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, pain play, 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, dubcon (ish. tagging just incase anyone is uncomfortable)
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 horrified, violated maybe, or at the very least disturbed by what had just happened. 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
hey guys! im aware i have two asks sitting in my inbox - one of which since may - which im so sorry for! ill try to get them done before uni starts again in february as soon as all my assignments are done! ty for the patience, you havent been forgotten! 🫶🏻🫶🏻
soooooo i have a dacryphilia kink and being pushed to subspace. i write myself but I love seeing other people’s interpretations! how do you think the guys (including matt bc that’s my baby) would react to an intense session where they unexpectedly push their bunny to subspace to the point she’s straight up sobbing but the second they try to stop she’s clinging to them and pleading for them to not stop, to keep ruining her for their own enjoyment.
matt especially, getting mind blown and seeing the fucked out look in his bunny’s eyes and going “I love it when you look at me like that” (one of my favorite things a dom has ever said to me) 😵💫😵💫😵💫
I may have leaned heavily into the dacryphilia kink of things, but that’s what you get when you ask someone who’s into that 🤭 i hope you enjoy bb! 💕
cw: 18 + 𝖒𝖉𝖓𝖎. dacryphilia, light choking, teasing, overstimulation, mention of dom/sub dynamics, mention of subspace, reader referred to as ‘bunny’, pussy slapping,
FOLIO
The second Folio notices your tears, he’s already stopping, switching from dom mode back to boyfriend, scooping you up and cooing softly. You look so overwhelmed, eyes wet and glassy, cheeks pink and puffy, and he’s almost certain he’s done something wrong until you gasp out, “Don’t stop, please.”
You sound pleading, desperate, breathless—the same way you sound whenever he’s fucking you just right, buried deep and hitting that sweet spot over and over until you’re cumming harder than you can handle around him.
“Honey…” he murmurs, but you shake your head. You’re not his honey right now—you’re his plaything. You can feel yourself still floating in subspace, and you want it, need more. You claw at him until he growls, especially when you wrap your legs tighter around him, heels pressed to his ass to pull him deeper, hips bucking beneath him.
“Fuck, bunny,” he hisses when your nails dig into his skin. His rhythm returns, slow at first, then faster, harder, each thrust sinking deep and rolling before picking up pace, driving into you until the only sounds you make are sobs, high and trembling, strung through with pleasure.
He doesn’t stop at just this, his hand slips down between you to rub your clit, eyes fixed on you as you break apart beneath him, coming undone completely. “That’s it, bunny,” he breathes, voice rough, “cum all over my cock. Show me how much you love when I fuck you like this.”
NOAH
It feels twisted of him, the way his cock twitches against your thigh as you try to squirm away from him, completely wrapped up in your pleasure, pushed to the edge, consumed by nothing more than your need for him—barely clinging on.
Noah doesn’t stop the slow teasing of his fingers around your clit, even as sobs rack through your body, taunting you through the aftershocks of your climax. He loves when you’re suspended here, in that overly sensitive state—it makes you pliable, easy, fun for him to play with. He says as much, leaning in to lick your cheeks, tasting the salt of your tears as he murmurs, “Such a good bunny for me.” His voice is a low purr, and when you look up at him, it’s with glassy eyes, filled with tears and lust, desperately seeking more from him—always more.
“Come now, cry a little harder for me, won’t you?” he croons before sinking his fingers deep, curling them inside you. All it takes is the pressure against your sweet spot to send another wave of pleasure and sobs coursing through you. Your body trembles as he holds you, guiding you through it, watching more tears fall—prideful, he leans in to lick them up, all while you feel his rock hard cock throbbing and leaking against you with every shuddering breath.
NICHOLAS
Sweet Nicholas, the first time he saw you cry, he didn’t want it to be the last. He never wanted to see you cry out of misery, but the sight of you crying while writhing in pleasure altered his brain chemistry completely. It made him crave that sight again, to see you lost in pleasure, in complete, absolute subspace.
