collarbone, the way your chest rises and falls with each shaky breath. “First, I want you to tell me.”
“Tell you what?” you breathe.
“Everything.” He takes a half-step back, putting a sliver of space between you that feels more charged than the full body contact from moments ago. “How do you want it? Here? Against the wall? On the floor? On that fucking couch?”
His words are deliberate, precise. Each one is a spark landing on dry tinder. “I want you to be specific,” he continues, his voice dropping lower, becoming a thing of pure texture and intent.
The shamelessness spills out of you, hot and unpracticed. It’s been coiled in your gut all day, tightened by every look, every accidental touch.
“Right here,” you say, your voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. “Against the console. I want you to lift me onto it. I want the cold metal on my back while you’re burning me up from the inside out.”
His smile falters. The control he’s so carefully projected flickers.
You don’t stop. “I want it hard. I want you to hold my wrists down. I want you to bite my neck so I have to wear a scarf to hide the marks tomorrow. I want to walk out of here still feeling you.”
You step into the space he created, closing it again, and press your body against his. You roll your hips, a grind that drags a choked sound from his throat. The hard length of him through his jeans is a promise.
“God, Dom,” you moan, tilting your head back, exposing your throat. “You’ve been teasing me for hours. With your eyes, with your voice, with that fucking song. I’m so wet for you I can feel it soaking my jeans. I’ve been thinking about this since I walked in. I want you to ruin me a bit... ruin me a bit more?”
His hands fly to your hips, not to push you away, but to hold you still. His grip is punishing. He’s breathing hard, his chest heaving. He tries to speak, to regain the upper hand, but the words catch.
“Stop,” he finally manages to grind out. “Stop talkin' like that.”
You grind against him again, harder this time. “Make me.”
That’s the last straw. His composure shatters. It’s not a slow crumble; it’s an explosive fracture. He grabs your jaw, not gently, forcing you to look at him.
“You don’t get it,” he snarls, the accent thickening until the words are almost guttural. “I was trying to be a fucking gentleman. I was trying to let you lead. But you keep talking…” He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, his words a hot, harsh whisper. “You keep talking like that, and I’m not going to fuck you. Not at first. I’m going to bend you over this goddamn desk and fuck your mouth until the only thing you remember how to say is my name.”
You don’t need a second invitation. You crash your mouth against his, a frantic, desperate clash of lips and tongue with no finesse, no slow build. It’s a kiss born of hours of tension, of a day spent on the knife’s edge of want. You pour every ounce of your frustration, every illicit thought, every suppressed moan into it.
Dom meets your desperation with his own. His hands clamp down on your ass, hauling you tight against him. He grinds you against the rigid length of his cock, a powerful, rhythmic motion that sends shockwaves through you. You answer, rolling your hips, meeting each thrust, grinding yourself against him like you’re trying to fuse your bodies together through the layers of denim. A raw, broken moan escapes your throat, swallowed whole by his hungry, demanding mouth.
He tastes of coffee and a delicious something, something that is so him. You break the kiss, gasping for air, your foreheads pressed together. His breath is hot against your lips. The muscles in his jaw are clenched so tightly you can feel the vibration through your own skull.
“I can’t fucking take this anymore,” he grits out, the words torn from him. “I can’t. I'd love seeing my cock disappear into your mouth, so fuckin' much that I'd just have to lift you up and fuck you against this wall. I'd slide into you so hard, baby, see you take all of me at once."
“This is what I want,” you pant, your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, holding on for dear life. “This, Dom. All of it. I want you to lose control.”
"But then you'd feel how messed up I am when I fuck you so hard"
"I wouldn't fucking regret it. Dom, no." You swallow his protest with another kiss without giving him another chance to talk.
His hands fall away from you as you slide down his body. The fabric of his shirt is a rough friction against your cheek, your chin, your chest. You sink to your knees on the cool floor of the studio, the worn denim of your jeans pressing against your skin. You look up at him from this new angle, at the way the dim light catches the dark stubble on his jaw, the sheer, stunned disbelief warring with undisguised, predatory arousal in his eyes.
"I want your fucking mess, Dom”, you whisper.
He watches you, chest heaving, like he’s witnessing something both profane and sacred. He doesn’t speak. He can’t. His throat works, a silent swallow, as your hands move to the waistband of his jeans. Your fingers brush against the hard, hot line of him straining against the denim. He twitches, a full-body shudder, and a soft curse escapes him, barely audible. “Fuck…”
You drag your thumb over the metal button of his fly, pressing down just enough to make him inhale sharply. You don’t pop it open. Not yet. You lean in, pressing your lips to the hard bulge beneath the denim, a soft, damp kiss through the fabric. He groans, a deep, broken sound from high in his chest. His hand comes to rest on the back of your head, not forcing, just resting, a heavy, possessive weight.
You look up, meeting his wild gaze. “Is this what you wanted?” you whisper, your voice a teasing scrape against the charged silence.
A dark, dangerous smile touches his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. They’re burning too bright for that.
“It’s what I offered,” he corrects you, his voice a low growl. “But I think you want something different, don’t you? You want me to stop asking.” He tightens his grip in your hair, a sharp, grounding pull that makes your scalp tingle. “So, no,” he says, the words dropping like stones. “I won’t be gentle. I’m going to fuck your mouth. And then I’m going to fuck you against that wall so hard. We clear?”
You press your cheek against the rough denim, your breath a hot puff of air against him, and you look up through your lashes, offering yourself completely. “Yes,” you breathe. “Do it.”
The permission is a live wire. You feel it course through him, a visible tremor that runs from his shoulders to his thighs. He gets even harder beneath your lips, a solid, undeniable pressure that answers your question more clearly than words ever could. His fingers in your hair tighten to the point of pain, and the sound he makes is half-curse, half-surrender.
“You have no idea what you’ve just asked for,” he rasps, but he’s already pulling you closer, angling your head just how he wants it.
With a sharp tug, he undoes the button, the sound loud in the quiet room. He drags the zipper down, the teeth parting with a metallic rasp. He doesn’t bother pushing the jeans down; he just hooks his thumb in the waistband of his boxers and pulls, freeing himself. The sight hits you like a physical blow. He’s thick. Heavier than you’d imagined, flushed and straining, already wet. You can’t help it—your jaw goes slack, your lips parting on a silent gasp as you stare.
He chuckles, a dark, rough sound that vibrates through you. “Told you,” he murmurs, the words thick with satisfaction. He guides the head of his cock to your parted lips, not pushing in, just resting there, a heavy, velvety weight. “Open wider,” he commands softly. “You’re gonna need to.”
Your jaw obliges, aching as you stretch wider for him. The sight makes him curse again, a string of breathy expletives. “Yeah,” he breathes, the sound reverberating through the floorboards. “Just like that.”
He pushes in, slowly, giving you the chance to adjust. But the sheer width of him is a shock. He fills you completely, the velvety skin against your tongue, the taste of his arousal filling your senses. You hollow your cheeks, your tongue flattening against the sensitive underside, and the groan you pull from him is long and broken. “God, that’s… yeah,” he grits out, his hips rocking forward in a shallow, experimental thrust. “Christ, baby."
You pull back just enough to speak, your lips swollen, your voice a wrecked whisper. “God, Dom… you taste so fucking good”
His whole body goes rigid. The hand in your hair tightens. “You’ve been a fucking naughty girl today,” he growls, the accusation raw and hot. “Strutting around in front of the cameras. Biting your lip when you thought no one was looking. Making me so fucking hard during the take I almost ruined it.”
A thrill shoots through you. You meet his gaze, a challenge sparking in your eyes. “Maybe that’s what I wanted,” you retort, your voice husky. “Maybe I wanted you to ruin it.”
“Yeah?” he snarls, and thrusts forward, a little harder this time. “Well, you’re getting your wish.”
You moan, the sound muffled by him. “Is this what you thought about?” you manage, the words slurred. “When you were looking at me? Me on my knees for you? Sucking your cock until you can’t think straight?”
“Every fucking second of the day” he bites out, punctuating each word with a snap of his hips.
Now he fucks you, he really fucks you hard and fast. So intense you have to hold back tears when he looks into your eyes, but you wanted this so badly.
You show him everything. You take him deep, your throat working around the head as you relax your gag reflex, your hands braced on his powerful thighs. You let him see your tongue, the wet, gleaming slide of it, the way your lips stretch to accommodate him. “You love it, don’t you?” you gasp during a brief moment of reprieve. “You love watching me suck you. Seeing how much I want it.”
“Show me,” he commands, grabbing your hair with both hands now, holding your head steady. “Show me how much you can take. Show me your fuckin' tongue.”
There’s no more teasing. His rhythm is brutal, so deep, so claiming that it punches the air from your lungs. You take it, tears streaming down your face, mascara smudging, but the look in your eyes is pure defiance, and you love it.
Then he wrenches you to your feet so fast your head spins. His mouth crashes down on yours, a filthy, possessive kiss that tastes of you and him and desperation. He can’t wait. The pretense of control is gone, obliterated. His hands are frantic, tearing at your clothes. The sound of ripping denim is obscene, shocking.
“Can’t fucking take it,” he pants against your lips, the words ragged. “Can’t wait another second.”
In one fluid, powerful motion, he lifts you. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively. He pins you against the cool, rough surface of the studio wall, the impact knocking a breathless cry from you. He holds you there with one arm, the other fumbling between you, guiding himself to your entrance. There’s no gentle preparation, but you don't even need it.
Then he pulls your head back, lifts you up a bit more, and does what he said you'd regret. He positions himself and then he slams into you, a single, devastating thrust that buries him to the hilt.
You cry out, a sharp, uninhibited sound of pleasure and pain. He fills you completely, stretching you to your limit. “Fuck,” he snarls, his face buried in your neck. “You’re so fucking tight. So fucking wet for me.”
He starts to move, a punishing, relentless rhythm. “Is this what you wanted?” he growls in your ear. “You wanted me to lose control? Well, you’ve fucking got it.”
And it’s the truth. Even as you struggle to accommodate him, your body stretched to a searing limit, it’s exactly what you craved. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, your legs tightening around his waist. His hips still for a fraction of a second. He pulls back just enough to look at you. “You okay?” he asks, his voice raspy, laced with a concern that utterly disarms you.
You freeze. You expected an animal. You didn’t expect this check-in. It melts something inside you. You nod, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. “Yeah, Dom. It's okay, I'm fine” you manage, the word softer than you intended.
He sees the struggle in your eyes. The raw dominance in his expression softens, replaced by a different kind of intensity. He shifts, carefully, easing out of you. The sudden emptiness is a shock. “Too much,” he murmurs, more a statement than a question. “Come here.”
He lifts you again as if you weigh nothing and carries you the few feet to the leather sofa. He lays you down, a surprising gentleness in the way he settles you. Then he’s over you, braced on his forearms, caging you in. He looks down at you, and the frantic energy is gone, replaced by a deep, focused possessiveness. “Better?” he asks.
You nod, your hands coming up to rest on his biceps. A slow, knowing smile spreads across his face. He adjusts his hips, nudging against your entrance again. “Jesus,” he chuckles, the sound a deep vibration. “You’re so fucking tight. So small. Tell me if it’s too much, yeah?”
He pushes forward, inch by devastating inch, giving your body time to adjust. “Has anyone,” he grits out, “ever fucked you like this?”
“No,” you gasp, the word a raw, broken moan. Your hands fly to his hair, tangling in the thick strands. You pull, gently. “God, no.”
As you say the words, you feel yourself give way. Your body opens for him, and he slides even deeper, a final, breathtaking inch. He stills, buried to the hilt, his whole body trembling. “Fuck,” he breathes. He pulls back to check in one more time. “You okay? I’m all the way in.”
You can only nod. “Yeah,” you breathe. “Want all...all of you.”
A devastating smile spreads across his face. “Good. Because you’re squeezin’ the fuck out of me, and I don’t think I could stop now even if I wanted to.”
The room is filled with the rhythmic sounds of your wet cunt. The slick, wet slap of your body accepting his. He hears it too. He smiles, a dark, knowing curve of his lips, and drops his mouth to your ear.
“Why the fuck do you squeeze me like that, huh? You trying to milk me dry? Trying to make me lose my fuckin’ mind?”
His hands are everywhere, roaming lower, gripping the back of your thigh, lifting your leg higher. He’s a dirty fucker, and his words are meant to shock, but the way he fucks you is a contradiction. He’s a great lover, attuned to every tremor. You arch your back, pushing your breasts against his chest.
“Because I want you to feel it,” you pant. “I want you to remember how I feel around your cock when you’re alone tomorrow.”
He groans, his eyes black with fire. “Fuck. You say shit like that and I’m gonna come right now.”
“I want you to,” you whisper. “I want you to fill me up. I want to feel you dripping out of me all the way home.”
His rhythm falters for a beat, a visible shudder running through him. “You are a filthy, filthy girl,” he growls. “You been walking around with a wet cunt all day, thinking about this?”
“God, yes,” you cry out, the pleasure coiling tight. “I almost came just listening to your voice on that track.”
“Next time,” he snarls, picking up the pace, “I’m gonna spread you out on that console and eat your pussy until you’re screaming my name. Then I’m gonna fuck you so hard they’ll hear us in the street.”
“Promise?”
“Fuck, yes, I promise,” he grits out.
Your shamelessness is a weapon. “Look at me,” you command, your hands forcing him to meet your gaze. “I want to see your face when you lose it. You’re gonna look so hot when you come for me, Dom. All fucked out. Because of me.”
“Christ,” he breathes. “You talk a big game for someone whose cunt is gripping me like a fuckin’ vise.”
“It’s ‘cause you fuck me so good,” you pant. “You hit that spot. The one no one else ever finds.”
“Yeah? This spot right here?” He angles his hips, a subtle shift that sends a bolt of pure electricity through you.
“There! Fuck, there!” you sob, your nails digging into his back.
“This is mine now,” he declares, his voice thick with possessive triumph. “This pussy is mine. You hear me?”
“Yours,” you gasp. “All yours.”
He leans down, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss. He breaks the kiss, gasping for air. “Deeper,” you whimper. “Dom… harder.”
He lets out a sharp laugh. “You’re an insatiable little thing, aren’t you?” But he gives you what you need. He slides an arm under your lower back, lifting your hips, driving into you with long, powerful strokes. “Like that? That deep enough for you, beautiful?”
“Yes! Don’t stop!”
“Never,” he promises. He finds your clit and spits on his hand then starts to rub it like a master. You feel like you can't take it. The sensation is too much. “Too much,” you gasp. “Dom, wait…”
He stops instantly. He stills inside you and just breathes. The way he listens is so fucking intimate. “Slower,” you whisper. “Just… circles. Real soft.”
He nods, his jaw tight. He brings his hand back and makes slow, lazy circles. “Yeah? Like that?”
“Yeah. Just like that.”
“That’s it,” he whispers. “Feel it build. Don’t fight it. Just let it happen, baby. Let me feel you cum on my cock. I wanna feel you squeeze the life out of me when you let go.”
The pressure coiling in your belly snaps, and you cum with a silent, open-mouthed scream. Your body convulses. “Fuck! FUCK!” he roars. “I can feel you squeezing me baby, fuck!
You feel him rubbing you harder and harder. You love it so much you can't take it anymore. You kiss him as you cum on his fingers and he tries hard as fuck to hold himself.
“Let go, Dom,” you whisper. “Cum inside me.”
He shudders. “Can’t. Not safe…”
“I don’t care. I want it. I need to feel it. Let go. It’s yours. All of it. It’s all for you.”
