Freaky Friday / Incubi / Short Story / Supernatural / Writing

Freaky Friday!

NOTE: This little bit right here could be precisely why this blog has a content warning. If smut makes you uncomfortable, don’t read. If you want a little spice, go for it. 

OK, OK, I’m running a little late today! Lost track of time. Let’s see, it’s 11:57 now.. can I post before midnight? We shall see!

As a little surprise, and because I don’t want to give too many I&I snippets out, today’s post is a little supernatural one-shot I wrote ages ago. It’s rough and largely unedited, so be kind.

As always, feedback is appreciated, even if it’s to yell at me and call me evil. 😉

Cheers and happy weekend,


The club is crowded, dark and noisy. And perfect. Flint eyes gleam in a cold face, one that speaks of arrogance with its high cheekbones and aquiline nose of an aristocrat, of power with its full lips and square jaw. He smiles, and women’s heads turn, eyes caught by a smile like nothing they’ve ever seen. They can’t pinpoint why the smile both excites and disturbs them, but he can.

A smile conveys satisfaction, joy. On him, a smile holds no humour. Smiles make a person seem more approachable; when he smiles, people shy away. Disgruntled young men flick him irritated glances and steer their companions into the crowd.

Standing at the rail, gripping it with strong hands while he looks down at the people crammed onto the dancefloor, grinding against each other shamelessly and tossing back drinks in between enthusiastic whoops, suits him. The position is one of confidence and superiority.

After another moment, he slips down the carpeted stairs at his back and descends into the bar, where the heat and smell of the crowd rolls over him like a cloud. He sees a group of women on the fringe of the gyrating crowd, focuses on the one woman in their number whom he’d picked out from the railing above. Young, nubile, dancing with skill rather than mindless fuck-me moves. He slips his arm around the woman’s waist, watches her eyes lift to his. Smiling, letting his eyes soften with it, he holds her eyes with his until she glances away, blushing.

She is both uncomfortable and pleased, and does not know why. He does. Humans prolong eye contact for one of two reasons—to pick a fight or instigate sex.

A fight certainly wasn’t what he was after.

When her hand relaxes, he takes it as the gesture of acquiescence it is. Tightening his grip on her waist, he separates her from her friends and pulls her further into the crowd.


The group of girls strolling into the bar now are young, barely legal, and out to celebrate it. At the forefront of the group is a girl used to getting everything she wants: new clothes, a new car, a new boyfriend—all at the snap of the finger.

Life was easy, and good. Why not celebrate it?

They move to the bar, down a few shots in quick succession, enough to heat their blood and lower what few inhibitions they had to begin with. Smiling, self-assured and pleased by the male gazes trailing over the short dresses, they make their way to the dancefloor and throw themselves into the music.

The leader of their little group is smiling, tossing her chin up at just the right angle, so that the look she aims at the men on the dancefloor is just the right mix of Come and get me and You can’t handle me.

Then she turns, spins, laughing, and sees him.

For a moment, she thinks her heart stops. Then it starts again, as frenetic as a hummingbird’s wings, fluttering in her chest. She stares at him deliberately, silently willing him to look up, to see her, to want her the way she wants him, with this sudden fierce need she can’t understand but won’t question.

He smiles at her, his hands slipping down to the waist of a pretty blonde and pulling her tight against him. Something about the smile is cruel, and it makes her stomach turn as her mind pictures just how ruthless he might be in bed. The blonde isn’t important; she’s a distraction, a bit of amusement to pass the time.

She has more to offer, and she knows it. Sinuous, still moving to the beat, she winds through the crowd until she’s beside him, watching him from beneath her lashes.

He doesn’t bat a lash, only lowers his head to press his mouth to the blonde’s. She is incensed. He should be kissing her, not this little blonde who appears so doe-eyed and pathetic.

She puts a hand on his waist, reaches for the hem of the black T-shirt. Now his eyes meet hers, cool, dark and flat.

She moves in closer, neatly shoving the blonde out, and brings her mouth to his ear, maybe a little closer than necessary, to talk. “Want to have some fun?”

He laughs, and something inside her is chilled even as her blood sprints. “I’m no kind of man for you,” he says in a voice that’s just as dark and rich as his laughter. Then he reaches past her, as if she’s inconsequential, and takes the blonde’s hand, smiling at her. “Shall we?”

She smiles serenely. “All right.”

Grinding her teeth, she watches them walk out, seethes over how unlikely a pair they are. She shoves through the crowd and follows them, forgetting completely about the friends she leaves behind as she stalks out of the bar and narrows her eyes, scanning the street in both directions to determine which way they went.

She hears it then, over the thud of the music from the club: a soft moan, a whimpered catch of breath. She bares her teeth and stalks towards the alley the sound came from.

There he is, with the blonde pressed to the wall of the club, her head thrown back, his mouth against her throat.  His knee is between her legs, shoving the skirt of her dress up high; his hand is beneath the dress, caressing the blonde until she lets out another soft moan and rocks her hips against him.

She shouldn’t be watching this. She knows it somehow, deep in her bones, and yet she can’t tear herself away.

He presses back against the blonde, pinning her hips to the wall. And as she watches, he lets his mouth cruise lazily over her, suckling and nibbling, tasting every inch of skin she bared to him. Then he shifts, blocks the blonde from her view, and she can’t see what he does next, only hears a sickening crack that makes her stomach roll uneasily—and then the blonde is crumpling, on the ground, still as death, her fair hair and pale skin gleaming in the moonlight.

Shaken, disturbed, she strides forwards, heels ringing. “What did you do?” she demands, her voice high and more than a little unsteady.

He turns slowly, and gives her a smile that isn’t at all friendly. He doesn’t answer, only holds out a hand—and though she knows she shouldn’t, she walks towards him, falls into the same trap as the blonde did, and sinks into his arms, into the kisses that make her feel as if she could do anything with him at her side. She moans, digs her fingers into his shoulders, itching to pull off the T-shirt covering him so that she can rake her nails over his flesh.

Something inside her is changing, making way for something else, something more fundamental. Thought recedes; sensation rules. He touches her in ways she never knew of, ways the men—no, only boys; this is what a man should be—she’s been with before never dreamed of. Slowly, as if she is the most delicate of instruments and he is the musician, drawing unheard melodies from her.

Somewhere in her brain, an alarm sounds. It is panic, and it tells her to run, run now and stay gone. But the haze in her brain is thick, and she murmurs against his mouth as she works to dispel the thought.

Run, insists the voice. Get away from him.

His mouth is at her throat again, and her whole body burns. She knows she came, can feel the receding shudders clear to her toes—so why does she ache again, for what she just had?

“What are you?” she asks again, and there is no mistaking the fearful note in her voice.

His mouth still on her throat, he smiles. Before she can repeat her question, he slips his hand beneath her dress, tears away the scrap of silk covering her and drives his fingers into her, listening to the cry that echoes into the night and bounces off brick walls while a shudder racks him.

Her eyes open, but now they’re dim, glazed, and she seems unable to find words. He puts his mouth to her ear as she did to him, and his lips curve in a cruel smile when she shivers.

“I told you I wasn’t a man,” he whispers. He watches her eyes widen in fear, closes his hands over her throat and watches her hands lift, cover his and rest there. Then his grip tightens, he twists with brutal force, and she knows no more, only sinks to the ground, one more dead girl who wouldn’t be found until morning.

He licks his lips and gazes at the two young women for a moment, remembering the inexperienced hesitance of the blonde’s kiss and the practised aggressiveness of the brunette’s.

“Pity,” he murmurs with no trace of remorse in his voice before he turns and walks out of the alley without a backward glance.


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