He’s always gentle with you—most of the time, but he has his fun when it comes to playing as your dom, when you both indulge and he’s allowed to toy with you a little harder. He loves finding new ways to push your limits, and right now is one of those times. Nicholas never shies away from it, from watching you edge deeper into subspace, from seeing you become utterly obedient beneath him.
With your thighs spread, he straddles your waist, his hand coming down between them, palm smacking against your wet, already fucked cunt. The harsh sting makes you gasp, hips arching and bucking, but the weight of him keeps you pinned. You whine and cry as your clit throbs from the impact, but the pain quickly dissolves into pleasure.
You’ve lost count of how many times he’s made you cum, and part of you hopes he won’t ask. He’s the type who would, who loves testing your endurance, but instead, he just continues, another smack landing against your sensitive cunt, using your state to his advantage.
It’s only when he hears the croak of a sob that he pauses, watching as you break down into tears, begging for him to fuck you again, voice shaking with need. “Please, sir, please, please—I need…”
“What do you need, bunny?” His tone is taunting, even as his gaze softens when he looks down at you. You struggle to form the words, to finish the plea before another smack lands, making you moan, your body trembling beneath him. The contact is barely enough to give you any real relief, and despite how wet you are, you’ve never felt emptier, needing nothing more than for him to fill you.
MATT
Every time he fucks you, all Matt wants to see is that little tear—that single, glistening droplet rolling down your face, and he’ll be satisfied, but over time, that craving grew into something deeper, darker, now he needs more.
He pins you down with a hand at your throat, grunting and groaning against your ear as he slides his cock as deep as he can, pace quickening, his breath hot against your skin.
“Deeper, fuck—like this. You can take it.”
He squeezes, and you gasp, but when he looks down again, he catches it, the tears glistening in your eyes, that blown out look of pure pleasure. He lifts your legs, bringing them up over his shoulders and you closer. The moment he thrusts back in, bottoming out completely, his own eyes roll back, and he almost misses it, the dam breaking as your tears spill over, your body trembling beneath him, whimpering and wrecked, lost to the intensity of it all.
Your walls flutter and squeeze around him as you cum again, unable to stop yourself, pushed into complete overstimulation.
“That’s my bunny,” he growls softly, leaning close, loosening his grip on your throat just enough to shift to your jaw, holding your face in place. His voice drops to a rasp, low and full of pleasure.
“I love it when you look at me like that.” And as if to prove his point, his hips draw back before slamming into you harder, deeper, dragging another cry from your throat as you clench around him. He keeps going until your walls milk him completely, his body trembling as he spills inside you, collapsing against you with a low, breathless moan.
JOLLY
“Is it too much for you, my bunny?”
The way Jolly coos down at you, you’d almost think he’s being sweet, except he’s anything but. He has you laid out on your stomach, ass raised, one of the few positions that always make you overstimulated the fastest, and he’s using that to his advantage.
Each time he thrusts forward, his chest presses to your back, and the hand at your throat squeezes in sync, his full weight pinning you down and forcing you to take every inch of him. What thrills him most is the sight in the mirror, the way your face contorts with pleasure, tears spilling down your cheeks, eyes red and glassy as more begin to form. Your moans grow louder with every deep thrust, and Jolly thrives on the knowledge that it’s him causing it all, him controlling you, your pleasure, your unraveling.
It only takes one more stroke before you’re crying completely, sobbing and trembling, every sound tied to the overwhelming bliss he’s giving you. Seeing you choke on your tears, he squeezes your throat just a little tighter, leaning down to whisper praise against your ear—low, breathy, and possessive.
“That’s it, my good bunny,” he murmurs, voice soft and reverent even as he keeps moving. His free hand comes around to wipe the tears from your face, a gentle, almost loving touch that stands in sharp contrast to the brutal rhythm of how he’s fucking you.
warnings: light choking, pegging (duh), dom/sub dynamics, mentions of 'using', power play, i think thats it?
he looked so good. laying back on your shared bed, propped up on one elbow, smiling at you salaciously. he looked divine, soft candle glow reflecting off of his skin. vessel's other hand moved up to grasp your waist, tugging you forward between his thighs, like it was where you belonged. at the end of the day, it was. between his legs, pleasing him like he deserved.