With a groan ripped from his soul, he rolls, taking you with him. Suddenly you’re on top, straddling him. His hands are on your ass, pulling him into you, and you start riding him hard as fuck. You set a punishing rhythm, lifting yourself before slamming back down.
“Fuck,” he snarls. “Ride my fuckin’ cock, baby. So good, so fuckin’ hot.”
“Look at me, Dom. I want you to watch me make you cum.”
You are almost shocked when your second orgasm crests. You scream his name, and this time, he doesn’t hold back. He fills you up with a long, deep moan “Fuck—ngh—god—yes—”—and you feel him pulsing inside you.
You collapse on him, a sweaty, messy heap of limbs and satisfaction. He kisses your hair. He’s not a fuck boy; he’s a lover. And you can feel the difference.
He looks at you, and there is adoration in his eyes. Not just a conquest. “Fucking hell,” he breathes in that accent. The way he says it is a form of worship. “Are you… you okay?”
His accent is so thick right now it’s a turn-on. You can barely understand what he’s saying, but you say yes anyway and then you kiss him. Then you tell him the truth: that you’ve been wanting to do this for months.
He looks at you with a tender smile. “You’re a liar. A terrible liar. All that ‘just collaborators’ bullshit you were spouting. Looked at me like you wanted to eat me alive the second you walked in.”
You laugh. “And you didn’t?”
“Oh, I did. But I’m a better actor.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Fucking months? And i was sitting here thinking i was being a perv, you fucking minx.”
“I was,” you confirm.
The tenderness of it all is overwhelming. “Don’t go all soft on me, you,” you say, pulling him close. “We’re not done. Not even close.”
“Oh, I know,” he says. His smile on his face is a predator’s grin. “But first, we’re gonna get you cleaned up. Properly.”
He lifts you effortlessly. He carries you through the darkened studio, past the mic stands and the silent mixing board, and into the small bathroom. The light is clinical here. He sets you down gently on the closed toilet lid and kneels in front of you.
“Stay still,” he says, his voice soft but commanding.
He wets a cloth with warm water. The gesture is so unexpectedly gentle, so far removed from the brutal passion from moments ago, that it makes your chest ache. He carefully, meticulously, cleans the mess he made of you. His touch is reverent. He wipes away the sweat, the cum, the remnants of your shared frenzy. He takes care of you.
He’s not just a fuck boy. He’s a lover. And the realization is terrifying.
When he’s done, he looks up at you, and the adoration is back, plain and unfiltered. “There,” he says, his thumb brushing gently over your hipbone. “All clean.”
"Thank you."
He scoops you up again and carries you back to the couch. He lays you down and covers you with a jacket he finds on a chair. He doesn't lie down with you, not yet. He disappears for a moment, and you hear the rustle of a packet. He returns with a bottle of water and two aspirin.
“Here,” he says, sitting on the edge of the couch. He hands you the pills and the water. “You’re gonna need these tomorrow.”
You take them, your fingers brushing against his. You look at him, really look at him, in the harsh light of the single bulb still illuminating the room. He’s exhausted. Sated. And there’s something else in his eyes. Something you haven't seen before. Fear.
“Dom,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “What is this?”
He looks away, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I don’t know,” he admits, the words heavy with a vulnerability he hasn’t shown you yet. “But it’s not nothing.”
You sit up, the jacket falling away. You're naked, unashamed. You reach for him, your hand resting on his arm. “I’m not sorry,” you say.
He turns back to you, and the fear in his eyes is slowly being replaced by something else. Resolve. “Good,” he says, his voice low. "‘Cause I’m not either.”
He leans in and kisses you, a slow, deep kiss that’s a promise, not a question. When he pulls away, he’s smiling again, but this smile is different. It’s softer. More real. “Now,” he says, standing up. “Let’s get dressed. I’m taking you home.”
“And then?” you ask, your heart pounding.
“And then,” he says, his eyes glinting with that already familiar, dangerous spark, “I’m coming in with you. And we’re not leaving until the sun comes up.”
He helps you dress. His hands are gentle but sure. He finds your torn jeans and just shrugs, handing you his jacket instead. It’s too big, but it smells of him, and you pull it tight around you. The walk to the car is silent, but it’s a comfortable silence.
He drives you home, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh. The city lights blur past, streaks of gold and white in the dark. The silence in the car is different now, less about the shock of what happened, more about the quiet assimilation of it. He doesn’t turn on the radio. He just drives. You can feel the low thrum of the engine, the solid weight of his hand on your leg, a possessive, grounding pressure that says everything that doesn’t need to be said.
When he pulls up to your building, he kills the engine. The silence rushes in, absolute. He turns to you, the dashboard lights casting one half of his face in shadow. “This is your last chance,” he says, his voice low and serious. “If you want me to drop you and walk away, just say the word. No questions asked. We can chalk it up to a fucking amazing night in the studio and go back to being collaborators.”
You look at him, at the raw honesty in his eyes, the set of his jaw that tells you how much it cost him to offer you an out. You see the man who tormented you all day, the man who sang your secrets back to you, the man who held you like you were something precious and fucked you like you were something to be claimed.
You reach out and trace the line of his jaw with your thumb. “What if I don’t want to go back to being collaborators?” you ask softly.
A slow, relieved smile spreads across his face. “Then I’d say you should invite me up before I change me mind about being a fuckin gentleman.”
You lean in and kiss him, a soft, lingering press of lips. “Come upstairs, Dom.”
He meets you halfway. The kiss starts soft, a tender affirmation, but it deepens quickly. The shift is seismic. It’s not a frantic clash anymore; it’s a slow, deliberate immersion. You taste him slow, the lingering mint from the gum he’s chewing, the faint, clean taste of the water, his unique scent that’s now permanently imprinted on your senses. His tongue slides against yours, a slow, sensual dance that’s both a question and an answer. His hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place. He’s not forcing you, just anchoring you, making sure you don’t drift away in the sensation.
The world outside the car ceases to exist. The streetlights blur into meaningless smears of color. The sounds of the city are a distant, muffled hum. The only things that are real are the soft leather of the seat beneath you, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your palm where it rests on his chest, and the overwhelming, all-consuming feel of his mouth on yours.
His thumb strokes the sensitive skin just below your ear, sending shivers down your spine. You sigh into his mouth, a soft, breathy sound that he swallows greedily.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. The small space between you is charged, electric, humming with the unsaid. His jacket, which you’re still wearing, is a warm, heavy weight, a second skin that smells of him. He finally opens his eyes.
“I think,” he says, his voice a low, rough rasp that vibrates through your entire body, “this might be the best song we’ve ever written.”
I just KNOW he would give reader a huge discount or for free even (free as in, pay with sex 🙂↕️)
And maybe- just maybe folio would watch them having sex AND possibly join 👀.
(Noah would definitely smoke while reader rides him)
now this is !!! dealer!noah oh, how i think of you often, and to make it even messier, finding yourself in a situationship type arrangement fueled by sex, drugs, and a former hatred for one another (possibly more one sided).
“What happened to not sampling your own product?” you muse down at Noah, your brow raised.
All he does is laugh, smoke filtering out from between his lips with the sound before he brings the joint back to them, the same joint that prompted your question. Closing his lips around the nub, he takes another drag. He holds it for longer this time, smoke exhaling through his nose after a beat before he finally answers your question. “Because… it’s not technically mine.”
Your eyes follow the joint between his slender, tattooed fingers as he offers it back to Folio, sitting beside him, his own mouth curved into a smirk, clearly amused by Noah’s loophole.
“Now, baby, who said you could stop, hmm?” Noah asks, his large palm landing on your ass, squeezing and groping as he gently goads you back into rhythm, but you refuse, remaining sat upon his lap, squeezing purposefully around his cock buried inside you.
“Not until you let me have a hit,” you protest, as though you have any room to negotiate, when Noah already has his way with you.
“Baby, come on, we’ve gone over this…” Beneath you, he bucks his hips, another gesture to encourage you to continue, and a sign that his patience is wearing thin.
You have gone back and forth over this argument a multitude of times. Noah always put his foot down when it came to the idea of you dabbling with drugs, even before now, until the rules changed—rules that had been made by him to begin with. Now, if there was anything you wanted, you came to him. Never anything hard, just a little something to take the edge off, his own product that he knew was safer than acquiring it from some stranger in a club bathroom.
Standing your ground, you roll your eyes, hips firmly planted in place, only giving another squeeze of your walls that makes him groan, sounding almost uncomfortable, or frustrated, as he pulses inside you. Either is fun for you in this moment.
Before it can escalate into an argument, Folio interjects, proud as anything and happy to assist as he offers an alternative. “Here, let me…” Already, Folio is reaching a hand toward you before Noah can refuse, gripping your jaw as he shuffles closer. “Come here, you pretty thing.” Taking a long inhale, he leans forward, bringing his mouth close to yours, and instinctively you part your lips as his own open with an exhale.
While you inhale, Noah sweeps his hand up along your back until it settles at the nape of your neck, keeping you in place as Folio finishes off the act with a kiss.
Instantly, it feels as though you’ve been revitalised, getting your way and resulting in you finally giving Noah what he’d been wanting. Slowly, you begin to roll your hips once more, dragging yourself along his cock and moaning against Folio’s lips before it bleeds into a whine as he pulls back.
“Now, give us a show.” Winking at you, he settles back in the couch, this time with a hand behind his head, his nails lazily dragging against his scalp as he takes one final drag from the joint and watches.
Noah’s hands settle back on your hips, guiding you into your previous steady rhythm. “That’s it… just like that. Nice and slow,” he instructs, and while you reward the feeling of his thick shaft rubbing against all the right spots with soft moans and mewls, the real reward is in how he sounds, grunts and groans paired with the buck of his hips pressing himself closer, or the tremble of his thighs as you drag him nearer and nearer to his peak.
From the corner of your eye, you catch movement and look over to find Folio shimmying down his unzipped jeans until he’s able to comfortably pull his hard cock free. It’s not unlike him to start stroking himself while watching, usually with lazy drags, drawing it out for as long as you and Noah do until he can’t take it any longer, but this time he reaches for your hand, guiding it to his cock and stroking it along the shaft. “You gonna get us both off?” he teases, mouth curved into a boyish grin, the kind that makes your insides melt, and you squeeze purposefully around Noah’s shaft, mimicking the same motion you give him between your thighs, causing them both to moan in sync. What a beautiful sound.
How you got here is a story in itself, but in this specific moment, it’s not even about the actual sex or the euphoric high that comes with an orgasm, but Noah having his hold over you, riding him until you’re cock drunk—though he’s the one who seems pussy drunk, if anything. You hate him, or so you claim, but what better way to get back at your douchebag of a cheating ex than to fuck his friend turned competition and former employee, all while jerking off Noah’s own friend as he watches.
Pairing: Noah Sebastian (Bad Omens) × Reader (female reader)
Summary:
A late-night writing session turns into something more when the music stalls but the tension doesn’t. Between half-finished verses, stolen glances, and words too personal to share with anyone else, you and Noah finally cross the line you’ve been dancing around for months. In the glow of the studio lights, it’s hard to tell where the song ends and you begin.
Warnings:
smut (18+), oral (m receiving), dom-ish Noah, slow burn to filthy, teasing, explicit language, emotional vulnerability in the middle of spice, studio setting, creampie, light praise kink, jealousy undertones, soft aftercare, reader with feelings she’s trying (and failing) to hide
Word count: ~2.8k
Author’s note:
bored in a hotel room
You’re an artist yourself. You and Noah come from two different worlds, but you really want to make music together.
After nights in the booth working all alone, everyone has left you two to get to work. But you just can’t seem to capture the emotion. Finally, you and Noah get into the booth together, looking at each other and nail it.
He takes off your headphones, and there’s a moment of strangeness.
Another night, you’re over at his place, working together on the couch, trying to write the second verse. A couple of drinks in, you sit on his lap and make out — but have to stop when a member knocks on the door.
The tension between you is thick. Noah keeps making glances at you, light touches where he can, whispering in your ear.
After what seems like forever, you and Noah are alone in his studio, sitting on the sofa. And finally, you do it.
The entire night had been spent trying to get the right flow and lyrics to the new track, but nothing was working out. Your label had been pressuring you to try something new, and a duet with Noah seemed fitting for a pop girl trying to venture out of her usual sound.
“How about we change the last verse again?” Jolly asked, scratching his head for the millionth time this session.
“To what though? I really don’t want empty space in the song,” you sighed, taking off your headphones.
“What time is it?” you asked through the mic.
“12:45,” Noah replied.
“Let’s just wrap up for tonight, guys,” you confirmed, stepping outside of the booth. The night wasn’t panning out as you imagined, and it was probably best everyone went home.
“Are you sure?” Nick asked, already standing up from the couch.
“Honestly, yeah. I think we just need fresh eyes and ears,” you sighed, plopping yourself down at the desk next to Noah.
The guys began to slowly trickle out of the studio, leaving you behind with a plan to grab drinks tomorrow. Despite all the commotion, you couldn’t help but notice Noah still sat right next to you, clicking away at the track.
“I guess you’re not going home?”
“Nah, I think I might work on the lyrics again,” he replied, now walking to the couch at the back of the room.
“Good. I’m going to join you.”
The rest of the night felt longer than any time you’d ever spent with a person.
The things you never even considered were now every thought that consumed you.
How do I look from this angle? Is my hair out of place? Is he looking at me now?
You couldn’t help but glance at Noah from the side of your eye, hoping to catch a glimpse of him slumbered into his notebook, writing away in silence. The silence wasn’t an elephant in the room, though. It felt like a warm blanket, easing the space into a lull you welcomed.
In the back, the track was on a loop, calming the nerves you felt to finally be alone with him.
“Okay, how do you feel about ‘no god, no religion, just bad decision’?” you asked him, scribbling in your notebook.
“I like that, that flows with the other verses,” he replied, grabbing the notebook from your hand. He began to flip through it quickly, skimming your other stuff.
“Wait — is this your other stuff?”
“Yeah, it’s all the stuff that isn’t that great,” you replied, trying to grab the notebook back. Your cheeks were already flushed at the thought of someone reading through your unpolished work — and it being Noah, of all people, was making it worse.
“Stop. This is amazing. It’s so personal.”
He gave the notebook back, but the look he gave you was so sincere you had to pause and really look at him. The dim red light coming from the studio lamp tinted his features into something daring, almost challenging. The room was still, with only the soft hum of the computer in the background and the quiet presence of a girl and a guy who were always an inch too close — yet still too far away.
“The other ones seemed pretty…” He let his words be swallowed by the silence of the room, but the things unsaid were louder than anything else.
“Yeah… it’s silly.” You tried to fill the silence by brushing past what he had read in the notebook.
“Is it about someone?” he asked, clearing his throat — this time struggling to make eye contact, bringing his cup to his face to occupy his now humming chest and clammy hands.
It was no secret Noah was nursing something for you, but with all the chaos of being on tour, and being part of two completely different worlds, it didn’t seem possible that you would ever be more than a girl he thought of — a lot.
“Yeah. I’m really trying to capture longing,” you told him, placing the notebook on your lap.
The look Noah gave you was so reassuring, his eyes begging for more when words failed to come to his lips.
“Like… that feeling of wanting to cut out your own tongue just so they could have your every word,” you began, now flipping through your notebook to find some of your favourite lines.
“What else do you have there?”
“Umm… wanting so badly to keep someone, you’d be willing to sacrifice your wings just to stay grounded with them.”
“You’re really talented,” Noah said, staring at you.
Your eyes met for the briefest moment, and a warm blush crept across your cheeks.
“Thank you,” you replied, bringing the book closer to your chest, heart pounding like a wayward drum.
“Why don’t you write more like this?” he asked, leaning closer.
“I don’t know. It’s not really what the label would want to hear,” you mumbled, letting your hair fall over your face as you looked down.
“But these are your words… and they’re worth hearing,” he whispered, pushing the stray strands of hair away from your face. His fingers were a soft brush of fire in a tundra of ice and everything forgotten. He set a blaze to every emotion buried under, a spark for someone you always wanted but never knew.
“Some words are just for you, don’t you think?” you whispered, finally meeting his eyes.
“And some are worth sharing,” he whispered back.
His thumb was a small fire, tingling your bottom lip as he traced it. The dam of emotion you felt for a man so tucked away in his own world came buckling down, destroying any reservations you had in this moment.
You didn’t even realise how close you’d leaned in until the side of your knee brushed his.
Neither of you moved.
The air in the room felt heavy, charged. That looping track in the background was the only thing keeping the world moving forward, because everything else seemed to have stopped.
Noah’s gaze lingered on your mouth just a moment too long before flicking back up to your eyes. You felt the warmth rush to your cheeks, but you didn’t look away.
His hand rested on the couch between you, fingers tapping idly like he was debating something. Then, slow and deliberate, his pinky hooked against yours.
It was such a small touch nothing anyone else would have noticed but it made your heart skip.
Neither of you spoke. There was no need.
When his thumb brushed the side of your hand, you swore you could hear your own pulse in your ears.
The distance between you shrank without thought. The heat of his breath grazed your skin, and you caught yourself leaning in just a little too far.
That was all it took for him to tilt his head.
“You are so beautiful,” he finally whispered into the silence, now only a hair away from your lips. His breath became your breath, and all you could do was sit in his embrace. His eyes drifted to the glossy lip you had been nibbling at in anticipation of whatever was to come next.
A new-found bravery was blossoming from the pit of your stomach, and you locked eyes with him, daring him to finally pierce the tension.
“Kiss me,” you whispered into the room, your voice drowned out by the thunder in your chest — a childlike rush for more.
Finally ending the months of anticipation, Noah kissed you.
His lips felt like the first flame after a cold day — the first cup of warmth settling in the pit of your stomach after a long night.
Everything else faded in that instant until there was only you and him.
It was the same feeling you’d had when he read your words — like he could see inside you, and wanted more.
Your hands buried deep into his hair, tugging him closer, wishing away the distance that had always been between you. His hands were a frenzied mess, grasping at the hem of your shirt.
A soft hum left your lips as his warm hands slipped underneath, his thumbs tracing the flesh of your stomach in a painfully slow line. Finally, when they landed on your breasts, he gave them a soft squeeze.
Pulling away from the kiss, he began to trail down your neck, peppering soft kisses into your skin. Lacing your fingers through his hair, a quiet hum parted from your lips as the cold air hit the hot path he was leaving behind.
When he reached your bra strap, his fingers hooked it gently, pulling it down to expose more skin to kiss. The slow pace was agony — a ticking bomb in your chest threatening to erupt.
Pulling your shirt strap down, he captured your right nipple into his mouth. He nibbled at the growing bud, and all you could do was gasp for air, begging for more. Lapping his tongue over your breast, he trailed slowly upward before finally capturing your lips again.
When his mouth met yours, you pushed him back into the sofa and swiftly straddled his thighs.
Capturing his lips once more, you rolled your hips into him, feeling him buck up to meet you. His hands dug into your hips, guiding your movements in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
The warmth of his tongue traced your bottom lip before you deepened the kiss, engulfing him, wanting more.
Soft, wanting echoes filled the room, and the heat pooling in your stomach threatened to spill over.
When the torture became too much, you fumbled for his belt, tossing it across the room. Lifting his hips, Noah helped you push his pants to the floor. The little fabric that separated you now was a delicious, thin veil between you and everything you wanted to feel.
You could feel the wetness soaking your panties, now darkening Noah’s boxers.
“Do you want me to take it off?” you whispered into his ear, biting his lobe.
Noah could barely speak, but a soft hum against your neck was enough.
Reaching down, you stroked his length over the fabric, teasing him, enjoying the way his head fell back against the couch. Slowly, you traced your hand down before sliding off him and kneeling in front of his cock.
You squeezed the base before bringing your mouth over the tip, still covered by the thin fabric. You didn’t suck — just let your hot breath fan against him.
He whined in protest, begging you to end the torture and give him what he wanted.
Again, you stroked down to the base and gave it another squeeze, met with another whimper. Finally, growing impatient, Noah freed himself from his boxers, looking down at the girl kneeling between his legs.
“Be a good girl for me,” he told you, tapping his cock against your lips three times.
Opening your mouth slightly, you took in his salty tip — inch by inch. Groaning at the wet heat of your mouth, Noah slipped into bliss, enjoying the way your tongue ran over every vein.
The way he looked at you in that moment , like you were both a song and the only person who could sing it made your chest ache in the best way.
Your right hand drifted down, middle finger pressing to your own slick slit, rubbing small circles as you continued to take him deeper.
Finally, you stopped, looking up at him with deliberate silence. Rising from your knees, you straddled him again.
Pushing your pink panties to the side, you stroked him once more before positioning yourself.
You wanted to savour the anticipation — not rush to the end, even though you knew that’s what he wanted. Slowly, you sank onto his tip until just the head was inside. Your slickness coated him, and when you hovered back up, the light in the room made it glisten.
Sinking again, this time you let yourself take him a little further, enjoying the stretch, the burn in the best possible way.
“Fuck,” Noah huffed, grabbing your thighs, trying to pull you further down.
“No… I wanna feel you,” you whispered into his ear, hovering above him again.
Torturing him, you sank down especially slow until you were fully seated, your pussy pressed flush against him.
Noah grunted into your mouth, kissing you in a hungry blaze. His kiss tasted like every unspoken lyric between you the things neither of you had been brave enough to sing.
Falling into a gentle rhythm, you began to move against him, gasping at the pressure inside you. His fingers dug into your skin, guiding you into an even faster pace as he neared release with every flick of your hips.
You could feel yourself close too, each thrust pulling you closer to that breaking point. The friction against your clit made you moan, desperate for more.
Looking at Noah, you could tell he was close — the way his grip tightened, the way his eyes burned into yours.
“Fuck… I’m close,” he grunted.
Your nails dug into his shoulders as you quickened your pace, chasing the rush pooling low in your stomach. Every movement sent sparks shooting up your spine, each one bringing you closer to unraveling.
Noah’s hands were everywhere — gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, holding you down so he could thrust into you deeper. His lips found your neck, teeth grazing as his breath came fast and heavy.
The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on, broken only by the sound of your moans mingling with his low groans.
“Fuck… just like that,” he panted, his voice tight, almost pleading.
Your fingers tangled into his hair, tugging hard as you felt yourself teetering on the edge. The friction against your clit was maddening, every grind sparking heat that was impossible to hold back.
“I’m gonna—” you gasped, but the words dissolved as your body seized with pleasure.
White-hot bliss exploded through you, your walls clenching around him, pulling him deeper as your climax ripped through every nerve ending. It was the same ache you felt when he’d first told you your words were worth hearing — like he’d seen you, truly seen you, and wanted all of you.
Noah’s pace faltered — just once — before he buried himself to the hilt, groaning into your shoulder as his release hit. You felt the warmth flood inside you, each pulse of him dragging you into another wave of aftershocks.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The world was reduced to the sound of your uneven breathing and the faint hum of the track still looping in the background.
Noah’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest, his heartbeat a steady thrum against your ear.
“You okay?” he murmured, voice still rough.
You nodded against him, letting the quiet settle.
His hand rubbed slow, soothing circles along your back, and you felt the weight of the night ease off your shoulders. There was no rush to move, no need to say anything yet — just the comfort of being wrapped up in him, the warmth of his body anchoring you in the moment.
Eventually, he pressed a soft kiss to your temple.
“You were… incredible,” he said quietly, almost like it was meant only for himself.
A small smile tugged at your lips. “You weren’t so bad yourself.”
He chuckled, low and warm, and for a moment it was easy to forget about the label, the deadlines, the differences between your worlds.
Right now, he wasn’t Noah the artist, and you weren’t the girl with a song to finish you were just two people in the same rhythm.
cw: +18, mention of electric shock punishments, feline heat, unprotected sex, family planning, the term "puppies" is used to refer to babies, interspecies sex, disobedient kitten and puppy, mentions of kitten neglected by its caretaker, jealousy, licking, scratching.
AN: I've been obsessed with the idea of the kitten reader ever since the little summary I wrote a few days ago, and after the kitten reader x bad omens one-shot I can't get enough (thank you @r3prise)
Plus, I adore @ami-gami adorable puppy Noah, so I had an idea to put them together. Ami, I love your puppy Noah headcanon and I hope I didn't make him too active (haha).
They didn't have to go that far; if Jolly or Nick found out about their "little play session", they would both end up locked in their cages as punishment for not obeying them when they were told NOT to approach each other during your heat cycle.
Those were agonizing days for you, and especially for Noah. The smell of your heat shouldn't have affected him, but it always did. Especially when he saw you lift your rear end and rub against the sofa, seeking friction or wanting a male to mount you and help you produce your puppies.
When you meowed for touch, those sounds pierced Noah's ears; his tender puppy ears perked up when he heard you desperately. His cock hardened when he thought about how beautiful you would look beneath him or on top of him while you were fucking; he couldn't touch you, Nick forbade it, since he was in your care.
Even though Nick didn't treat you the way you deserved—he was cold and distant—you wanted cuddles and hugs, and he wouldn't give them to you. Sometimes you cried because you didn't feel good enough for him, and that made Noah angry. You were too cute a kitten in his eyes; it wasn't fair to you, and Jolly couldn't get involved because it wasn't her responsibility to take care of you.
But Noah fantasized about you. He could picture it perfectly, your fluffy little tail and his tangled together as you kissed, naked and horny for each other.
Because it was obvious that you wanted it too; your lascivious glances were not at all discreet, at least not to him.
More than once, the thought crossed her mind to beg Jolly to let her ride her; it wasn't fair for her to suffer alone. Jolly always said no and, as punishment, activated the electric shock collar on the lightest level.
Reason? Very obvious:
"You can't be with y/n, they're different species, and Nick would get jealous."
But he didn't care.
Noah is a smart and disobedient little dog when he wants to be.
At midnight, after 1:30 a.m., he made sure the other boys were asleep; then he carefully slipped into your room. You looked so cute with a pillow between your legs, rubbing yourself for pleasure.
He came in and locked the door, approached the edge of your bed and touched your thigh.
"Kitten?" he murmured
You turned around and looked at him; the smell of your heat intensified because now your natural lubrication looked shiny between your thighs and the thin, already damp fabric of your white nightgown, the kind Nick made you wear to sleep because he didn't like your pajama shorts getting in the way when he wanted to touch you with his fingers.
"My little puppy…"
It was a shock to see you like that.
he undressed quickly and just took off your nightgown; you were practically already naked.
They kissed passionately: tongue, teeth, him marking his territory with little kisses and hickeys on your neck and breasts, you in his place, with scratches on his back and chest, without remorse or guilt.
"P-puppy…Noah please, fill me up." You were trying to find a way to get his tip inside you. "Nick doesn't want to give me puppies"
"Nick's an idiot," Noah muttered, impatient and desperate, as he tasted your soft, supple breasts. "We shouldn't… but, good God, I can't resist anymore."
Normally, you had more control over Noah; it was normal, being a cat yourself, it was natural for you to be more dominant. It was noticeable when Noah sought you out to pet or lick you; you would kick him or hiss at him to keep him away.
But not today, not when you could imagine what it would be like to be a mother to his puppies.
Between kissing you and fingering you to prepare you (even though you were well lubricated), he went all the way in, you clung to his back, muffled your moans on his shoulder, and your adorable puppy whimpered softly so they wouldn't get caught while breaking one of the many rules.
But ,why the hell did it matter now?
"God, kitten, you're so wet and soft… damn Nick, he doesn't know what he's missing."
You screamed at his words, your pupils dilated completely, your eyes and his almost black, leaving almost no trace of the colored iris.
You begged him to go faster, you begged him to mark you, you begged him to make you feel good because Nick didn't.
Nick didn't kiss you, tickle you, or buy you blankets or toys, so you didn't want Noah around, because it made you jealous to see him being pampered by Folio and Jolly. However, things changed when he brought you his favorite toy to make you smile when you cried because you couldn't touch you due to being grounded.
Nick didn't like that.
Jolly advocated for Noah, telling Nick that he was a terrible caregiver and that he shouldn't act surprised that you were seeking the affection you weren't getting in other people.
Noah didn't need you to tell him you wanted more; he was faster, he was kneading your breasts with lust; his face didn't have the expression of an excited man, it was the face of a puppy enjoying the mischief he was doing behind the back of his overprotective caretaker.
"M-meow!" You arched your back as Noah hit right on your sweet spot
You were milking him, he felt himself getting closer and closer to the edge of his climax, his load was large, he could sense it at that moment, nothing like the times when he masturbated or used his vibrator.
He turned you on your side, still inside you, lifted your leg, and kept fucking you. There was a mirror next to your bed; you saw the reflection of both of you, his testicles bathed in your arousal, his ears perked up, your cheeks flushed, saliva running from your mouth, making your fangs shine, Noah's sweet expressions;all of it was unacceptable and yet so addictive.
The pressure in your lower belly, plus the fact that the tip of Noah's cock could be very slightly marked with each thrust, was already an indicator that you were about to come.
"N-Noah!, I-I'm close" you clung to his hair.
He licked your cheek and ear.
Good puppies don't do that, but he wasn't a good puppy anymore.
"A-and me too, kitten, you're going to be filled with me… I'll watch my pup grow inside you, I'll be the best dad for him." He increased the movement of his hips; his fingers against your thigh almost left bruises from how tightly they were pressed.
"N-noah, M-meow~!"
The thread eventually broke.
"W-woof~!
You hid your face in the pillow when you felt Noah's semen inside you; he bit your shoulder to keep from moaning loudly; his orgasm was joined by yours, a clear stream without smell or taste, mixing without any impediment.
His seed stained your insides; you could feel full if you pressed the area a little. Noah lowered your leg and hugged you, covered your face with kisses and licks, rubbed his nose against your cheek; he began to think he had hurt you, his eyes showed it, a wave of regret.
"I'm sorry… I didn't mean to hurt you," he murmured.
You kissed him, smiled at him, and pressed your forehead to his.
"I'm fine, little one." You took his hand and placed it on your belly. "We're going to be parents to a beautiful puppy or kitten."
Noah's tail wagged with excitement: he would be dad and your mom.
he could already imagine how strange their baby might be, being the child of two different species.
It didn't matter at that moment, they would love him anyway.
When Jolly or Nick found out what they did, neither of them would see the sun for a very long time as punishment, although they would surely have more mercy on you for being pregnant.
And if that gave Nick the lesson he deserved, Noah would be more than satisfied.
And tell jolly to adopt you, so he could be with you while his baby grew in your belly.
Tags: bdsm dynamics, praise, degradation, choking, size kink, restraints, subdrop, aftercare, one unrealistically large dildo
“My poor thing just needed to be punished, hmm? But instead of asking me nicely, you decided to misbehave. That’s not how we do things around here, and you know that.”
Or
After bratting out a bit too much, Jolly makes you take more than you though was possible.
A/N: this is fully consensual. Safewords aren’t mentioned, but they’re both very much eagerly consenting to this :)
“You’re so desperate for me to touch you, aren’t you? You’d do almost anything for it.”