"dont be shy love, wanna make me feel good, dont you?", vessel hummed. at his words you nodded eagerly, swallowing down the lump in your throat as you began pressing the tip of the strap-on into his hole. his head tipped back with a soft groan, his hand travelling up to squeeze your tit before coming to rest at the base of your throat. not squeezing, just reminding you of who was in charge. a soft sigh left him as you bottomed out. the sight of him like this - blissed out, leaking - made you ache with need, and he noticed. of course he did, he always did.
a chuckle left his lips and he used the hand on your neck to pull you closer "not today, dove. today i use you like this" with a disappointed - but oh so turned on - whine you started rolling your hips against his until you were thrusting, a little clumsily at first, until you found a good rhythm.
vessel moaned in pleasure, hands raking over your body, stilling on your waist and holding tight as he came, spilling all over his toned stomach. he leaned up after catching his breath and pressed a kiss to your lips "good girl"
a/n: short and sweet to get back into writing, hope y'all like it! maybe i'll make a sub version too?
warnings: bondage, ves calls iii a puppy, walking in, slight voyeurism, threesome, namecalling, inprotected p in v, i think that's it
a/n: im back! also, not proofread
recently you had made a bad habit out of walking into your roommates' rooms without knocking, or knocking and not waiting for an answer before entering. usually it just earned you an annoyed grumble and nothing more, but today you certainly got more than you bargained for. you knocked on III's door and barely waited two seconds before pushing the door open "hey III, do you still have my cha-" the sentence caught in your throat at the sight: III laid out so prettily on his bed, milky skin covered in a thin layer of sweat. burgundy ropes cut across his skin in beautiful patterns, binding his arms behind his back, his pierced, leaky dick dribbling onto his stomach. but what shocked you most was vessel between his legs, fucking the bassist into next week - one large hand clamped over his mouth and the other keeping his thighs spread for him. vessel's head snapped to look at you, hips not even faltering as he stared at you. he glanced down at III, a silent conversation between the two, before he motioned for you to come in - if you wanted to. and oh, you wanted to.
that's what got you into your current situation: vessel was leaning against the headboard and had you resting against his chest, big hands running over your waist and chest while III rutted into you desperately. vessel hadn't been kind enough to untie him, leaving him to rut into you desperately while squirming in his bindings, aching to touch you. his long dick filled you up so well, piercings grinding right up into your sweet spot. his ruts were messy and uncoordinated, jaw hanging open and leaking drool as he moaned unabashedly while vessel meanly kneaded your tits from behind. one of vessel's hands slid down to your pussy, fingers in a v to spread you open "look at it. this is what happens to stupid whores who can't wait after knocking. they get used. look at III, isnt he such a pretty puppy?"
you couldnt even reply, whimpers and moans leaving your lips. a whimper trailed off into a wail as vessel pressed his thumb to your clit, rubbing tight little circles onto the nub as iii rutted into you, faster, sloppier. "i-im- im gonna-" he warned, biting his lip - already swollen and red from his and vessel's teeth. "go ahead. youve been good for me" vessel hummed, barely paying you anymind as iii's hips jerked, ropes of hot cum filling you up so full. vessel pulled his hand away from your cunt, tearing a wounded whine from you - you were so fucking close. "quiet, this is a punishment, and we're far from done here" he hummed almost flippantly "now, what else can i do with you two?"
Idk how kink friendly you are but if someone doesn't write Vessel with a spit kink I might die. Please prevent my death unless it makes you uncomfortable in which case, I forgive you, rip me lol
Rain Down On Me
PAIRING - Sleep Token Vessel X Reader
WARNING - NSFW! Spit Kink, Power Play, Slight Degrade, Heavy Drool, Switch Vessel
AUTHOR'S NOTE - Sorry It's short y'all! I hope y'all still enjoy it though! Slowly put surely working through request to possibly open them up again
WORD COUNT - 844
Master List - Ao3
The thick glob of spit from his mouth, his smirk as it hit your tongue, everything about this was turning you on. It wasn’t fair to you because no matter how much you tried to deny it, you had a spit kink and so did Vessel.