You can’t help but whine at his words. It’s entirely true. Jolly has been playing with your body for so long, toying with you for what feels like hours—you’d do almost anything to get some proper stimulation. Your position doesn’t help, either. You’re currently spread over his lap, naked and exposed. Your ass is bent over his lap, while your front rests against the bed. Jolly is fully clothed—making you feel all the more exposed. You can feel his bulge pressing against your side. His cock is hard and straining against the fabric of his pants—but he doesn’t allow himself to get any relief.
Feeling his cock pressing against you, it only serves to make you all the more needier. You know that your pussy is wet, dripping and making a mess all over Jolly’s pants. Your face burns as you imagine the stain that you’re leaving there.
Earlier, you had made the mistake of trying to sneak a hand down to try to get some more stimulation. That was a big mistake—because now your hands are cuffed behind your back, rendered utterly useless. No matter how hard you try to move them—the thick, leather cuffs refuse to allow any give. They only add to the sense of humiliation that you feel.
One of Jolly’s hands is pressed firmly against your back, gently but insistently pushing you down whenever you try to move.
He’s got you completely at his mercy.
His other hand has been teasing you for what feels like hours—gently trailing his finger over your folds, lightly pressing against your entrance—but never entering you fully. His fingers skim along your clit, but refuse to provide the stimulation that you so desperately ache for.
“Poor thing, you’re so needy. You’re making such a mess all over my pants. I suppose you’ll have to clean it up later, hmm?”
His voice is quiet, husky in the stillness of the room, as he muses aloud.
Jolly’s two hands move to your ass, gently yet insistently spreading you apart. You gasp when you feel his thumb gently rub over your hole. He presses against it, threatening to breach it.
“You’d probably let me back here if I wanted, hmm? It’s not like you’d stop me.”
You can’t help but gasp and arch your hips into his touch. It feels so degrading to be touched back there. Jolly and you haven’t done that yet—but still you ache to feel the pleasure that you know the pain would bring. You’re desperate for any form of stimulation.
You whine as you feel his spit drip down onto your hole. His thumb gently rubs it over your entrance. He’s messing with your mind in a way that genuinely has you wondering if today will be the day that he’ll fuck your ass. You know that it would hurt—yet that only seems to spur you on.
“I wonder if you’d let me fuck your ass?” He says, musing aloud in the kind of tone that says that he’s intentionally trying to toy with you.
“Please. Yes,” you whine.
He clicks his tongue at that, pulling his hands away. Your body chases after his touch, no longer physically restrained by him—but his hand returns to your back and roughly presses you down. The motion takes you by surprise, pulling a small yelp from you as you’re shoved back into the mattress.
His other hand weaves through the hair at the base of your scalp, grasping it and firmly pulling up. You’re left trying to raise your head in order to escape the pain—which is considerably difficult with how his other hand is pressing your back against the bed. Tears prickle your eyes at the sting running through your scalp—but there’s nothing that you can do to escape it. You’re left nearly breathless, as your head is forced back in a manner that makes it difficult for you to breathe. You’re left gasping for breath, making noises of pain and barely audible pleas for mercy.
You’re an undignified mess.
Once Jolly seems to have pulled enough noises out of you for his liking, he lets go of your hair. Your head falls onto the mattress, as you gasp for breath. You can feel his hand now softly petting your head.
“Shh. You’re being so good for me,” he coos.
The dichotomy of his behaviour makes your head spin. It only serves to spur you on even more—you ache for the pain as you know that pleasure will soon follow after.
You’re barely given a chance to collect your thoughts before you feel one of Jolly’s thick fingers prodding at the entrance of your pussy. He swiftly presses it inside, filling you deliciously.
It’s been weeks since you’ve last felt Jolly inside of you. It’s been weeks since you’ve last touched yourself. Life had truly been getting more and more stressful, and ‘free time’ had become a foreign concept to you. Sexual pleasure was the last thing on your mind—especially with how borderline depressed you had been feeling these past few weeks. Your body was on autopilot, simply trying to get you from one day to the next without thinking too much. It was easier to shut off your wants, needs and emotions.
All of your stress had amounted to you lashing out at Jolly over the smallest things, and generally giving him a bratty attitude. Today, he had decided that he was done with your behaviour. He simply picked you up, tossed you over his shoulder, and carried you over to the bedroom. He was sick of your behaviour, and he was going to make sure that you knew that. His change of attitude was so sudden and scary that you didn’t even try to protest.
After not having anything inside of you for so long, Jolly’s singular finger inside of your pussy truly feels like a lot to take. You can’t help but moan as he crooks his finger inside of you, instantly finding your sweet spot. He’s relentless—insistently pressing against it again and again, pulling noise after noise from you.
It’s not long before he teases a second finger at your entrance—but doesn’t push it inside.
You try moving your hips—but to no avail. His hand presses your back down even more firmly. You let out a helpless little whine.
“Beg nicely,” he chides.
“Please. Please, I need you.”
“Yeah?” He taunts softly, taking his finger out of your pussy. You’re left completely empty, your pussy left to clench around nothing. Behind you, you can hear what sounds like Jolly opening the bottle of lube.
It shouldn't surprise you when he thrusts two of his fingers inside of you. Still, you let out a noise of indignation, which quickly trails off into a moan as he begins to crook his fingers.
He’s relentless with how he touches you, not giving you any mercy. You can feel him begin to move his fingers apart a little bit, slowly stretching your pussy. He takes his time with it, stretching you until it feels like too much. You don’t know what he’s planning on doing with you—but still, it sends a thrum of nervousness and desire through you.
He doesn’t seem to be concerned about your pleasure at all, only focusing on stretching your tight cunt.
It’s not long before you feel a third finger at your entrance. He doesn’t ask for permission or even give you any time to process it before he’s got three fingers inside of you. The stretch feels so delicious. He works you open to a point that you didn’t even know was possible.
He pulls his fingers out, and you’re left clenching around nothing. Incomprehensible pleas leave your lips, as you protest being left empty.
Jolly shushes you. He pushes the tips of his fingers back in, and you notice that the stretch feels more noticeable. Your heart skips a beat as you realise that he’s trying to fit four fingers inside of you.
“Stop—“
He pauses, but still leaves the tips of his fingers inside of you. “What’s wrong?” He asks, and you can hear a hint of the devilish smile on his face.
“Are—are those four fingers?”
“Yes.”
“That’s—that’s too much,” you say, matter-of-factly. This isn’t you protesting that you won’t be able to take it. You just know that it's not possible for you to take four fingers. It’s too much. It’s not physically possible.
“I’m the one who gets to decide whether it’s too much or not,” Jolly reminds you. This isn’t him taunting his power over you—it’s simply a fact.
He pushes his fingers in just a little bit deeper.
“Wait! Stop!”
He pauses, waiting for you to say something.
“I can’t. I can’t take it.”
“Yes you can.”
You shake your head.
Jolly’s free hand reaches out to gently rub at your back, his hand rubbing soothing circles against your skin. His voice softens. “You can take it. I know you can. And I’m right here with you, okay?”
You shake your head again. You can feel a lump forming in your throat, tears prickling at your eyes. You can’t help the stutter in your breath, how your body almost shakes in fear and anticipation.
Jolly’s hand is warm against your back, a familiar and reassuring presence. When he speaks, his tone of voice is soft, and quiet—the same tone that he uses when talking to a spooked animal.
“You’re okay. I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you. I just need you to trust me.”
The tips of his fingers remain in your pussy. He waits, patient and unmoving.
You try to settle yourself. You take slow, steady breaths, willing yourself to relax.
Jolly’s been building you up for this, preparing you both mentally and physically to submit to him. On an objective level, you understand that you can take four of his fingers. It’s just a mental game of trying to convince yourself that you’ll be okay—that he’ll take care of you.
You take a deep breath in, letting yourself relax and melt into the mattress. You allow your limbs to go limp. You focus on your breathing, how you can feel Jolly beneath you, the heat of his body warm and reassuring against you. You remind yourself that he’ll take care of you.
You give a slow, hesitant nod.
Jolly slowly presses his four fingers inside. He’s silent, making sure that he can hear you in case you want to stop.
You focus on your breathing, taking steady breaths as his fingers fully slide into your pussy.
“There we go,” he coos. “Such a good girl. Taking me so well.”
He pauses, letting you adjust to the feeling of his thick fingers inside of you.
“Fuck,” he groans. “You feel so tight around me. Your poor pussy is working so hard to fit me, hmm?”
His words are turning your brain to mush. It’s all too much. The way he sweetly praises and then degrades you, the way he pushes you to your limits, the way he makes you take more than you even thought you could take. It’s all so much.
Jolly begins to slowly thrust his fingers in and out of your pussy. He moves them apart ever-so-slightly, in an attempt to stretch you out.
The stretch is bordering on too much. You let out a shaky breath. Jolly pauses, waiting for any signs of discomfort from you. You don’t say anything else, so he continues to stretch you.
Debauched noises fill the room, as his fingers fuck your pussy. The fact that it’s your pussy that’s making those noises—it makes your face burn. The humiliation paired with the almost painful stretch—they both serve to make you feel so pathetic. Your mind feels so deliciously foggy.
“You’d really do anything I asked of you, hmm? You’re just so desperate for my attention. It’s pathetic, really.”
You whine at his words—even though they’re entirely true.
Eventually, after deeming you tortured enough, Jolly’s fingers slide out of your pussy. Immediately, you whine, as your pussy is left painfully empty, clenching around nothing.
Jolly coos at you. “Relax, darling.”
You feel something unfamiliar resting against your entrance. It feels much larger than any of your toys. You’ve never felt this one before. It feels unusually thick—and not in a good way, either. You can feel your breathing begin to pick up as your heart races. You’re pulled from your foggy headspace, and thrust into one of panic.
You swallow. “What’s—what’s that?”
Jolly softly hushes you, gently stroking over your back. “Don’t worry about it. Just be good for me.”
You try to crane your head in order to see what Jolly is about to press inside of you, but he swiftly presses your face back into the bed. You keep struggling against him, trying to break free, but his grip on your head doesn’t loosen. He keeps you firmly pressed against the bed. You struggle to breathe, your mouth and nose muffled against the mattress.
You’re panicking now—you don’t know if you can take this any longer. You keep trying to move, desperately trying to crane your head so that you can breathe—but there’s no use. He’s got you firmly restrained. He’ll only allow you to breathe when he deems it fit.
Only when you begin to feel light headed and your struggling ceases, does Jolly yank your hair and pull you up to breathe.
You desperately take deep breaths in, your lungs burning.
“Are you going to behave now?”
You nod frantically, gasping.
Jolly lets go of his grip on your hair, and gently guides your head back down so that you’re comfortable. His hand gently cards through your hair, his nails lightly scratching against your scalp. It feels comforting, and it helps you relax a little bit.
“Be a good girl for me and don’t look, okay? I promise that I’ll take care of you.”
You can’t keep up with his demeanour. One moment he’s rough, refusing to give you any form of reassurance—the next he’s kind and gently comforting you.
You nod, but your heart races. You can feel Jolly press the dildo against you once more. You press your nails into your palms, the pain helping to ground you a little bit.
Jolly clicks his tongue once he notices. “None of that,” he says, as he gently unfurls your fists. “I’ve got you. I promise,” he says softly.
He gently rubs his thumb against the palm of your hand until you relax a little bit.
“There we go. Good girl.”
The praise makes you shiver.
“You can take this. I know you can.”
You cry out as he begins to push the dildo inside you.
You’re sweating, writhing, your hands desperately trying to free themselves. It’s no use, though—Jolly has you firmly restrained. You feel so light headed that you genuinely think you might pass out. The stretch is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. It’s not even comparable to when he had four of his fingers inside of you.
Throughout it all, Jolly is praising you, softly cooing at you and gently rubbing your back.
You’re gasping as he slowly pushes the dildo inside of you. You feel impossibly stretched open—but still, it fills you up in a way that you've never felt before.
Once he pushes it fully inside of you, he lets it rest there for a moment, allowing you to simply feel the sheer thickness of it.
“You just had to misbehave earlier, didn’t you? Couldn’t help but brat out?” Jolly says, as he begins to pull the dildo out. His voice is eerily calm, despite his words.
You don’t respond, too overwhelmed by the drag of the dildo against the walls of your pussy.
“You couldn’t have asked for attention even though you needed it, hmm? Couldn’t have simply asked me to take care of you? I thought I had taught you better.”
Jolly thrusts the dildo back into your pussy, and you cry out at the stretch.
“My poor thing just needed to be punished, hmm? But instead of asking me nicely, you decided to misbehave. That’s not how we do things around here, and you know that.”
You manage to whisper out a quiet “I’m sorry”, though it tapers off into a gasp as Jolly harshly fucks you with the dildo.
“Though I’m not sure if this even is a punishment for you. Your pussy is dripping, making such a mess. You like this, don’t you? You like being at my mercy, while I do whatever I please to you. You like being ruined by me. It makes you feel so deliciously dumb, doesn’t it?”
You nod frantically. Your mind feels so clouded, so hazy. His words only serve to pull you even deeper into that foggy headspace.
“This could have been so much nicer—had you simply asked me to take care of you. I could have taken you apart so gently, slowly guiding you into submission. But you just couldn’t communicate with me, could you? You just had to stay quiet about your feelings, your wants, your needs.”
Jolly punctuates his words with a particularly harsh thrust of the dildo.
“Will you brat out again? Or next time, will you ask me for what you need?”
“A—ask,” you gasp out. “I’ll be your—I’ll be your good girl. I’ll be good.”
Jolly stays silent for a moment, letting you stew in the silence of your words.
“Is there anything else that you’d like to say?”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry for bratting out. I’m sorry for being bad. I just want to be good for you.”
The tears are steadily falling down your face now. You’re sniffling, stuttering, stumbling over your words. It’s a pathetic sight.
“Shh. There we go. You’re my good girl, apologizing so sweetly. I forgive you. You just made a simple mistake, didn’t you?” He coos.
Jolly’s harsh scolding, followed by his soft words of reassurance, feel like placing ice over a searing flesh wound. You can’t keep up with his change of demeanor.
Despite his sweet words, Jolly doesn’t let up on his harsh treatment of your pussy. He keeps thrusting the dildo inside you. He doesn’t try to catch you by surprise, though, instead opting to keep a regular pace. You can feel your mind beginning to go blank, as all you can focus on is the regular rhythm of the thrusts.
“Such a good girl, taking it so well. You’re doing so well for me.”
The praise makes you blush—and it makes you feel even more desperate. You can feel the pressure slowly building inside of you—though it’s not enough to make you cum. You try to grind yourself against his leg, but the angle doesn’t quite work.
You won’t be able to get yourself off. You hope that Jolly will be merciful enough to allow you your release.
“Please,” you whine. Your tone is laced with an undercurrent of desperation.
“Please, what?”
“Please let me cum,” you whisper.
You press your eyes shut, bracing yourself for what Jolly will do next. He’ll either help you cum, or he’ll pull away, leaving you desperate and aching.
His hand trails down to your clit, his rough, calloused fingers circling it ever so gently.
“C’mon sweet thing, cum for me. Let yourself go.”
Jolly angles the dildo so that with each thrust, it presses perfectly against that one spot inside you. His fingers move in slow and measured circles against your clit, slowly bringing you to the edge, but not forcing it.
It’s not long before you’re cumming, clenching around the dildo inside of you. It heightens the feeling of sheer fullness that you’re feeling. Jolly keeps working you through it, stimulating your clit while slowly working the dildo in and out of your pussy. He stops once you’re letting out little whines of overstimulation.
“Good girl. There we go,” he coos.
Jolly’s hand gently pets over your back, as he whispers soft praises. Your mind feels a little bit hazy, and you can’t quite tell what’s going on. You let out a soft whine as you can still feel the unmistakable press of the dildo inside of you.
“Shh, it’s okay. Relax for me now?”
You can feel him grip the base of the dildo. He slowly slides the dildo out, and you can’t stop the sob that escapes your lips at the feeling. Your pussy feels so sore, so empty after being stuffed full for so long. You can feel yourself clenching around nothing. It feels so wrong.
“It’s okay, you’re okay. I’ve got you,” Jolly soothes, one of his hands still running over your back, while the other one swiftly uncuffs your wrists.
He doesn’t waste any time before pulling you onto his lap, your side pressed against his chest. He wraps you up in a blanket, before gently taking hold of your wrists and massaging them. He noticed just how much you were trying to move them apart earlier, and realised that they must hurt quite a bit after all of your struggling to break free.
You can’t seem to stop your crying, but Jolly doesn’t seem to mind. He simply holds you even closer, one hand rubbing your back in an attempt to calm you.
“It’s okay darling, just let it out. It’s okay to cry. I know that was a lot. You did so well for me.”
The praise only serves to bring more tears to your eyes. You truly feel like you don’t deserve his soft treatment.
“I—I’m sorry for being bad,” you hiccup. Your breath hitches as you try to get the words out. “I don’t want to be bad,” you gasp, frantically shaking your head.
Jolly meets your gaze. His expression is so unbelievably fond as he looks at you. He meets your eyes with that look of softness that he only reserves for you. “Shh darling, it’s okay. You’re not bad. Your actions, your bratting out—that was bad. But you took your punishment like a good girl, and I’m so proud of you for that. You did so well,” Jolly coos, tenderly tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear.
It’s difficult for you to believe his words. There’s still tears trailing down your cheeks, your breaths feel unsteady and there’s a lingering feeling of self-hate festering inside of you.
You shake your head. “I was bad,” you whisper, as your chest is wracked by another sob.
Jolly shakes his head. “You did something bad, but we fixed it, didn’t we? I punished you, which means that your bad action has been dealt with. Your punishment is over, so you don’t need to worry about what you did anymore. The point of a punishment is for you to no longer feel guilty afterwards. You did something wrong, I punished you, and now we can put it behind us, okay?” He explains slowly, his voice light, as he tries to reassure you. He knows that you’re not exactly in a rational state of mind right now.
His logic makes sense, and you can recall how in the past, he’s once said something similar. You still can’t stop the lingering feeling of self-hatred, though.
Your throat aches so much. Talking feels like too much effort—but you need to get your feelings off of your chest.
“I—I can’t put it behind me, though. I feel like—like I've failed you. Like you’re disappointed in me. I want to be good for you, but I don’t know how. Especially when I’m—when I’m struggling,” you manage to say, before breaking off into another round of sobs and sniffles.
The past few weeks of stress and exhaustion have taken a great toll on you, and now everything that you’ve bottled up is spilling out. You feel so pathetic, crying over every single word you say—but you can’t help it. Your emotions feel rubbed raw. You feel so exposed, so vulnerable—you can’t stop the tears, even if you try.
“Oh, poor thing,” Jolly coos. His hands cradle your face, and he guides you to look up at him. His thumbs gently rub your tears away. “You’re my good girl, okay? Your actions don’t define you—especially when it’s just a tiny misbehaviour. You’ve been struggling so much over these last few weeks—it’s only natural that you acted out. I’m not genuinely mad at you. I don’t punish you because I'm angry at you. I punish you so that you no longer have to feel guilty about acting out.”
You shake your head. “You’re so perfect. You’re always so good to me. I don’t deserve you.”
Those words bring on another round of tears—as you realise just how well Jolly treats you. You truly don’t deserve him. You press your face against his shoulder, hiding your tears. It all feels like too much.
Jolly brings his other hand to the back of your head, softly guiding it to rest against his shoulder. He keeps his hand there, gently petting your head. He slowly rocks the two of you back and forth in an attempt to soothe you. He whispers small praises, and you can feel yourself getting lost in his voice. It helps calm you down a little bit. He’s treating you the way one would try to placate a crying child—and you’re not sure that you’re even mad at the comparison.
It makes you feel small, yet treasured.
“I think that we should finish this conversation tomorrow. You’re going through a bit of a drop right now. You’re physically and mentally tired, as well as a little bit upset with yourself. And that’s okay—your feelings are valid. But right now, I think that you just need to be taken care of, and reminded that I still love you, very very much. I’m not upset with you. I’m not disappointed with you. You’re my good girl, and nothing you do can change that.”
Jolly presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. He keeps gently rocking the two of you back and forth. His hand keeps cradling your head, while his other hand rubs your back. It feels so nice to be held so lovingly.
“You’re my good girl. And I’m so proud of how well you did today.”
Little by little, bit by bit, you allow yourself to believe his words.
You’re not really sure if you drift off or not. You feel so hazy, drifting between consciousness and sleep. Every once in a while, you can hear whispered praise coming from Jolly. Every few moments, you can feel a soft kiss placed against the top of your head.
Eventually, you’re woken up by Jolly gently nudging you.
“I know you’re tired, but I can't let you fall asleep for too long. It’s still early. Let’s get you cleaned up now, okay?”
You make a clear noise of displeasure, however Jolly manages to placate you with the prospect of having a bath with him.
You allow him to take care of you. It feels nice. You’re pretty sure that you fall asleep in the bath, too. Jolly doesn’t seem to mind, though, letting your head rest on his chest as he holds you.
You can vaguely remember Jolly guiding you out of the bath and drying you off, before dressing you in a soft t-shirt of his and bringing you back to bed. You notice that he changed clothes too—wearing just his boxer shorts. His chest is bare, and you can’t help but cuddle up to it. You love feeling the warmth of his skin. You pull him closer until you’re pressed against as much of him as possible. You tuck your head against his chest, hiding away from the rest of the world.
sleep demon!nick folio x fem!reader (no use of y/n)
genre: smut, horror, supernatural
word count - 1.5k
content warning: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!! NSFW - somnophilia, dubious/non-consensual sex (reader is asleep in the beginning and therefore, cannot consent, does not give any verbal consent), penetrative sex, biting, fingering (fem!receiving), if there’s anything else I’ve missed please let me know <3
a/n: a big thank you to Lexi for always filling my mind with debauched images and scenarios and to Angela for beta’ing this one! love you both bunches!!
Feedback is always appreciated <3
It’s not a surprise anymore, your body barely flinches towards the clawed hand curling around your ankle, his nails a pitch black that bled onto his fingertips, gently fading to a washed-out grey that marred his palms, unnaturally big, too big to be anything close to natural. His nails (or were they claws, you couldn’t say) ever so slightly pressing into the skin of your calf, silently asking for permission, as he’s obliged to do.
Even in sleep, your body answers to him, thighs gently, slowly moving apart, granting him entrance. Your body moves with no resistance, turning from your side to lie prone on your stomach, one leg hiking up near your chest, the other lying straight. He just about can see in the near-pitch black that you’re only wearing a big shirt, and it takes all his strength to hold back a loud purr of approval at your positioning, thanking Morpheus himself for this divine gift laid in front of him.
You hum in your unconscious state, aware of something, someone, in your presence, but make no other move to indicate being awake. Your head turned to the side against your pillow, eyes blissfully closed, lips open ever so slightly, taking in content, deep breaths, and he’s struck dumb by the simple rise and fall of your torso.
You’ve bewitched him, is his theory; it’s the only way to explain the gnawing hunger in the cavern where his soul once lay, beckoning him to the ghost of his humanity once more. He can’t understand it, but he doesn’t want to if it takes this sight away from him.
He’d sit and marvel at you for a millennia if he could, but the persistent calling of his appetite is a duty his body can’t ignore, his cock obediently thickening up as he crawls up the foot of your bed, groaning softly as his wings unfurled, the delicate appendages not suited for his tendencies to lay under your bed from dusk til dawn. Black, inky, pointed feathers that bracket the impossibly soft, midnight blue downy feathers underneath.
He can’t help but let the tips of his left wing trail up the back of your leg. The sight of your thighs twitching at the sensation, the half-confused, half-surprised noise you make is more than enough to have him fully hard, heavy, thick cock curling up to rest under his belly button, biting back excited chuffs so as not to wake you. You’re so much sweeter this way, so pliant and receptive, even in your slumber.
"Pretty" he breathes out to himself, licking over his bottom lip as he crawls further up the bed, leaning over your body to trace his lips down the entire length of your spine, your back arches instinctively to his touch, pushing your ass back and up into his chest, he holds it with both of his hands, claws biting into the flesh, earning him a soft, small whimper from you.
He shushes you gently, palms smoothing over the small indentations his nails left, dipping lower and lower until he finds what he’s searching for in the darkness of your bedroom
He can smell you before he’s even touched your cunt, the thick, heady, sweet smell of your arousal wrapping around his throat and creeping into his nostrils like smoke.
He inhales deeply, like it’s his own personal life force, taking in a big lungful and holding it, hoping the sheer scent of you embeds itself into his chest. He feels your body start to stir underneath him and he stills, eager to keep you asleep, knowing you’d barely slept the past week, hearing your frustrated sighs and the furious tapping of your laptop’s keyboard from his place under your bed, letting him know that work had once again been pushing you too much, forcing your to meet deadlines at home, instead of in the office.
Tonight was just as much for you as it was for him.
Using the pad of his finger, careful not to scratch the delicate skin there, he traces languidly down your slit, collecting the dewy slick forming on his fingertip, mindlessly bringing his digits to his lips, needing you on his tongue.
Once he tastes you, a shudder wracks up his spine, cock oozing precum, it dribbles steadily down his shaft, a response to your own body’s desire, his eyes fluttering and rolling back in his head as he savours the taste, knowing he’d be less than gentle right now if he had his mouth any closer to your core. Mouth filling with saliva as if his body was telling him ‘more, we need more’
__________________
A small whine leaves your lips as you slowly begin to wake up. His middle and ring fingers, buried to the second knuckle in your pussy halt their curling motions; his eyes unwillingly tear away from their place fixed on your cunt to watch your face, though the feeling you pulse around him in a more consistent pattern is all he needs to know that you’re awake now.
Frowning, eyes still closed and lips pouty as you lift your head from the pillow and crane it over your shoulder to see what the fuck is going on. There’s an unmistakable scent in the air that even your barely conscious brain picks up on.
Sweat, sex and…brimstone??
“W-what’s going-“ you’re cut off by your own moan as you feel a slow, steady stretch, cunt feeling impossibly full too quickly for you to even think about scrambling away, the haze of sleep still gripping you tightly as you feel yourself become more aware of reality. If this even is real.
“Shhhh, sweetheart, there we go, atta girl, so good f’me”
Using that sinful crooning voice that compels you to settle down. Even as he sinks deep into you, leaning over, gently pressing his weight on your back, blanketing you in a soothing pressure that has any panic that was forming in your sleep-fogged mind dissolving instantaneously.
His chest pressed flush to your shoulder blades, one of his hands curling underneath your stomach to lift your bottom half slightly off of the mattress, the other coming up to scratch at your scalp gently, something he knows sends you right back to your dreams, you’re too out of it to realise he’s shaking, practically vibrating with the force it’s taking to stay still inside you.
Without knowing it, your body instinctively clenches down on him as he shifts against your walls and he can’t help but snap his hips up, the tip of his cock oh so gently nudging against your cervix, wrenching a half sleepy, half blissed out whimper from your throat.
Delicious
Divine
He knows he’s being too rough for you to go back to sleep now, but you can't blame him, not when your body’s pliant and obedient for him. Trying his hardest to softly grind into you instead of pounding into your sweet, sopping pussy like he so carnally needs to. His hips twitching and stuttering as they try to keep his steady pace, both clawed hands gripping your hips harder with each sloppy movement of his pelvis against your backside. Baring his canines, grazing them against your shoulder blade.
“So sweet for me, always so sweet for me”
He growls against your skin, letting his restraint falter as he sinks his fangs into the junction of your shoulder. You cry out at the feeling, back arching, head craning up to the ceiling, body and nerves lighting up in that feeling of angry, red-hot pleasure you always chase.
“Give it to me, know you wanna, know I need it”
Crazed murmurs fall from his lips as he picks up his pace, hipbones slapping against your ass, obscenely loud, challenging your own cries in volume. The heat in your core burning like hellfire, the ball of ecstasy, so taut and strained that you’re almost scared of what’ll happen when it snaps.
And shortly after, when it does, for a moment you think to yourself, as the pleasure crests, and keeps cresting, unwavering, unrelenting. Am I going to die??
It doesn’t falter, it doesn’t stop, he doesn’t stop, even as tears dribble down your cheeks, your cries turning to screams as the fire in your belly threatens to burn you from the inside out, his cock doesn’t waver, pulsing in you so strongly, driving into you, carving a permanent place for him in your walls.
His jaw still clamped down on your flesh as he speaks, words muffled, purring out gentle encouragements, such a start contrast to the bruising grip he keeps on your hips, never letting you fall away from him as he hurtles towards his own release. The telltale signs letting you know just how close he is to cumming breaths coming out of his nose in hot puffs against your neck, the frequent hums and chuffs escaping his throat. Nails threatening to break skin as your cunt flutters around him so incessantly.
“Fuckkkk. More, give me more, I know you can”
anything I say/write is purely speculation and for my own personal enjoyment. it does not accurately represent any of the people mentioned in my writing. I do not approve of or support any kind of harassment or negative behaviour towards anybody involved in/with bad omens
don’t let it in with no intention to keep it. jesus christ, don’t be kind to it. honey, don’t feed it; it will come back.
pairing: incubus!noah x f!reader
word count: 11.4k (?!&£ i got carried away)
warnings: 18+ mdni, nsfw content below the cut. smut, surprising amount of dark humour in lore sections, light prey/predator vibes, dom!noah, manipulation (i mean he's an incubus so,,, do with that what you will), choking, use of panties as restraints, p in v (unprotected but. he’s a demon so), fingering (f!receiving), overstimulation, mirror sex, no aftercare, light blasphemy
summary: when you move into a new city, the last thing you’re expecting is to find your apartment is haunted. especially when said occupant only wants one thing.
You were pretty sure your apartment was haunted.
Well, not necessarily haunted in the traditional sense. But there was most definitely something co-inhabiting the space with you.
It all started when you moved in a few months ago. The place wasn’t a Hilton by any means, but it was a roof over your head and heating and cheap enough that you could just about ignore the sounds of traffic from the busy street below. Moving to Los Angeles for your internship with the tech company had already drained your bank account enough just in flights and U-Haul fees, so the cheaper the better when it came to your accommodation, really.
Sure, there were a few broken floorboards, and there was a stain on the kitchen ceiling that you were sure had already started growing. Of course, the random power outages didn’t help, but they had advertised on the listing that the grid was temperamental, so you had known what you were getting yourself into. The family of cockroaches you had found overtaking one of your cupboards on the second day just added charm… And the constant banging of the boiler was easily drowned out by some music and good mindfulness practice.
So, it was okay. Or, at least, it was a home.
Except for the fact that it was fucking haunted.
The first week, you had simply attributed the slightly odd occurrences to being a part of the furniture; more charming oversights that the landlord had failed to mention. A draft under your bedroom door, the creaking of plaster every time the wind howled outside, the scratching you were convinced was coming from inside the walls…
Things didn’t get weird all at once. Not enough for you to become super suspicious; just aware.
It started small enough that you honestly attributed it to sleep deprivation and lack of a routine. You were still adjusting, after all, to the new city and new lifestyle, so it made sense that your brain would be sluggish in catching up.