Whether it be you spitting in his mouth or using your spit to jerk him off, or Vessel spitting in your mouth after an especially filthy make-out session. Spit seemed to always be involved in your sexual activities with the singer.
“Good pet…” He mumbles softly as he watches you swallow down the liquid.
Your eyes flutter shut at his praise; it was impossible not to be turned on by the idea of swallowing something he gave you.
Once you open your eyes, you hum softly with a pleased smile on your face. “Give me more..”
Vessel couldn’t help but chuckle at your comment; of course, you’d be greedy for him. He reaches for your face, cupping it and smiling at you with pride.
“You want me to spit on you like I did III that time?” He muses as he pulls you closer.
You open your mouth expecting for his spit to land on your tongue. Except, you were pleasantly surprised when the warmth landed just below your eye. You close your mouth, a soft whine escaping your throat as you look at Vessel with a pout.
“You said like I did him…” Vessel chuckled before grabbing your jaw and smearing the spit across your face. He only chuckled more as your eyes widened with shock and arousal. “Filthy bitch!”
Vessel’s spit dried under his hand, but it didn’t seem to bother him. “God, you’re hot… Pet loves that, don't they?”
You tried to nod but the tight grip on your jaw forced you to just let out a pathetic whine. From your position, you grabbed at his cloak, fists tightening on it as you tried to pull him closer.
Seeing your struggle, Vessel let go of your face, dropping his hand to the back of your neck to hold you in place. His lips twitched into a pleased smile, the desperate look on your face only serving to make his cock twitch roughly. “Yeah, that’s it…”
“Fuck- Vess, you can’t just-“ You tried but Vessel cut you off. He allowed drool to well in his mouth, leaning forward to lick a thick wet stripe from your jaw to just below your eye.
You yelped softly, body trembling with arousal as the heat pooled lower. Yet Vessel wasn’t done with you, no. He pulled back and spat every bit of drool he had collected onto your face.
It dripped down your face, onto your chest and you could do nothing but stare at Vessel. The shock slowly wears off, leaving you to moan out in pleasure. Arousal surged through you, driving you to want more.
Finally, after gathering your strength, you pull the singer into a messy kiss. At first, it surprises him, forcing a soft grunt out of his mouth. But he kisses back, the hand on the back of your neck tightening as he devours your mouth.
The kiss is a mess, drool dripping down both of your chins. You couldn’t help but moan, dipping your tongue in his mouth for the source of the sweet taste.
Though Vessel tried to pull back, to breathe and question if you were okay, you did not allow it. Going as far as wrapping your hand around his throat, smearing the combination of spit.
The singer had to fist your hair, pulling you away from the kiss as you desperately whined for more. Your eyes were cloudy, soft yet ready to pounce once more; chin and bruised lips covered in spit.
“Heel bitch, fucking calm down or I won’t give you what you want.” Vessel growled softly, yanking your hair to emphasize his words.
A smile stretches across your face, your hand on Vessel’s throat tightens. “But Vee, don’t you want me to suck you down? Drool on your cock?”
Your words made Vessel inhale deeply as he pictured it; pictured how wet your mouth would feel and how beautiful it would be to see your own drool dripping down your chest.
“You’ll get what you earn.”
The softness in your eyes disappears as you eye Vessel up and down, weighing your options. Would you be good? Earn your way to sucking his cock? Or would you rather act out and take what you want?
He yanks your hair again, edging you to give him an answer. But instead, you pull him forward by the throat, and spit on his mask. It lands perfectly on the white part, staying for a moment before dripping down his nose.
“I'll earn your submission Vessel, take control over you.” You hummed and Vessel’s mouth opened slightly, his body shuddering.
“You fucking-“ Vessel began, only to be cut off as your spit drips on the nose of his mask and downwards. “Then earn it, pet, but I will put up a fight.”