When you woke up one day, and your book had shifted on the nightstand, you didn’t think much of it. You could have easily knocked it in your sleep, or simply misremembered where you placed it. You ran out of salt pretty quickly, too, in the first month, but you’d always had a bad habit of being overzealous with the condiment, so that wasn’t much cause for concern.
Of course, you were pretty fucking devastated to learn that your favourite blue panties weren’t anywhere in the house. That one took you a little longer to accept that you had probably left them back at your old place. If you thought about it long enough, you were certain you had a memory of unpacking them, but clearly not. Clearly that was another mystery that your tired brain had cooked up somewhere between long meetings and nights awake due to the sounds of sirens in the city.
Oh well. They would be a nice surprise for the new tenants in your old place.
Still, you went about your days only mildly plagued by the strange occurrences. There were some more simple changes to the exhaustion that had come with a shift of scene after all, the dreams being a big one.
You had always struggled with sleeping back in your old place, but work was so tiring and the climate in LA so different to what you were used to that most nights when you clambered into bed, you were asleep before your head hit the pillow.
It seemed as if your body was finally catching up with over twenty years of not dreaming, for now there was one weekly. They were never anything exhilarating, more mundane recounts of things that brought you a vague satisfaction and left you feeling well rested.
On one particularly long occasion, you had managed to lock yourself out of the apartment. After an hour of sitting in the hallway waiting for your landlord to rescue you, you practically fell into bed, only to dream about that very hallway. Except it was longer, with more doors than you could count. Behind each one was something different: a room filled entirely with darkness, one with a blazing fire, and another overtaken by small creatures you did not recognise as being an actual thing. They had sharp talon-like claws and beady red eyes, and they traversed walls as if able to stick to them.
Any other time, such a sight in your dreamscape may have scared you, but a weird sensation accompanied the vision that had you feeling rather… well, the opposite. When you woke with a stunted intake of breath, you were half expecting terror to rocket through your veins like it would any sane person.
What you were not expecting was the vague heat between your thighs that seemed to have established itself through the night. It wasn’t exactly unwelcome, a pleasant throbbing sensation that seemed to have woken you. You would accept way more wacky dreams if they came with such side effects. It was an easy fix after all, reaching your hand out to the top drawer of your nightstand where your vibrator—wasn’t?
You fumbled around in the drawer for a few more minutes before sighing and accepting that you’ll just have to use your fingers. That was an easy mistake to have made, really. You were a young woman living on her own; it could have literally been left anywhere in the house.
So you made do. It wasn’t exactly cause for concern.
The first occasion you really remembered thinking something was off was when you waltzed into the kitchen one day, clad only in an old shirt and an old pair of underwear you spared for lazy days.
The kitchen was cold. Not cold as in hey, we turned off the main building’s heating so now you’ll freeze for three days (as had happened once on only your third day of living there). One single spot was like walking on ice.
You thought you were going insane at first, for you’d always been pretty bad at regulating your temperature, and you weren’t exactly wearing much. That was until you walked through it again. And again. And again and again and again. The boiler was working fine (or as fine as the decades-old thing could be), and the rest of the space was a nice, homely temperature. But that one section by the counter that held your spice rack, about half a metre squared, was like you had been transported to Antarctica itself.
Of course, even then you had found some way to rationalise it when the initial confusion subsided. Maybe it was just your imagination or some faulty plumbing done way back when. Your house had random cold spots and the light flickered occasionally. So what? It was old.
That was until you couldn’t rationalise things anymore.
You had been there for just over two months when you first had the thought; the big oh shit moment.
It was nearing two in the morning by the time you got home from work, some big meeting with a rich client that your boss had wanted you to sit in on for your ‘education’. It was long and boring as hell, and when the door to your apartment finally gave way under the rusted key, all you wanted to do was fall into bed and go to sleep. Sitting in the same clothes in an office for fourteen hours, however, had made you feel rather unsanitary, so you sucked up the tiredness and moved to the shower.
The steam and warmth of the room were a big welcome after such a long day, and you accepted the water washing away any aches from hunching over a desk as if it was made of liquid gold. For a moment, you wondered why you had dreaded this at all, for it was exactly what your body and soul needed.
Until everything went black.
The lights and the shower snapped off all at once, leaving you soaking wet with shampoo running into your mouth, fumbling for a towel that you had not prepared in the dark. The damn breaker must have gone again, which would have meant you had to get on your hands and knees in a kitchen you hadn’t cleaned recently, whilst soaked through and frozen cold.
You were starting to regret a lot of things about this move, more than just the career choices.
Somewhere on the side, your hand found purchase on one of your towels, fluffy and welcoming as you wrapped it around yourself and stepped out of the shower. Now all you had to do was fumble your way out of the bathroom in the dark, because of course you had left your phone in the bedroom. Easy stuff, right? It wasn’t even like you’d bought one of those apartments with a glazed bathroom window to let in some light. Nope. Your bathroom had no windows and was perfectly pitch black.
By some miracle, you found the door handle on only your fourth attempt to grab into empty space.
At which time the lights came back on, and the shower burst into motion once more.
Not weird, though. Just faulty wiring.
Or at least, that would have been what you’d chalked it down to had it not been for the gigantic handprint on the bathroom mirror.
You bolted.
You had enough time to at least grab some clothes so as to not traumatise your neighbours, but then you were gone.
And when you returned the following day (after renting a somehow even creepier motel, where the threat was this time drunken students and rat infestations), it was with books on all sorts of crazy shit in hand.
The librarian had looked at you like you were insane when you first asked for the section on demonology. She more than likely didn’t get many young women coming in for ancient texts on ghosts and ghoulies. But crazy you supposed you had become.
Even as you tried to rationalise every occurrence away, you knew there was only one explanation for it. A sleepless night in the motel room, listening to partying in the room next door and deep diving on Reddit told you that doing some research wouldn’t exactly hurt.
So here you were, armed with five large books on anything that could be helpful, with two more Amazon parcels waiting outside the door.
Of course, there was still that tiny niggling part of your brain that told you it was all in your head. But if that part turned out to be right, then you would let it say I told you so at a later date. Better safe than sorry.
Apparently, there were a lot of ghost-type creatures that could inhabit a space, so the research proved to be more of a task than you had first expected.
The main book you had been recommended after a very quick Reddit search (slash beg) was called The Lesser Book of Solomon, an aptly terrifyingly titled collection listing seventy-two types of demons that ‘existed’ in the world. You weren’t entirely certain what you were dealing with, but that felt like a good place to start. It had been available on Amazon, too, which was a hilarious concept if you thought about it, so it was a no-brainer.
You spent the better part of the day hunched over the gigantic text on your sofa, suddenly hyper aware of every movement in your apartment. Every time you turned your head, you could have guaranteed something was watching you, but it disappeared before you could fully manifest an acknowledgement.
If you had been paranoid once before, you were practically vibrating with tension now.
The Lesser Key of Solomon was not exactly a light read.
For starters, it was old. Not old in the physical sense, considering it was an Amazon reprint, but the text seemed to radiate ancient knowledge to the point it felt like the pages might still disintegrate under your fingertips if you turned them too aggressively. The writing itself was dense and full of references to things you had never heard of in your life, and it assumed a baseline knowledge of the occult that you, a twenty-something tech intern whose most spiritual experience to date had been a guided meditation on YouTube, most certainly did not have.
Still, you persevered. Seventy-two whole demons, each with a name, a rank, a description, and an accompanying set of abilities that read less like a supernatural encyclopedia and more like the world's most fucked up Craigslist job ad. Duke of this, President of that, specialising in manipulation and deception and this and that and everything and nothing. It was like LinkedIn for the underworld.
The problem was that you had no idea what you were looking for.
You didn't have a name to search, or a clear set of symptoms to match. All you had was a cold spot, some missing belongings, a handprint on a mirror and a fucked up feeling. The book was vast, and the descriptions were vague enough to overlap in ways that offered absolutely no help to your cause. One demon could cause disruptions in the home. Great, so could thirty others. Another could manipulate the physical world. Wonderful, join the club. By the time you had gotten three-quarters of the way through, your eyes were burning, and you had about fifteen sticky notes marking pages that could be relevant but probably weren't.
So you moved on.
The second book was a more general text on hauntings; a modern one, mercifully, written in actual English and not some antiquated script that required a degree in theology to decipher. It covered everything from poltergeists to residual hauntings and sentient spirits; the whole lot. There were moments where you thought you were getting somewhere when you read about cold spots as a sign of spiritual presence and felt momentarily vindicated, but then the descriptions would fall short.
Nothing fit. Bits and pieces came close, enough to keep you reading at least, but nothing ticked every box. It was like trying to complete a jigsaw out of a flattened LEGO set.
And throughout it all, something in the apartment felt off. Like someone, or something, was taking great pleasure in watching you fall apart.
By eleven that night, your back ached from sitting in the same position for so long, and the words on the pages had started to blur into one incomprehensible mess. You were no closer to an answer than when you had started, and twice as frustrated. So you did the only sensible thing and gave up for the day, dragging yourself to bed where sleep claimed you embarrassingly quickly.
And with sleep came the dreams.
The water was warm. That was the first thing you registered; not where you were, or why, or how you had gotten there, but that the water surrounding you was warm. It wasn’t distinctive in that it was a bath or an ocean, but it felt personified in a way. It ebbed and flowed and curled around your limbs like it knew where it wanted to be.
You were drowning. You knew that, somewhere in the back of your mind. You were completely submerged, water filling every space around you, pressing in on all sides. It should have been terrifying. It should have sent panic searing through your chest and your arms flailing for a surface.
But it didn't.
If anything, it was the most peaceful you had felt in weeks. The water wasn't pulling you under so much as holding you there, cradling you in a way that mimicked a delicate touch. It moved across your body in slow waves that seemed to respond to your gurgled breaths, pressing closer when it hitched, and then easing off just enough to let you settle before starting again. There was a patient rhythm to it, like it had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it.
You couldn't see anything. The water was dark and endless in every direction, and yet you were not afraid.
Most importantly, somewhere beneath the warmth and the pressure and the peaceful rocking of whatever this was, there was a heat building that had nothing to do with the temperature of the water.
You woke up at four in the morning, drenched in sweat with your heart hammering so hard you thought for a moment you were having a heart attack.
It took a long second for you to lie there staring at the ceiling, as you tried to figure out if you were still dreaming. Because the sensation between your legs was very much still present and very much not fading. The sheets were tangled around you like you'd been thrashing, and the room was clammy in a way that the shitty heating system in this building had never once managed to achieve.
Fuck.
Fuck.
You were out of bed before you had even made a conscious decision to move, feet hitting the creaky floorboards as you practically lunged for the stack of books on your coffee table. Because that wasn't just a dream. You didn't know how you knew, but you did.
The dreams were part of it. Whatever it was, the dreams were a part of it.
You called in sick to work at six thirty, which was early enough that you got your manager's voicemail rather than having to fake a cough in real time. Small mercies. Then you made the strongest coffee your limited supplies could handle and sat cross-legged on the living room floor with every single book spread open around you, because clearly the desk and the sofa were not providing the right energy for a breakthrough.
If the sensation of being watched before had been unnerving, now it was tenfold.
It took three more cups of coffee and a borderline unhealthy amount of cross-referencing before the identifiers first appeared.
Incubus/Succubus.
You had skimmed past them initially in the Lesser Key, buried somewhere between a demon that could summon storms and another that could turn water to blood. But now, hunched on the floor surrounded by open books like a student on a last-minute revision kick, the description hooked something in your brain and refused to let go. The words melded into one at first, but eventually you were able to piece together some of the basic descriptions. An incubus or succubus was a demonic entity that attached itself to a person, one that visited in the night and that manifested through dreams. Unlike a lot of the other ghoulies you had read about, these guys had the ability to manipulate the physical environment, and they usually chose a target and fixated on them with an obsession that bordered on devotion.
You read it again. And again. And then once more with your hand over your mouth because suddenly every odd occurrence since you had moved in was rearranging itself in your head like the most fucked up crossword solution you had ever seen. The cold spots, the missing items, the handprint, the dreams; God, the dreams. Those weren't just a symptom of stress or exhaustion or too much screen time before bed.
They were the demon’s fucking business card.
The more you read, the worse it got, because apparently, the feeding mechanism of an incubus was not unlike a feedback loop. In short, the thing drew strength from attention. You know, from the very act of someone lying in bed at night thinking about it, and especially from the particular brand of physical response that your dreams had been so generously providing.
Which meant that every time you had woken up flushed with that ache between your legs that had you reaching for your nightstand, you hadn't just been having a weird dream; you had been fucking feeding it.
Wonderful.
This time, when you went to the library, you daren’t ask the lady at the desk to show you to that specific section for fear that she might call the police on you. Which of course meant you spent far more time than you would have liked searching for books with either demon in the title or description, but it spared you a part of your dignity.
Armed with two new texts and your remaining pride, you made it back to the apartment in record time, ready to dive back into your studies. You were getting disturbingly good at this in a rather short time. Maybe if the tech thing didn't work out, you could have had a future in amateur demonology. Your heavily religious mother would be thrilled.
You propped the books under one arm and twisted the key in the door, shoulder barging it open. You missed the counter when you tried to toss the keys onto it, but you didn’t bother stopping to pick them up as you already had the goal of changing into something comfier in mind. So, getting to the bedroom was your first priority.
Which is when you stopped dead in the doorway.
Your blue panties were sitting on the bed. Neatly placed dead centre of the mattress, smoothed over carefully like they were a gift.
For a long moment, you just stared at them.
Then you picked them up, threw them across the room with a force that was entirely unnecessary and said, very loudly, to absolutely no one, "You are not fucking funny."
The light in the hallway flickered.
You chose to interpret that as a coincidence and not as the demonic equivalent of laughter, because if you didn't, you were going to lose what little remained of your sanity.
After as much sleuthing as your tired brain could manage, you decided that books could wait until tomorrow. You needed sleep more than you needed answers, and you were exhausted enough that even the prospect of another dream wasn't enough to keep you awake. Whatever this thing was, it could have one night off from being researched. You were tired, and you were annoyed, and you were going to sleep like a normal person for once in your goddamn life.
Of course, demons didn’t care much for what made something normal.
In this dream, there was no water or endless hallways of doors. There was nothing at all, really, just a vast and endless darkness that stretched in every direction and swallowed any sense of up or down or sideways.
For a while, there was nothing. Just the dark and the sensation of floating, and a quiet that wasn't emptiness so much as it was anticipation.
You felt the hand before you saw it. A pressure at your waist, the unmistakable feeling of fingers splaying wide across the side of your body through your pyjamas.
Then came a second hand, at the back of your neck this time. Fingertips dragging slowly upward into your hair, tracing a path along your scalp that sent a shiver of recognition cascading down your spine. You exhaled, or tried to, but the sound came out more unstable than you intended.
The hands seemed to like that.
You caught a glimpse of them when you looked down. They were large, disproportionately so. Or maybe that was just how they looked against your body, fingers long and deliberate and covered in ink. You couldn’t make out what the markings were in the low light, and you feared that your mind wouldn’t be able to connect the dots anyway in such a state.
A breath ghosted across your collarbone, and you shivered so violently you thought for a moment you might wake yourself up from sheer force. It was teasing and intentional, trailing a path from your shoulder to the dip of your throat in a way that made it very clear this wasn't accidental.
Just as you were prepared to turn your head, to do everything in your power to find the shadowed assailant, the hand at your waist began to drift. It sailed downwards with agonising slowness, fingertips tracing the curve of your hip and dipping lower in a way that made your body arch involuntarily toward it. You could feel the heat of its palm hovering just above your thigh, close enough to make your skin prickle with expectation but not close enough to satisfy anything. It lingered there as if it were waiting for something. Permission, maybe. Or maybe just the pleasure of watching you squirm.
The breath moved to your ear. Just the breath in the air, nothing more; no lips, no face, no voice. Just that constant presence and the overwhelming awareness that whatever this was, it was enjoying itself.
You woke at three twelve in the morning with your hand halfway between your thighs.
The books came out before you'd even fully sat up.
You read until sunrise, which sounds far more romantic and dedicated than it actually was. In reality, it involved a lot of squinting at tiny print with one eye open, intermittently burning your tongue on coffee that you kept forgetting was still fresh, and getting progressively more frustrated as every single text told you the same thing in slightly different words. Incubi and succubi were drawn to a specific person, they fed on desire, visited in dreams, were horrifically persistent, bla bla bla, bla bla bla bla.
None of that was new, nor was it helpful. You needed a how, not a what. How to identify which one, communicate even, or, for god’s sake, how to make it stop. But apparently centuries worth of demonology scholarship had very little to say on the matter beyond pray about it and hope for the best, which was not exactly actionable advice for someone who hadn't been to church since she was a baby (and even then, you had apparently cried throughout the entire service).
By seven thirty, the alarm you'd forgotten to turn off from the previous day scared the shit out of you and brought with it the horrible realisation that you could not, in fact, call in sick again. One mental health day was fine. Two in a row when you were still in your probation period at a company that already thought interns were disposable was career suicide. So you dragged yourself up, shoved the books aside, and began the process of making yourself look like a functioning human being.
You were late, obviously. In the mad dash to find something clean to wear, you yanked open your underwear drawer to find it depressingly sparse. You had intended to do laundry the day before, but it had not exactly been a priority in practice, what with the demonic haunting and all.
That was exactly how you ended up standing in your bedroom doorway staring at the blue panties.
They were still on the floor where you'd launched them at the wall. You stared at them for approximately four seconds before muttering "whatever" and pulling them on, because you were already late enough, and you were not about to let an infernal entity dictate your underwear choices.
If anyone had tried to ask you what had happened at work that day, you probably would have started chanting sixteenth-century banishing spells instead.
By the time you got home, the sun had already begun to set. Every inch of your body was fatigued and achey, because it turns out that lack of sleep thanks to some horny demon took a toll on you after a while. You kicked off your shoes, dropped your bag, and stood in the hallway of your apartment, seriously weighing up the cost/benefits of flying home and choosing a career in farming.
Instead, you straightened up, slapped your face once, and headed to the bedroom. Your clothes came off first, being tossed straight back in the laundry hamper that you promised yourself you would do in the morning. The underwear wasn’t a priority to rid yourself of yet, because you had these stupid fucking overstimulating ass hoop earrings in, that you were two seconds from pulling straight through your lobes if you didn’t rid them immediately.
As you fussed over the back clasp of the left one, you walked past the mirror.
And there, reflected behind you, was the thing that had been keeping you up for so many nights. Standing in the doorway as if it belonged.
As if he belonged. For this thing was very much male.
You turned around.
For a moment, your brain simply refused to process what it was seeing, as if the image in front of you was buffering. Because a man was standing in the doorway of your bedroom, and he had not been there three seconds ago, nor had you heard a door open or a floorboard creak or a single goddamn sound.
He was tall. That was the first thing that registered through the static in your head, because he had to be at least six feet and a bit, nd the door frame you had always thought was generous suddenly looked small with him standing in it. Broad, too, in a way that was less bulky and more proportioned, as if every inch of him had been designed with a specific kind of authority in mind.
He was, of course, dressed entirely in black. A button-up shirt sat open over another black shirt beneath it, both tucked into dress pants that were tailored close enough to suggest this was not a creature that had just thrown on whatever was available. This had been designed to make someone look.
And God, you were looking.
His jaw was defined enough to make you briefly forget that you were supposed to be terrified, and his eyes were a deep, endless sort of dark that reminded you uncomfortably of the void you had floated in during your dream.
His hair was a similar shade, albeit a bit more on the brown side, parted in the middle and falling just below his eyebrows in a style that wasn't quite straight, like it had been pushed back with wet hands and left to do whatever it pleased. It looked damp. Perpetually so, as if he had just stepped out of some netherworld that didn’t account for hairdryers.
Then your eyes dropped to his neck, where you found the image of a hand, tattooed in dark ink across the front of his throat, holding an apple.
You knew that image. You knew what it meant. Every person who had ever sat through a Sunday school class or opened a Bible or even just went on Twitter knew what it meant. ‘The original temptation’, or whatever. It was so on the nose it was almost funny, except you were not laughing, because the tattoos didn't stop there. They continued down past the collar of his shirt, disappearing beneath the black fabric and reappearing at his forearms, where his sleeves were rolled to the elbow.
With the same distinctive lines you had seen on those hands in your dream.
Before your brain had managed to catch up with that final piece of information, the incubus (because this was definitely an incubus) smiled.
“All that reading and you still seem surprised to see me.”
His voice was smooth. Not like honey, or butter, or any of that cliche crap, but the kind of sound that told he was used to giving out orders and expecting everyone to bend to his will without so much as a stuttered breath. Then, he turned his head, just enough to really highlight the curve of his jaw, and motioned with one perfectly curated finger to where the books lay open on the coffee table, The Lesser Key of Solomon on top.
“You know, you could have just asked.”
For what felt like an eternity, you just stood there. Half undressed with one earring still dangling from your hand, staring at the thing in your doorway, standing there like he paid half the rent and had every right to be in the building.
The incubus didn't seem bothered by the silence. If anything, he seemed to expect it.
"I should probably introduce myself." His words were perfectly casual, as if this were a standard meet-cute instead of an underworld haunting, but you could see the faint traces of a grin on his lips. "You can call me Noah."
You stayed silent again, of course. You weren’t entirely certain you remembered how to speak.
The demon’s, Noah’s, eyes drifted back over to the top book on the coffee table again, and this time, there was more open delight on his face. "Of course, that's not what they'll have me listed as in there. Those witches were rather derogatory with some of the titles they gave me." He paused just long enough to lift his attention back to you. "I hope it didn't scare you off."
As if he found his own words, casual as they could be, hilarious, the demon let out a short chuckle.
"My apologies, that's a slight lie, and I don't want to start this friendship on lies." Every syllable of that word, friendship, was laced with something unsettlingly haunting that you did not know how to process. "I actually quite like fear. It's delicious."
You only moved enough to drop the earring to the floor, the metal hitting the ground with a clang and rolling into the abyss under the bed. Noah didn’t break eye contact once during the ordeal, entirely unfazed by your steadily shattering composure.
A tilt of his head was the only signal he had even noticed the commotion in the first place. "Are you scared of me?"
You didn’t need to answer; the truth was written across every inch of your face.
"Good." His voice was a husk this time. "You should be."
The sheer audacity of that, the absolute certainty with which he said it, was enough to crack through your paralysis and let the first coherent thought of the last five minutes reach your mouth. "Pretty overly confident."
Noah wasn’t deterred by your dismissal. The corner of his mouth curved upward in a sick sort of satisfaction. "That would have been very brave of you if not for the fact that I can see you trembling."
You had been so afraid to take your eyes off of him that you hadn’t even noticed the vibrations rippling through your entire body.
The seconds stretched out between you as if he had designed it exactly this way. Noah didn't move; he hardly even blinked. From what you could see in your basic vision, without breaking eye contact, his chest didn’t even rise and fall with the motion of breath. He remained in the doorway, almost giving you the space to process exactly what you were seeing.
Which you were doing, slowly and incredibly anxiously.
Because now that you had noticed the trembling, you couldn't stop noticing it. Your body had apparently made the executive decision to fall apart without consulting your brain first, and there was nothing you could do about it except stand there and feel every single tremor work its way through you while he watched and enjoyed it.
Strangest of all was that under his watch, you didn’t feel scrutinised. You felt appreciated.
That realisation was what snapped you into action.
Your legs obeyed before your brain had signed off on a destination, and suddenly you were lurching forward, straight at the doorway, straight at him, because the only way out of the bedroom was through the space he was occupying, and you would rather collide with a demon than spend one more second pinned under that gaze.
Your shoulder connected with his arm as you shoved past, and two things registered simultaneously. First, that he was solid. Horrifyingly solid, not shadow or illusion like you would have guessed, but a tangible, fiery mass. Second, that he let you pass.
He didn't grab you or block your path or even tense at the contact. He only turned his body just enough to allow you through, with the barest expression of pleasure.
You only made it halfway to the exit before he was in front of you again.
You hadn’t heard him move, nor had you seen it for that matter. But suddenly, he was there between you and the front door.
And to really stop you dead in your tracks of escape, before you even had the chance to lurch past him once again for the door handle, his hand had found your neck.
It wasn't with a force that suggested he wanted to hurt you, but his fingers still closed around the column of your neck firmly enough to stop you in your tracks. Your back hit the hallway wall, and you didn't know if he had pushed you or if your own momentum had carried you there. It didn't matter either way, because all you could focus on was that his hand was warm and his fingers were long enough to span the entirety of your throat in one hold.
”You can’t hide from me, sweetheart. I know exactly how you’re really feeling.” His face dipped just enough so that his lips could brush against your earlobe. “I can practically smell it on you.”
If you were to use the sane part of your brain, you may have even laughed and told him you didn’t know what he was talking about. But you knew that was fruitless, and perhaps even an outright lie.
You hadn’t even really noticed it happening, but there was undeniable heat growing just through being touched by the entity. It was not dissimilar to the heat that gathered after every one of your dreams, except intensified by the physical presence of the man, or thing, now in your space.
It didn’t help, either, that your current state was easily described as scantily clad. Your underwear was the only thing separating you from Noah, and he seemed to come to the realisation at the same time, if the way his free hand snaked around your bare waist was anything to go by.
"You really should have done laundry before now," he teased as his thumb traced a long line against the band of your panties where they rested just below the small of your back. "I'd have been far more creative with them if I'd known you'd be wearing them."
As if to punctuate his words, he gave a small, testing squeeze of your throat. You should have been embarrassed by the sound you let out, but you found that, slowly, your senses were becoming entirely consumed by thoughts and feelings too dangerous to let materialise. The sentence itself should have sent you scrambling for the pepper spray you kept in your handbag, or better yet, running for the fire escape. But instead, they made your stomach tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way his fingers were now pressing into your skin.
All at once, the sensations against your body disappeared. Noah took a step back, leaving you cold with his absence. His movements were fluid and confident as he stepped over to your front door, not even fumbling with the complex lock system as if it were second nature. It popped into an unlocked position with a vibrant click, and then he turned back to you expectantly.
"If you still want to run." He let the sentence hang in the air between you, his words both an invitation and a threat.
You stayed embarrassingly rooted to the spot, staring at the deadbolt against the door that now hung uselessly against the wood grain. The rational part of your brain was screaming at you to grab your keys, throw on shoes (and maybe some clothes), and accept the offer to escape through the door. The rest of you, however… the part of your brain that had been so consumed and overwhelmed by this awakened arousal over the last few weeks… well, that wasn't listening.
Noah waited, exhibiting far more patience than you had seen on many grown humans. This patience, however, was sinister, lingering, but that did not lessen the weight of his offer. An option, an out.
Despite your better judgment, you stayed.
Slowly, almost maliciously, that grin returned to Noah’s lips, baring white, sharp teeth. He took a step closer, then another, and another. You couldn’t move much further than the wall, so that was where you stayed as he encroached on your personal space.
It was second nature to him for his knee to slip between your legs, the sheer height of him meaning it rested so close, yet all too far away at the same time, from your core, which suddenly ached with a longing you hadn’t experienced before. His hands, large and commanding, found purchase on the wall on either side of your head, not touching in an infuriating show of self-control for one so calculated.
“You know,” he started, looking down at you with eyes inhumanly dark, “I don‘t even have to touch you to make you cum.”
Noah dipped his head at last, lips resting a mere inch above your collarbone so that his breath teased the skin there. Still, he didn’t touch, but none of that mattered when his next words turned your brain to putty.
“It’s just more fun that way.”
There was a moment, blindingly clear amidst everything else, where the fog lifted just enough for you to really understand what was happening. Not what he was doing, but what you were doing. You were standing in your hallway, half-dressed, pinned between a wall and something ancient and inhuman that had been feeding off your desire for weeks, and the door was right there, unlocked. He had given you the out, and you had not taken it, and that was a choice. That was your choice.
And somewhere in the wreckage of every rational thought you had ever had, past the books and the research and the sleepless nights and the incapacitating fear, you knew that it was the right one. You wanted the hands you had felt in your dreams to be real, and they were right here, braced against the wall on either side of your head. You wanted to know if the heat he made you feel asleep was even half as devastating when you were awake and looking at him and conscious enough to remember it.
You wanted him. Terrifyingly, inexplicably, and entirely knowingly.
So you looked up, met those impossibly dark eyes, and managed to cease your shaking.
You didn’t have to voice the complete decision to Noah; he obviously knew. Neither did you distinctly remember the journey to the bedroom, but you came to again when your legs hit the back of the bed, and Noah pushed you down into a seated position at the edge of it.
He didn't kneel so much as descend, terrifyingly predatory as he settled between your spread legs. His hands slid up your thighs, pushing them further apart with an authority that left no room for protest. The rough texture of his palms against your bare skin sent shivers racing through you, and you realised he'd removed his own shirts at some point during the transition to the bedroom. The tattoos you'd glimpsed earlier now covered his chest and arms in intricate, dark patterns that seemed to have a consciousness of their own.
“Wonder if you taste as sweet as you do in your dreams.” Noah's fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, and with one sharp tug, he tore them from your body, the straps on the left side snapping open.
The air was suddenly cold where the fabric had been, but only for a second before his mouth closed over you. His tongue was relentless from the get-go, stroking deep with a focus that threatened you to collapse against the bed. That rational part of your brain that had been screaming warnings earlier was now utterly silent, overwhelmed by the reality of his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise and the way his teeth scraped against you just shy of painful.
Noah didn't give you time to adjust to his rhythm or settle. He simply took, his mouth moving against you with the same absolute certainty he had shown in every action since he started haunting such a space. There was no testing of boundaries or space for gentle teasing, just an immediate and impossible-to-ignore pressure that made a sound rip from your throat before you could stop it. His fingers dug into your flesh in response as if to anchor himself, or maybe to keep you from moving away. Not that you could have, even if you'd wanted to. The force with which he held you in place made it clear that it wasn't an option he was offering.
Your hands flew to his hair, just wanting something physical to steady yourself on, but that only had Noah stopping with a guttural growl that reminded you exactly what he was. When he looked up again, his eyes had taken on an unnatural glow that had a glimmer of that familiar fear mixing in with the unending arousal.
“You’re so good and studious, I’d have thought you’d have better discipline.” Was what he managed before he was pushing away from you with a similar growl and rising to his feet with no further chance at stimulation from his mouth.
Without missing a beat, Noah’s hands found your wrists, practically dragging them to pull you halfway up the bed until your back collided with the sheets. He was on his knees on the mattress in an instant, an item in his hands that you were too nervous to turn away from his disappointed gaze to identify. It didn’t take long to figure out, for something was being tied so tightly around your wrists that it dug into the skin and left only enough room for blood to circulate.
Your panties. Half broken now, utilised fully as an instrument of his perfect seduction throughout every step.
“In case that wasn’t clear,” he hovered over you now, emphasising his words by pulling down the left cup of your bra and sparing a beat to graze his teeth against your nipple in threat, “You don’t get to touch me.”
His hand found your throat again here, but the force was more than before by the door. You could still breathe below it, his technique practically perfect, but it did not lessen the effect of the action as the contact sent a fresh wave of anticipation right to your core. Noah doubled one sensation with another, his free hand trailing a single pointer finger down between the centre of your breasts over the wire of your bra, down your stomach and precisely to where you needed it without even looking.
He did not take his time when he pushed his fingers into you, nor did he take it one at a time. All at once, two long digits entered you with a firm push until he was buried past his knuckles and could go no further without first working you open. The moan that it elicited got caught somewhere below his palm on your throat, instead coming out as more of a strangled gasp.
Noah chuckled more to himself than to you, viewing you solely as an ornament of his satiation, and the sound vibrated through his body and into your skin where you were joined. "You're soaking," the words carried the edge of an insult, but were spoken like a prayer. His thumb pressed suddenly against your clit without warning, finding a maddening pattern that had your wrists fighting against their makeshift restraint to break free. "It's almost insulting how easy this is."
You tried to answer, to say anything at all, but all that came out was a desperate, breathless noise that made his grin wider. Your mind was a hazy blur of pleasure, overcome entirely by the feeling of his fingers inside of you. You had been touched before, and touched yourself countless times, but something about this felt different. You weren't sure if it was his power and influence or genuine spectacle of his skill, but it was as if every nerve in your body was alight with a fever.
Without missing a beat or losing a moment of connection, Noah lifted his knee and deposited it against your hip, pushing you back down against the mattress where your body had just begun to arch. It was a firm reminder of exactly where you stood in this dynamic. You had said a total of three words to him since his arrival, and it was clear he had no intention of allowing you the opportunity for any more at the current moment in time.
Noah kept his eyes on your entrance as he added a third finger, and the stretch was so abrasive you wanted to yell out and grip at his arms, but the hand on your throat and panties tying your wrists together stunted either of these from occurring. Instead, you were left pliant and accepting below him as he took exactly what he wanted.
Not that you minded when it felt like this.
You felt the delirious wave of pleasure cresting quicker than you would have ever intended, but you were powerless to stop it. Noah clearly sensed it approaching, for he dug his knee further into your pelvic bone and doubled the efforts of his thumb against your clit.
The orgasm crashed over you with a violence that left you gasping against his palm on your neck, your body convulsing beneath his unyielding hold. Noah watched with detached fascination as you came apart, his expression one of clinical appreciation rather than shared pleasure as he fed on the tremors of your release.
His fingers didn’t relent even as the first wave attempted to subside, Noah not taking his eyes off of your throbbing heat as he dragged your orgasm out. His knee against your hip did not allow you room to escape, the thrashing of your legs useless against his weight as you tried to move away from the sheer overstimulation of the moment.
When he finally pulled away, it was all at once. Every part of him that had been pressed against you pulled back to leave you gasping against the bedsheets.
It took a long moment for you to come to again, finding Noah sat back against his ankles nearby. There was something in his face, unreadable and oddly blank, and for no reason at all, it had you speaking through broken breaths in a strange reassurance. “I’m okay.”
Noah tilted his head at that, and oddly enough, the gesture made him look more human-like; more empathetic. It didn’t last for long, but the soft murmur of reassurance from your lips clearly served to spur him on as he snapped back into the demeanour that spoke to his desire to devour you whole.
You were still catching your breath, the aftershocks of your climax making your thighs tremble against the sheets, when Noah leaned forward again. His hand came up to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing the line of your bottom lip. The touch was deceptively gentle, but the promise was the opposite.
"Good," he purred, the gentleness leaving his system all at once just as quickly as it had appeared. "Because we're not done."
Before you could process the implication, he was making it clear in actions alone. Swiftly, Noah grabbed you by your restrained wrists once again, dragging you along the bedsheets until you were at the edge. Once there, he pulled you up so effortlessly until you dangled from the air, and deposited you back down on your knees, facing across the room. From this angle, he could step up behind you, body pressed against yours, until you could finally feel the effects of his own arousal.
That alone was practically dizzying, the sudden reminder that he was just as affected as you, even if he seemed so composed. He fed on your desire without even the need for physical contact, that much was true, but to know that, despite that all, there was still a physical remnant of his own wanting…
Your wrists, still tied together, fell limply in front of your body when released, and Noah hooked one arm below them and around the underside of your breasts through your bra so that he could pull you even more firmly against his chest. The motion forced your head up with a jolt, and that was when you noticed exactly where you were positioned.
The mirror was directly across from your body. As if he had been planning this all along.
The reflection presented back to you was a mess. Your hair was tangled up on your head, one earring in, one bra cup pushed down below your breast with the other still covered, and your skin was a blotchy red canvas from overexertion and sheer desire. Noah hovered over your shoulder, his arm wrapped around your ribcage, and his own reflection seemed to take on an unearthly glow in the low light.
You tilted your head to look back at him, but Noah caught your jaw in his free hand with pathetic ease. He applied enough force to turn your head back to the glass until you were eye to eye with him.
“Look at yourself.”
And you did. A mess, yes. But a beautiful, unholy one at that. One that would make the gods you were taught to worship as a child weep if only they could see you. Destroyed from a few touches, held in place by the personification of the very thing they feared. You only hoped they were watching as you gave yourself over to the dark side. As you allowed this thing to feed from you; to gain power from your utter destruction.
“You look like you want to say something.”
He was right. There were far too many thoughts dancing around your brain, but all you could manage to get out was a pathetic “Please…”
Noah grinned at that, sharp teeth reflecting once more in the mirror as he met your pleading eyes that made you look like a lost puppy. Even without his powers, he knew what you were begging for, but that still was not enough for a creature as insatiable as him. He grazed his teeth along your earlobe, and then down the line of your neck, pausing only to growl, “I’m going to need more than that, sweet thing.”
His request was punctuated by a jolt of your body against his, sending your ass back in collision with his clothed erection. It pulled a whimper from you, painfully submissive and needy, and took you a moment to recover before you could speak again. “I need you.”
“Not good enough,” he tutted, accentuating the scold with a firm bite against the crook of your neck. For a moment, you thought he might even pull blood, but his tongue soothed the ache deliciously within a second. “Your desire alone fuels me sufficiently, yes, but to hear you beg is even more delicious. Are you going to do that for me?”
The words tumbled from your throat with ease all of a sudden, when the hand holding your face ceased its hold, only to grip against your thigh with perfectly kept nails digging into skin.
“Please! Please, I want you to fuck me–no–I need you to–” You would have been embarrassed over such desperation had you not heard the breath of a groan leave Noah’s lips “Want you so bad I can’t think straight.”
That seemed to satisfy him, if the way his hand slipped from your thigh and to his pants was anything to go by. The simple motion of it already had you moaning, and it wasn’t long before you felt something warm, hard and incessantly big being pushed between the top of your thighs so that it could brush against your folds.
Noah held himself there for a moment before you could feel his hand from behind, using it to tease his cock against your clit. Throughout it all, his eyes never left you. Even when your own fluttered close over the feeling of him against your heat, Noah watched the whole thing.
You couldn’t see from this angle, and even if you made a move to look, he would not allow it, but you knew he was big. Of course he was, he was a demon, but even so, you were certain the size of him would be overwhelming. These suspicions were confirmed rather quickly when the head of his cock pushed into your entrance with an agonising slowness that told he was devouring the passion it elicited from your lips.
Your head fell forward upon the intrusion, chin finding your chest with an almost inhuman moan, but Noah did not allow such an action. His cock stilled where it was sunk just a quarter of the way into you in favour of that hand returning to your chin and forcing your head up so fast that you were reminded exactly how powerful he was. He could break your neck in one swift, easy motion if he really wanted to. He could hurt you in unimaginable, horrifically painful ways. And yet still, you ached for him more than you ever had anything in your entire time on this earth. You feared you would let him break you in two if it meant you could have some form of release from the misery of constant desire.
When he spoke again, or more growled, into your ear, his breathing was heavier than before. Sinister as ever, this time the command was a threatening growl that you would not disobey. “Watch.”
You did. And quickly, you found that you wouldn’t have been able to tear your eyes away even if you tried.
The slowness of his first breach was gone in an instant, suddenly pushing in as far as he could go in one fast motion. It had you jolting forward against the arm restraining you, but you did not take your eyes off of the mirror image once. At first, you watched him, the way his lips parted as he let himself drink in the feeling of you clenching around his cock. He was watching it from behind now with unbridled awe, the way your cunt took him so perfectly, even if he didn’t completely fit. Noah seemed entirely transfixed, but he didn’t have to look at you to know you were staring at him, and without so much as a lift of his head, he was moving your chin back to look back at your own figure.
You were met with your flushed face, a thin sheen of sweat forming on your forehead. You were just about to choke out a gasp when suddenly, he moved with a relentless force, giving you no time to adjust.
Noah pulled out in one quick motion, then pushed back in just as hard.
He didn't allow you time to settle into a rhythm. He established one, brutal and punishing and exactly what you'd begged for without knowing the cost. Each thrust was a claim, driving the air from your lungs in abrupt, broken gasps. Your bound hands scrabbled against thin air, searching for purchase on something as the fabric of your panties cut deeper into your wrists with each impact. Every nerve in your body screamed, and the only thing that tethered you to reality was the reflection of his eyes watching you fall apart.
You watched, mesmerised and horrified all at once, as your reflection contorted with each impact.
Noah's grip around your ribcage tightened as he pistoned into you, but the hand on your chin finally relented in favour of finding your clit again. The obscene stimulation on your already oversensitive bud had you jerking against him, but he held you still with unnatural ease. The pornographic moan that you let out as he circled over that precious spot just right had him looking back up from your entrance to your face, drinking in the image of you being split open by his cock.
The sight of it all - the obscene stretch, the wet slide, the sheer violation of your own body welcoming it - unlocked something feral in you. A fresh wave of heat coiled low in your belly, tighter and far more urgent than before. You were close again, teetering on that precipice, when Noah adjusted.
In the first telltale sign that he was losing his own composure, he released his grip on your waist and sent you tumbling down to the bed until your backside was arched in the air and your face pressed against the mattress. Your arms were now pressed awkwardly under your body, but that ache could be addressed tomorrow, because Noah’s pace did not falter for a moment.
He kept his thrusts rough and unrelenting, even as his hand now slipped to your hair, gripping your scalp until he could pull your head up. You were face-to-face with yourself again, but this time you could see him more clearly; the way he slammed in and out of you with expert precision.
It was debilitating, watching him use you so freely, and watching your body welcome it as if he were not the type of creature that he was. You wanted more, craved him so deeply, even while he was still thrusting to the hilt with pleasure racketing through your every square inch.
He didn't allow you to look away, not even when the pressure built to a breaking point. His eyes held yours captive in the mirror, a promise in his own demonic ones as his thrusts grew more frantic, losing their measured rhythm. His hand slid from your hair down to your throat now that he was certain you wouldn’t drop your head again, applying just enough pressure to remind you of his control.
The orgasm crept up on you, but you should have suspected the force with which it would hit. You came suddenly with a ragged cry, your body convulsing around him in violent waves of pleasure that made you lose sensation in your hands. It tore through you and left you immediately spent and on the precipice of collapse, but Noah did not stop.
He drove into you through your climax, each thrust prolonging the aftershocks until they blurred into one continuous, overwhelming sensation.
He kept moving through the shattering waves, as if you hadn't just come completely apart. His thrusts became deeper, if that was even possible, each one a blunt extension to the aftershocks still wracking your body. You were limp beneath him, held up only by the hand at your throat and the desperate need to watch his face as he neared his own release, but he showed no mercy. The overstimulation was an electric pain that bordered on pleasure, and you could do nothing but take it, your cries silent due to the rawness of your throat.
You saw the shift in his expression as he reached some sort of release of his own, his hips pressing as flush as they could against your ass as he buried himself as far as he could go and held there.
Noah's climax was not a quiet thing. What could only be described as a snarl ripped from his throat, a sound that was more animal than anything human, and you felt him pulse inside you, hot and impossibly deep.
He wasted very little time pulling out of you in one smooth, fluid motion, leaving you empty and shuddering against the sheets. The absence of him was almost as shocking as the invasion had been.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was your breathing.
It was shaky in a way that would have embarrassed you if you had any capacity left for embarrassment, which you decidedly did not. Your shoulders were still pressed into the mattress, your bound hands trapped beneath you, and you felt more wrung out than you ever had before in your life. You weren't sure you could move even if you wanted to.
Behind you, Noah hadn't made a sound. No breathing, of course, no shift in weight on the mattress, nothing to suggest that what had just happened had cost him even a fraction of the energy it had taken from you. Of course it hadn't. You were the meal. He was just well-fed.
You felt his hand first. Not on your throat this time, but at the back of your neck, fingers sliding into your hair with a slowness that felt at odds with the intensity of the past hour. He gathered a handful of it, gently enough this time that it didn't hurt but firm enough that you understood it wasn't a request, and turned your head to the side.
Then he kissed you.
It wasn't tender, or deep, or romantic in any sense of the word. His lips pressed against yours with an exactness that matched everything else about him, deliberate and controlled, and you felt something pull from your throat. It wasn’t like a physical pain, but more something almost out of body, like something was being drawn out of you through the contact. The last traces of heat still lingering in your bloodstream, the aftershocks still rippling through your nervous system, all of it seemed to flow toward the point where his mouth met yours as if he was collecting what was owed. Even now, he was feeding.
When he pulled back, his eyes had become those same dark voids from before, losing the glow they had obtained in the mirror. There was a satisfaction on his face that went beyond simple smugness, laced with ancient understanding and thoroughly satiated. This was a creature that was not concerned about time or quantity; it was a creature who knew without question that it would get it again.
Noah’s fingers found the knot of fabric around your wrists and pulled it loose with one easy tug. The now broken panties fell away from your skin, and he held them for a moment, running the fabric between his fingers with an expression of vague amusement before dropping them on the bed beside you.
"I have to say," he murmured, still close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek, "you are far more generous than I anticipated." His thumb traced a lazy line along your jaw. "Every demon in the Western Hemisphere is going to want to know my secret."
You opened your mouth to respond, though god knows what you were planning to say, but the air beside you was already empty.
Just like before there had been no sound or sign of music; no dramatic exit. He was simply gone, as instantly and impossibly as he had arrived, leaving nothing behind but the indent on the mattress where his knee had been and a silence so complete it made your ears ring.
You lay there for a long time.
Your bra was still on, lopsided and ridiculous, one cup doing absolutely nothing of use. Your hands were free but marked with faint lines where the fabric had pressed into your wrists. The apartment was quiet in a way it hadn't been for weeks, genuinely quiet, as if whatever presence had been lurking in the walls and the cold spots and the flickering lights had been temporarily satisfied enough to retreat. Slowly, very slowly, you rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling.
You should have felt, at the very least, slightly disturbed by the whole revelation that you were being haunted. You should have been reaching for your phone to call someone, anyone, or googling emergency exorcism services, or packing a bag and getting on the first flight home and away from this state that had brought you nothing but tiredness and trouble.
Instead, you pulled the duvet up to your chin, curled onto your side, and thought about the fact that your shitty, overpriced, cockroach-infested apartment with its broken floorboards and its temperamental power grid and its stain on the kitchen ceiling was starting to feel a lot more like home than it had any right to.
And for the first time since you moved in, you fell asleep without dreaming.
a/n: author hates writing dirty talk so just avoided dialogue like the plague xxxx
uhhhhhhh. so i got very carried away with this as you can tell. but i really enjoy incubus noah so he may become a permanent character on this page so yeah.... more thots to come in the future i am pretty certain.
... i don't really have much to say just,,, hope everyone enjoyed????? strangely insecure about posting this LOL i am running away now
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